Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘How could T’En warriors do this without anyone noticing?’ Charald was livid. He threw the sign into the flames. ‘Where were the townsfolk? The Wyrds had to set up the straw man, take the banners off the poles and hang them up. What were our sentries doing?’

  No one could answer him.

  The king returned to his tent, demanding explanations. Townsfolk were hauled before him. All of them had been inside their homes with their families; no one could tell him when it had happened, and no one had heard anything.

  Charald’s voice grew hoarse from shouting. His tremble, which he usually kept hidden, became more pronounced.

  The king grilled the sentries, but they had been behind the houses at the camp perimeter, and they knew nothing. He sent them off to be whipped all the same.

  Spittle flew from Charald’s mouth as he ranted and raved. The tremble moved from both his hands to his head. Old grievances bubbled up, magnified tenfold. Even the dead were not excused, as he railed against anyone and everyone who had ever done him wrong.

  No one dared to speak up. Anything they said would be twisted against them.

  Usually, Zabier waited for the king’s tirade to end while trying to alleviate the worst of his excesses. Tonight, there seemed to be no end in sight. Zabier was out of his depth and looked around for Sorne, but the half-blood was nowhere to be seen. He vaguely remembered him slipping away when they returned to the king’s tent.

  As soon as the king’s attention was diverted, Zabier escaped. He found Sorne sitting in the holy tent by the light of a single candle.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment.

  Then Sorne looked up. ‘He’s getting worse.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His temper feeds on itself. It’s like he becomes drunk with it. You could try getting him to eat. Food will calm him.’

  ‘I think he’s beyond food.’

  Sorne nodded. ‘One of these days, he’ll go too far and someone he’s unjustly punished will slip a knife in his back. Or one of the barons will get tired of tip-toeing around him.’

  Zabier thought it more likely the king’s rage would completely unhinge his mind. When that happened, Eskarnor would make his move. Eskarnor had Hanix in his pocket. The two were from Dace and did not have a high opinion of Zabier, or the Chalcedonian church.

  If the king was going to be replaced, his replacement needed to be one of the Chalcedonian barons, who knew the worth of the Seven and valued their high priest. But Zabier didn’t want another king; he knew Charald’s foibles and how to cope with them.

  If he could just control his rages.

  Zabier rubbed his face and sighed. ‘The queen’s father used to have a way with him. He’d sit sipping wine with the king and gradually talk him into a calmer frame of mind. Since he died unexpectedly, no one’s–’

  ‘Before I sailed, Baron Jantzen told me he was concerned by the king’s rages. He said he was going to try the soothing powder from Khitan. Perhaps–’

  ‘That’s it!’ Zabier opened his chest. ‘I’ve never tried this before, but...’

  Sorne came over.

  Zabier held up a bottle of cloudy liquid. ‘Pains-ease in its pure form.’

  ‘Why do you have a whole jar of it when you’re not a healer? Are you sick?’

  Zabier waved him away, as he added some pains-ease to a carafe of wine. He hesitated over the amount to use.

  ‘Charald never uses pains-ease,’ Sorne said. ‘He says a man should be able to bear pain. I’ve seen him jest while they sew him up.’

  The king was a big man. Zabier decided to be sure and tipped in a further measure, then stirred it. He picked up the carafe.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Sorne offered.

  And steal his thunder? Zabier shook his head. He wanted to be the one with the ability to calm the king.

  Sorne returned to his bedroll and Zabier went to the next tent where the holy warriors slept. It smelled of sweaty men and ale. Several were awake, sitting in the dark.

  ‘You and you, stay outside my tent until I return.’

  When Zabier entered the royal tent with the carafe, he found the king’s manservant placing bread and cheese on the table. They exchanged looks.

  As Charald sent a messenger off to find someone he thought had insulted him, Zabier poured two glasses of wine. He’d been using pains-ease regularly for years now and had developed a tolerance for it. ‘Have you eaten, sire?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘At least take some wine with me. Your throat must be parched.’

  Charald came over, took the wine and tossed it back. As he replaced the wine goblet he noticed his hand trembling and clasped his sword hilt to hide it.

