Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Finally, the all-father stepped back and Learon fell forward onto his hands and knees. Oriemn pulled him to his feet.

  ‘What happens now?’ Athlyn whispered, voice thick with horror.

  Tobazim could not speak.

  ‘Without his gift defences, Learon is as helpless as a Mieren,’ Ceyne muttered. ‘More helpless even than some of them, because they have natural defences. Oriemn’s supporters will overcome his will and use him for their pleasure.’

  The hand-of-force’s gift swamped Learon’s will in an instant, implanting a compulsion. Oriemn held out his hand, and Tobazim’s choice-brother went to his enemy, eager for his lustful touch.

  Every fibre of Tobazim’s body revolted. He knew how Learon would feel when the compulsion wore off. Athlyn made a choked sound in his throat. Haromyr swore under his breath.

  ‘They’ll pass him around until they tire of him.’ Ceyne sounded weary. ‘His gift will rebuild itself eventually, but his stature will never recover. He’ll never challenge Oriemn for hand-of-force.’

  And Tobazim understood why Oriemn and Kyredeon had driven Learon into a corner.

  Anger threatened to undo Tobazim’s gift control. He grasped the rail, knuckles white as he noted who amongst his fellow initiates ventured down to the courtyard to share in Learon’s humbling, and who slipped away, unable to watch. Ceyne turned to go.

  ‘You’re not staying?’ Athlyn blurted. ‘But you’re inner circle.’

  ‘I’ve seen it too many times, these last forty years. Each all-father has been worse than the last.’ Ceyne looked very old as he walked off.

  Athlyn turned to Tobazim, speechless.

  ‘Out of my way.’ Tobazim had to leave before he did something he’d regret and ended up like his choice-brother.

  But it killed something in him to turn his back on Learon.

  Chapter Twelve

  TOBAZIM WALKED THE wall above the causeway gate. Today his body ached as if he had spent all yesterday at weapons practice when, in reality, he had spent all night warring with his instinct to go to Learon’s aid.

  It was a crystal clear winter’s day. The causeway stretched before him, a narrow ribbon of stone set in the lake’s azure waters. There was no warmth in the winter sun.

  Beyond the lake, the town clustered along the shore and beside the road that eventually led to the port. Behind the town on the northern hillside were the tents of the besieging army. Smoke drifted up, hanging on the still air. It was so peaceful, it was hard to believe thousands of men-at-arms waited ready to kill his people.

  Behind him booted feet charged up the stairs. Tobazim’s stomach knotted as he turned to face the messenger – Athlyn again. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Learon wants us to open the gate.’

  ‘What?’ Tobazim left his post, running down the steep stairs to the winch room where Haromyr and three Malaunje warriors confronted his choice-brother. From his clear eyes, Learon had thrown off Oriemn’s compulsion, but his gift would not rebuild for several days. Until then, he would be vulnerable.

  He wore only a loin cloth and his arm-torcs. He carried one of the confiscated Mieren swords and a shield, rather than T’En long-knives. But what struck Tobazim was his hair. He’d cut his hair to his jaw. Normally, a warrior wore his hair plaited and wound around his head to cushion his helmet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Tobazim demanded, although he knew the answer.

  ‘Here, catch.’ Learon pulled off his arm-torcs and tossed them to Tobazim. The silver was still warm from his choice-brother’s body. ‘I will not honour a brotherhood that has no honour.’

  The others gasped. Tobazim’s cheeks burned. Learon had been treated dishonourably, but this... ‘Lear–’

  ‘Today my mind is my own. I won’t let them take it again.’ His choice-brother looked straight through Tobazim. ‘Let me out.’

  ‘Lear, there’s thousands of Mieren on the far shore–’

  ‘Exactly. I seek an honourable death, and the chance to take a few of the enemy with me.’

  ‘I’ve been ordered to let no one in or out.’

  ‘Don’t deny me this, choice-brother.’ For a moment their eyes met, and Learon let Tobazim see the depth of his humiliation; he could not live with the dishonour.

  Tobazim stepped aside and gestured to Haromyr. ‘Open the gates.’

  The other adept did not argue. He directed the Malaunje warriors to start the winch that raised the inner gate.

  Tobazim stood silent, aware of his choice-brother beside him, gripping his weapons firmly, ready to die. How had it gone so wrong? What could Tobazim have done differently? He’d failed his choice-brother. ‘I’m sorry, I–’

  ‘You tried to warn me that we weren’t dealing with warriors from the sagas,’ Learon cut him off. ‘I hold honour too high to live in these times.’

