Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘With every Mieren hand turned against us?’ Egrayne protested.

  ‘That doesn’t give us much hope,’ Reoden whispered.

  ‘And that is why I cannot fail,’ Arodyti said.

  Chapter Eleven

  SORNE REACHED CAMP just before the sentries changed over. He’d chosen the time with care. It was the end of their shift, and the night-watch would be thinking of their beds.

  The barons had laid their tents out in rough lines, following the slope of the hill. As Sorne wove through the camp, the snow continued to fall; in places, the drifts had piled waist high. When he rounded the last bend and looked up towards the royal tent, everything appeared normal. A weight lifted from him. Now all he had to do was slip into Zabier’s tent and get into bed before the first holy warrior reported for duty.

  But when he approached the holy tent, it wasn’t there. All he could see were lumps under a blanket of snow.

  For a heartbeat his mind refused to make sense of it. Then he realised the snow had collapsed the tent. He made out a long lump where the desk stood, but everything else was indistinguishable. And Zabier had taken a hefty dose of pains-ease.

  No time to waste.

  Zabier’s low bunk was to the left of the tent’s entrance. Plunging his hands into snow, Sorne tried to find the tent fabric. His fingers scrabbled on the hard, frozen folds.

  Digging deeper, he found his way under the fabric, lifted it, and thrust his head underneath. Snow fell down the back of his neck, making him shiver. The tent fabric pressed heavily on his shoulders. He wriggled further under the collapsed tent into the dark cold. Crawling on hands and knees, he forged on until his shoulder hit the edge of the bunk and he forced himself to kneel upright.

  Feeling for Zabier with numb hands, Sorne thought he made out a head and chest. Sliding an arm under Zabier’s shoulders, he hooked his hands around his brother’s chest and tried to drag him off the bed. The combined weight of the tent, the snow and Zabier defeated him. His breath came in short gasps.

  From outside he heard shouts.

  The tent fabric jerked, nearly knocking him over.

  He called for help.

  It jerked again.

  Then light hit him. He gulped fresh air as several of the holy warriors lifted the tent and peeled it back to reveal the end of the desk and Sorne crouching over Zabier as he tried to keep the tent fabric off him.

  One of the holy warriors held a lantern and three more struggled with the heavy canvas. Their shouts drew others.

  ‘Does the high priest live?’ one of them asked.

  Sorne lay Zabier’s head and shoulders down on the bunk and pushed the hair from his pale face. With his eyes closed and his mouth relaxed, his brother looked terribly young.

  Desperate, Sorne bent over Zabier’s chest, listening.

  He heard nothing. ‘Give me a knife.’

  Someone put a knife hilt in his hand. He held the blade to Zabier’s mouth and nose, hoping to see condensation from his brother’s warm breath.

  Nothing.

  Sorne pulled open Zabier’s robe, placed his ear right over Zabier’s heart and listened.

  Nothing.

  The king’s saw-bones arrived.

  Sorne lifted his head. ‘Gretzen.’

  ‘Anything?’ The saw-bones asked as he knelt on the other side of the bunk.

  ‘I... I don’t know.’

  Gretzen appeared to note his hesitation. The saw-bones pulled off his gloves, rubbed his hands together and felt Zabier’s neck, searching for a pulse.

  Sorne waited for him to lift his hand and say, you were mistaken. He’ll be fine.

  Instead, Gretzen took a funnel from his bag and put it over Zabier’s chest, placing his ear to the top of the funnel.

  Sorne held his breath. Zabier had to be all right. It couldn’t end like this. Last night they’d seemed to be drawing closer. With time...

  The way the saw-bones lifted his head told Sorne there was no hope. There would be no more time with his brother.

  It could not be. He grabbed Zabier’s shoulders and shook him, calling his name. Tears blinded him. He could not lose Zabier like this. It was so pointless...

  But Zabier’s skin remained pale and waxy. The only thing that seemed to have life was his brother’s long fair hair. The lantern picked up ginger threads in the waves; it was the same shade their mother’s had been.

  Sorne released Zabier’s shoulders and spread his hair out neatly on the pillow, so that it framed his still, cold face. Izteben was dead. Their mother was dead. If Zabier was dead, then all he had left was Valendia.