  While waiting for the man to report to back, the king paced and complained to Zabier about past slights. Each time he went past, Zabier topped up his wine.

  The king took his seat, still rambling.

  Charald stabbed a piece of cheese and ate it quickly. Zabier cut bread and poured more wine. The king began to slur his words and the tremble became more pronounced. Zabier was amazed by his capacity to fight the drug.

  Finally, sometime towards morning, Charald fell asleep with his head on the table. The manservant, who had been crouched in the corner dozing, looked up hopefully.

  ‘My king?’ Zabier whispered.

  Charald snored and they both breathed a sigh of relief. Between them, they carried him to his bunk.

  As Zabier came out of the tent, his eyes gritty with tiredness, he spotted the night-watch and beckoned. ‘Go down to the causeway. Make sure there’s no sign of that straw man. Not a single piece of ash.’

  When Zabier returned to his tent, the two holy warriors were huddled in furs under the awning, which hung low with the weight of the snow. They returned to their tent and Zabier went to bed.

  He’d just fallen asleep when Charald’s manservant woke him.

  ‘Come quickly. The king is deathly ill,’ he whispered.

  Zabier’s mind was so fuzzy with exhaustion he had trouble making sense of what he said. ‘Have... have you called the saw-bones?’

  ‘No. He’s asking for you and the Warrior’s-voice.’

  ‘Coming,’ Sorne said. He was already on his feet. It was all very well for him. He hadn’t been up all night.

  Zabier forced himself out of bed. He wasn’t going to let the half-blood insinuate himself into the king’s good graces. Zabier gestured to the servant. ‘Send for the saw-bones.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. The king’s convinced Baron Nitzane’s poisoned him,’ the manservant said.

  Sorne swore. ‘You’re right. If he accuses Nitzane in front of the saw-bones it will get out. Fear of Nitzane’s popularity with the Chalcedonian barons is the only thing that’s keeping Eskarnor in check. Go back to the king’s side. We’ll be right there.’

  As soon as the manservant left, Sorne whispered. ‘It’s the pains-ease. I’ve seen this before. Some people have a bad reaction, and Charald’s never had it. How much did you give him?’

  ‘Not much,’ Zabier lied.

  ‘Looks like even a little was too much. Come on. We’ve got to keep him from accusing Nitzane. Believe me, you don’t want Eskarnor crowning himself king of Chalcedonia. I’ve seen what that man is capable of.’

  Zabier’s fingers shook as he laced up his breeches. Sorne was already tying his bootstraps.

  When they stepped out of their tent, the silvery light of a winter’s dawn filled the sky to the east and their breath formed plumes of white mist. They heard grumbling and laughter where another tent had collapsed under the snow.

  They found the king calm but violently ill. He’d already thrown up everything in his stomach and now he was dry retching. The spasms were so intense, Zabier’s stomach heaved in sympathy.

  The servant hovered, wringing his hands.

  ‘Give us a moment with him,’ Sorne said.

  Zabier wondered what he hoped to achieve.

 
The spasm passed and the king lifted his head. He looked shocking, haggard and pale. He rubbed his face with a trembling hand. When his servant went to take the basin away, the king held onto it.

  Charald beckoned and whispered. ‘It was Nitzane. He means to have my throne for his son. He poisoned me.’

  ‘Nitzane or Eskarnor,’ Sorne said. ‘One of the barons.’

  ‘No, Eskarnor would meet me on the battlefield. Nitzane’s not a leader of men. He’d use stealth and subterfuge.’

  ‘What did you eat or drink, sire?’ Sorne asked.

  ‘Wine, cheese and bread.’

  ‘The same wine, bread and cheese your high priest had?’ Sorne gestured to Zabier. ‘He’s not ill. I think–’

  The king lurched forward again. His manservant steadied the basin under his face. Charald heaved wretchedly, bringing up a little bile.

  When it was over, the king gave a heartfelt groan, sinking back onto his bed. The servant took the basin, but stayed nearby in case. A shudder ran through the king and Zabier pulled up the covers.

  ‘I’ve heard some of the men complaining of the heaves,’ Sorne said. ‘When you get this many men together, there’s always illness. You’ll be right by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘I have to be.’

  Sorne went to rise.

  Charald caught his arm. ‘I thought I was dying.’

  Sorne covered the king’s hand with his six-fingered hand. ‘What, a mean old bastard like you?’

  Zabier was shocked.

  He was even more shocked when the king laughed. It was a weak laugh, but a laugh all the same.

  A flash of pure hatred stabbed Zabier. He’d never made the king laugh. It was Sorne’s fault he’d given the king pains-ease and now Sorne was covering for him, which infuriated him. If Sorne thought he was going to be grateful, he was very much mistaken.

  As the manservant moved to get rid of the basin’s contents, Sorne rose and stopped him. Zabier stayed by the king’s bed, head bent in an attitude of prayer, straining to hear.

  ‘No one is to come in here. No one is to know how ill the king has been. If anyone asks, tell them the king drank too much and is sleeping it off.’

  The manservant nodded without looking to Zabier. Clearly, if Sorne stayed, before long everyone would be looking to the half-blood for orders instead of him. How did Sorne make them overlook his tainted blood?

  After the manservant left, Sorne pulled up a stool at the end of the king’s bed and spoke softly of events during the Secluded Sea campaign. He talked of men they both knew, battles and betrayal. He made Charald smile, chuckle even.

  The king didn’t throw up again, and, as Sorne diverted Charald with stories, Zabier realised Sorne loved the old man.

  The fool.

  THAT DAY, SORNE took his usual walk around the camp, followed by two of the holy warriors. Now that he’d spent more time in camp, he saw the allegiances more clearly. Eskarnor had emerged as the leader of the southern barons and Hanix was his right-hand man. Their tents were pitched side by side.

  As Sorne walked through the Chalcedonian barons’ tents, he spotted Baron Kerminzto watching him. Kerminzto was the queen’s cousin. He could have presumed on this connection to win favours from the king, but he didn’t. Sorne suspected he was a cautious, sensible man. Today, Kerminzto looked grim, but then so did everyone else.

  When Sorne passed Nitzane’s tents, he spotted the baron observing as Captain Ballendin conducted weapons practice and paused to watch.

  ‘Charald’s temper fits are getting worse,’ Nitzane muttered by way of greeting. ‘I swear I don’t trust him.’

  ‘He doesn’t trust you,’ Sorne whispered. ‘He’s convinced you poisoned him.’

  ‘What? Rubbish. I can’t help it if he drinks too much, or gets the camp trots.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Sorne warned. ‘Do nothing to give him reason to doubt your loyalty.’

  ‘How can he blame me?’ Nitzane objected.

  ‘The same way you blamed him for the bridge collapse that killed Marantza. Coincidence and motive.’

  Nitzane blinked. His eyes filled with tears. ‘She didn’t deserve it, Sorne.’

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t mean Charald was responsible.’ And even if he was, Sorne needed Nitzane to support the king.

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS A solemn occasion under the empowerment dome, as the all-mothers and all-fathers divided the braids between them. While it was possible to recognise another T’En by his or her gift, there was too little residue left on these plaits to identify anything but the genders.

  Imoshen wanted to get through the formalities and make her point about the consequences of burning the banners, but there was still a pile of plaits dating from the war three hundred years ago. She watched with growing frustration and astonishment as the leaders of the T’Enatuath voted to build a memorial to those who had fallen in the previous war.

  Then All-father Saskeyne’s voice-of-reason sprang to his feet and claimed stature for their brotherhood. And, to Imoshen’s amazement, the others acknowledged it. Her gift surged and she read them as a group; they were so intent on their own little world and so used to dismissing Mieren as beneath them that they did not grasp the larger implications.

  She was causare, their nominated leader, but she led only by consensus. If she destroyed Saskeyne’s stature, he would retaliate with aggression. If she tried to force her will on the brotherhoods, they would revolt.