  And only Zabier knew where she was. Sorne sank back on his heels, horrified. How would he find her now?

  He stared at his brother’s still face. He was sure Zabier had been about to reach out to him last night. With a little more time, he could have won his brother’s trust. Together, they could have guided King Charald and made a pact to save Valendia.

  Perhaps he would discover a clue as to Valendia’s locaton in Zabier’s notes.

  Someone coughed. Sorne became aware of the saw-bones, Gretzen, and the whispering holy warriors.

  He was a half-blood in an army of True-men intent on wiping out his race. He had to seize command now, or he’d be the next sacrifice.

  Taking Zabier’s hands, he folded them neatly on his chest and noticed Oskane’s ring. A surge of hatred filled Sorne as he remembered having to kiss that ruby and thank Oskane for scourging him.

  Now it was his.

  When Sorne removed the ring, no one protested. After sliding it onto his little finger, he stood and lifted his head to look down on the sea of faces. He forced strength into his voice. ‘I am the Warrior’s-voice, returned from the dead, advisor to King Charald. Prepare the Father’s-voice for burial.’ His voice trembled, but he did not falter. ‘I must see the king.’

  He stepped over mounds of snow and gestured to the tent. ‘Clean this up. When I come back, I want to see the holy tent restored.’

  Now all he had to do was convince King Charald to reinstate him as his advisor.

  When they’d returned to Chalcedonia after the Secluded Sea campaign, the king had believed Sorne’s half-blood heritage was a liability. But Charald was no longer that man. Sorne had seen a vulnerability in him. It had always been the source of his rage. Now it was closer to the surface. The king was growing old, and for a man of war that was a terrible thing. There were always ambitious men ready to topple him.

  Sorne found the king being shaved by his manservant.

  ‘What was all the shouting about? I swear...’ Charald ran down as Sorne showed him his hand. ‘Oskane’s ring?’

  ‘My vision has come true,’ Sorne said. ‘Before the Warrior returned me, he showed me at your side, wearing this ring. The Father and the Warrior have long been rivals. The gods sent the snow to crush the holy tent. Only I lived. The Warrior is in ascendance. Your faithful service has ensured this.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Charald sprang to his feet. His manservant only just had time to wipe the last of the soap from his chin before the king pushed him aside. ‘Now the Warrior will reward me for serving Him faithfully all these years.’

  Once Sorne would have felt triumphant, but now he felt only self-contempt.

  TOBAZIM’S GIFT WOULD not let him rest. Taking out his pen and ink, he began sketching. Ideas for rebuilding the ruined palace and incorporating it into Kyredeon’s palace crowded his head, and he simply had to get them down on paper.

  ‘There you are,’ Ceyne said.

  Tobazim came to his feet, wondering why the high-ranking brother had come to him.

  The saw-bones shut the door, then checked that the bathing chamber and the bedchamber were empty. Tobazim watched with growing concern.

  ‘Learon needs to keep his nose out of other people’s business,’ Ceyne said.

  ‘If we hadn’t stuck our noses into what happened last night, Kyredeon would be dead,’ Tobazim protested.

  Ceyne’s eyes
widened.

  ‘You didn’t know? But you’re one of of his inner circle. He should have...’ Tobazim took a step back. ‘I swore an oath not to tell–’

  ‘Too late, lad,’ Ceyne said with a half-smile. ‘You’ll have to tell me now.’

  ‘There were six assassins on the roof last night. Learon and I helped fight them off. Kyredeon should have told his inner circle.’

  ‘You might have noticed, Kyredeon does a lot of things he shouldn’t do and very few of the things he should.’

  ‘So, if you weren’t talking about the assassins, what were you referring to?’ Tobazim asked.

  ‘Yesterday, Learon objected to the way the adepts were teaching the initiates. He claimed the way he was taught was better.’

  ‘Maybe it was.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He can’t go around correcting the adepts who teach under Oriemn. He might as well correct the brotherhood’s hand-of-force.’