  She felt dark laughter well up inside her and wished Ardonyx was here. His biting satires had laid bare the flaws of their society, but most people had failed to see the underlying message. She sensed someone watching her and spotted Hueryx. There was a mocking light in his eyes. Her gift surged and she understood his cynical comments sprang from frustration with their people.

  She would not give in to bitterness.

  When it seemed the leaders of the T’Enatuath would leave without addressing the real problem, Imoshen came to her feet.

  ‘Before we go, there is one more thing. The Mieren king sent his barons to raze our estates even though we had agreed to give him what he wanted. He’ll see the burning of his effigy and the banners as an insult. If he razed our estates without provocation, what will he do now?’

  She waited for this to sink in, then gestured to Saskeyne. ‘While this all-father’s symbolic action has united us, we are still sitting in a besieged city and the people on our estates are vulnerable.’

  ‘What are you saying, Imoshen?’ Hueryx asked, giving her the opening she needed.

  ‘I cannot do my job as causare if others take actions that undermine me. Before any of us take an action that is going to impact the rest, it needs to be brought to an all-council for approval.’

  The brotherhood leaders did not like this. They argued it infringed on their authority. She said nothing, letting Hueryx put the case. Paragian was quick to grasp the implications and support him.

  While the debate unfolded, Egrayne leant closer to her. ‘Hueryx didn’t address you as T’Imoshen. He should use the causare’s title.’

  Imoshen wanted to bury her head in despair or laugh. Her title was the least of her problems. ‘If I can get the brotherhoods to agree to this, I’ll count it a win.’

  She watched the argument evolve and, when her gift told her the moment was right, came to her feet. ‘I propose we bring actions that affect the T’Enatuath to an all-council for approval.’ And she raised her hand.

  Gift on edge, she memorised who raised their hand and in what order. All-fathers Kyredeon, Saskeyne and Dretsun were last to agree.

  When the all-council was over, she walked back to the sisterhood quarter with the all-mothers and their seconds.

  Outside the healer’s palace, she caught Reoden’s hand. ‘Ree, my choice-son wanted to see Sardeon but he was turned away. Why?’

  The healer drew her inside and took her up to her private chambers. As Reoden reached for the nursery door, Imoshen prepared herself for
the worst. Like Iraayel, Sardeon was sixteen. If he was still living in the nursery, he must need constant care.

  The door swung open to reveal a pleasant room that opened onto a private rooftop garden. A child lay on his stomach in front of a fire reading a book. His feet swung in time to some internal music.

  Imoshen looked up to the healer. ‘Where’s–’

  ‘Sar?’ Reoden called.

  The child looked up. It was Sardeon. She had forgotten how beautiful he was.

  ‘But...’ He should have been sixteen, not twelve. Imoshen looked to Reoden in confusion.

  ‘Go back to your reading,’ Reoden told Sardeon. ‘The gift-wright will be here soon.’

  They stepped outside and shut the nursery door.

  ‘He hasn’t grown at all,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘What does Ceriane say?’

  ‘She hasn’t found anything like it in the records. We’re hoping he’ll grow out of it...’ Reoden heard what she’d said and winced. ‘We’re hoping time will heal him.’

  ‘Is he ready for me?’ the gift-wright asked.

  The healer nodded and the gift-wright left them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Imoshen whispered.

  ‘I’m his choice-mother and a healer.’ Reoden wrung her hands. ‘I should be able to help him. I can’t.’

  ‘No one can help him, or me.’ Scryer Lysitzi joined them. ‘I’m crippled. My power is blocked. I should have known Kyredeon meant to kill...’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘You could have only known if I had asked you to scry looking for a threat to my daughter,’ Reoden told her. Imoshen had the feeling it was an old argument. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Imoshen was shocked by the scryer’s appearance. One side of her face was pulled out of alignment by a scar. ‘At least let Ree heal your face.’

  Instead of answering, the scryer gave a strange laugh and drifted out, muttering under her breath. Imoshen shivered.

  ‘I have healed her face,’ Reoden confessed. ‘Every time I heal it the scar comes back.’

  ‘It’s tied to her gift?’