  It was true. ‘I’ll find him and talk to him.’ But he hesitated; when they’d parted at dawn, Learon had gone looking for Paravia. By now the two would be inseparable.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Learon’s with Paravia.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. I saw her run into another room, weeping.’

  Tobazim felt a stab of fear. ‘When and where?’

  ‘Just now. Two floors directly below us.’

  Tobazim thanked him and took off. He found Paravia hiding amidst the paper-making frames.

  When she heard the door open, she shielded her face. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Paravia? What happened?’

  ‘Tobazim!’ She ran to him. Eyes red from weeping, she clutched his vest. ‘You must find Lear. I’m afraid he’ll do something stupid.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I refused him.’

  ‘Why? I thought you–’

  ‘I do love him. I did it to save him.’

  ‘I don’t see how–’

  ‘The all-father wants me for his own. I can’t become Learon’s devotee. If I did, it would infuriate the all-father. Go find Lear. Don’t let him do anything stupid.’

  Tobazim tried all the usual places: the weapons practice courtyard, the verandah where the young adepts watched for the Malaunje girls so they could flirt with them, and therooftop garden, just in case Learon was doing his exercises. The longer it took, the more uneasy he became.

  At length, he went back to the chamber they shared with other low-ranking adepts. Here he found Learon looking at his plans. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been running myself ragged, trying to find you.’

  ‘These are really very good,’ Learon said. ‘You know, I used to be jealous of you.’

  Tobazim was flabbergasted.

  ‘Our choice-mother loved you best. She gave you the silver nib.’

  ‘She gave me that because you made me feel inadequate. My gift is only good for building. I’m not a great gift-warrior.’

  ‘What did she say the day we left Silverlode Estate?’

  Tobazim shrugged, but Learon insisted.

  ‘She said,“It’s easy to kill and destroy. It is much harder to build and grow.”’ Tobazim looked down at his ink-stained fingers, remembering the feel of her hands. ‘“The things you build will live on after you. Take pride in this.”’ He looked up at Learon. ‘She also said to look after my little choice-brother.’

  Learon grinned. ‘Not so little.’

  ‘Not so little then, either.’ Learon was two small moons younger than him, and had left their choice-mother’s sisterhood before he turned seventeen so they could join the brotherhood together. ‘I hope she’s all right.’

  ‘Silverlode has stout walls.’

  ‘And a productive silver mine. It will attract the greedy Mieren.’

  ‘I’m not a scholar like you. I’m a warrior born. If I can’t serve my all-father with honour, I have no purpose.’

  ‘Lear...’

  ‘They’ve denied us stature since the moment we arrived. They’ve belittled us. And now’ – his gift surged – ‘they’ve taken Paravia from me.’

  ‘She’s only trying to protect you.’

  ‘Can you hear yourself? This is our brotherhood. We should not need protecting from our all-father and his seconds.’

  He was right, but... ‘Ceyne warned me. He said you needed to keep your head down.’

  ‘Like he does? Can you see me standing back and letting injustice go unpunished?’

  Tobazim shook his head. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to appeal to the all-father. Oriemn must recognise my stature.’

  ‘Kyredeon–’

  ‘Paravia thinks I rank so low, she feels she has to protect me. Kyredeon’s hand-of-force needs to give me the ranking I’ve earned. I saved the all-father’s life last night. He’ll listen.’

  ‘Lear, I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘I just came to let you know, in case...’

  In case things went wrong. Tobazim’s choice-brother was saying goodbye.

  ‘I won’t let you go.’ He darted over to the door, pushing it closed. ‘You don’t need to do this. We can–’

  ‘You never could stop me.’

  He saw the blow coming but wasn’t fast enough to avoid it. Learon’s fist connected with his jaw. The back of his head slammed against the door. His knees buckled and he pitched forward. The world went grey.

  THE SOUND OF running boots reached Tobazim as his sight cleared. He lay sprawled on the polished wooden floor, his face sticky. He touched his mouth, and his hand came away red with blood.

  Running boots? Mieren attacking again? He rolled to his feet, feeling for the hilt of his knife. His head reeled and he staggered. For a moment, he didn’t know why he’d been flat out on the floor.

  Then it came back to him, along with the throb of his split lip.

  Someone shouted in excitement. The running boots were not another attack, just high spirits.

  He looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Blood stained his chin and teeth.

  He might have to intercede on Learon’s behalf. He couldn’t appear before the all-father in this state. Slipping into the bathing chamber, he rinsed his mouth and wiped his face. Meanwhile, boots pounded along the corridor outside, coming this way. Tobazim turned towards the door even as Athlyn flung it open.

  ‘Learon’s in trouble. You’ve got to help him.’

  Tobazim discovered his hand was on his knife hilt and had to force his fingers to relax. Violence would not save his choice-brother now. Diplomacy might not be too late.

  Athlyn took in his split lip. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘They’re in the main courtyard.’ Athlyn fell into step with him. ‘You’ll help him, won’t you?’

  ‘Did you hear the cause of the trouble?’

  ‘They’re saying Learon insulted Kyredeon’s hand-of-force. The all-father won’t let Oriemn kill him, will he?’

  Tobazim did not answer.

  By the time they reached the nearest balcony overlooking the main courtyard, the rails were crowded with adepts, initiates and Malaunje, and the air was thick with roused gift. Tobazim skirted a large group, heading for the far end where he could see down into the courtyard.

  Learon stood alone, confronting the all-father and his inner circle. Oriemn and Kyredeon had their heads together with the voice-of-reason. Their words did not carry, but their sharp, concise gestures told Tobazim that his choice-brother’s fate was being swiftly decided.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Haromyr asked as he joined them.

  ‘I don’t know. I just got here,’ Tobazim said.

  At the sound of his voice, Ceyne pushed through the crowd to reach them. By rights, the old initiate should have been down in the courtyard with the rest of Kyredeon’s inner circle. The saw-bones took in Tobazim’s split lip, but did not comment.

  ‘They say Learon insulted the hand-of-force,’ Ceyne said. ‘They say he ref
used to back down, then compounded it by offering a challenge.’

  Tobazim bit back a protest. In any other brotherhood, it would not have come to this. Kyredeon should have listened to Learon and acknowledged the debt. The all-father should not have paraded their differences before the whole brotherhood.

  Tobazim gripped the rail. ‘Honour is everything to Learon. Trust to him to offer challenge.’

  ‘Will it be a gift duel?’ Athlyn asked.

  ‘No,’ Tobazim said. ‘Learon’s only been an adept for a little over a year, so the all-father wouldn’t allow a gift duel. It’ll be physical.’ Which suited Learon. ‘Probably unarmed.’

  ‘I bet Learon wins,’ Haromyr said. ‘I’ve seen him at weapons practice.’

  ‘Quiet. Kyredeon’s made a decision,’ Ceyne said.

  The all-father nodded to Oriemn. At a signal from the brotherhood’s hand-of-force, three of the warriors grabbed Learon, forcing him to his knees.

  Tobazim waited to hear the terms of the duel, but Kyredeon did not speak. Instead, he lifted his left hand towards Learon’s forehead.

  A strangled sound of protest escaped Tobazim.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Athlyn asked.

  ‘He’ll drain his gift,’ Ceyne said.

  ‘But can’t Learon stop him?’

  ‘If he tried, Kyredeon would strip his defences and cripple his mind. He’d end up a lackwit.’

  The whole courtyard went quiet.

  ‘What’ll happen to Lear?’ Athlyn whispered.

  Tobazim could not speak.

  ‘Without his gift, he’ll have no defences against Oriemn and the adepts. It will take days for his power to rebuild and, in that time, they’ll–’ Ceyne broke off as Learon reared up, but the three warriors forced him down.

  Tobazim cursed and went to help his choice-brother.

  ‘Don’t.’ Ceyne grabbed him. ‘You’ll achieve nothing. You tried to warn him.’

  Tobazim felt Haromyr and Athlyn step in to each side of him.

  ‘You’re being watched,’ Ceyne warned. ‘Turn around and face the courtyard. If you protest or walk off, you’re next.’

  So Tobazim did nothing while Kyredeon feasted on Learon’s gift. And he hated himself for it.