  Did that mean he thought Tobazim was without honour? At that moment Tobazim felt he deserved Learon’s contempt.

  ‘When–’ Learon’s voice caught and he had to clear his throat. ‘When it is done will you escort me to death’s realm?’

  Haromyr gulped and glanced to Tobazim.

  ‘It will be my honour,’ Tobazim said.

  Without another word, Learon ducked under the still-rising gate and walked through the dark tunnel towards the outer gate and sunshine.

  ‘Open the other gate,’ Tobazim said.

  As the Malaunje obeyed, he ran up the stairs with Haromyr and Athlyn on his heels. From the wall-walk they had a good view of Learon striding down the causeway.

  IMOSHEN’S GIFT-WARRIORS WOULD leave tonight. They’d spent the previous day preparing for the journey and, since the mission was secret, saying goodbye to their loved ones without letting them know. Imoshen had hardly slept. She was torn. It seemed pointless to have the mind-manipulators and not use them, so she’d sought out Arodyti to broach the subject again.

  She found the shield-sisters on the rooftop going through their exercises together; they moved in tandem with precision and skill.

  Imoshen watched for a moment, then went over to the wall, to look at the besieging army. So many Mieren. And everything rested on Arodyti.

  They’d done all they could to prepare Arodyti for transposition. Vittoryxe was still finding old scrolls with different version of the myths, and Imoshen wanted to do all she could to ensure her hand-of-force reached the port. Surely, if Saskeyne’s warriors swore to obey her, Arodyti would reconsider taking them.

  Once the shield sisters had completed their exercises, Imoshen turned to face them and argue her point, but Sarosune pointed. ‘See, there. That’s why we can’t take brotherhood warriors.’

  Imoshen turned to see a lone, near-naked T’En warrior walking towards the end of the causeway. ‘What is he doing?’

  ‘Winning glory, by killing himself. What else could it be?’ Arodyti muttered. ‘Too bad if this drives King Charald to retaliate.’

  TOBAZIM STOOD ON the gate’s defences, watching his choice-brother walk to his death. In opening the gates he had disobeyed his all-father, and he was proud of it.

  Across the lake, he heard the first shouts of alarm. Half a dozen men-at-arms formed ranks at the end of the causeway; more came running.

  Booted feet echoed up the stairwell behind Tobazim as more brothers joined him. Word spread fast. Soon the wall-walk was crowded. Tobazim suspected the sisterhoods would be up in their palaces watching from every vantage point.

  ‘He goes to his death with honour.’ Athlyn’s voice shook with emotion.

  ‘He wins stature for our brotherhood,’ Haromyr assured the youth, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Even if he has taken off his arm-torcs.’

  Tobazim said nothing, too angry to speak. The arm-torcs weighed heavily in his hands. His choice-brother should not have been forced to do this.

  Several Mieren ventured out to meet Learon. At this distance, Tobazim could not see the small signals that presaged their assault. He knew that battle was joined only when three of the men-at-arms
attacked Learon. The scrape of metal on metal reached them on the gate.

  Athlyn gasped as first one fell, then the second.

  When Learon picked up the third Mieren, held him over his head and threw him into the lake, the watchers on the city walls cheered.

  Learon struck his sword on his shield to signal his readiness. This time five Mieren warriors approached.

  ‘He does us proud,’ Haromyr said.

  ‘Then your all-father must see this. Out of the way,’ Kyredeon’s voice-of-reason ordered.

  Tobazim and his companions backed off, so that Kyredeon and his two seconds had the best view. Now Tobazim had to crane his head to see over their shoulders. He heard his companions’ sharp intake of breath, saw his choice-brother falter, falling to one knee, before rearing up again – the watchers cheered.

  Tobazim’s body flinched and jerked with each blow. It seemed Learon would be overwhelmed, but he cut his attackers down until he stood amidst a heap of fallen Mieren warriors.

  ‘He’s bested those five,’ Kyredeon’s voice-of-reason muttered. ‘Will they send more?’

  ‘No, they’re backing off.’

  ‘It’s costing them too many warriors. They’ll bring up the archers,’ Oriemn said.

  Someone obstructed Tobazim’s line of sight. He thrust them aside in time to see Learon charge the knot of Mieren at the end of the causeway. The archers cut him down before he could reach them.

  A hushed gasp filled the air, followed by shouts of anger.

  ‘They’ll defile his body,’ Haromyr muttered. He pushed through the others to confront their all-father. ‘We must negotiate for his body.’

  ‘We ask the Mieren for nothing,’ Kyredeon growled. ‘Not even his arm-torcs.’

  ‘I have them.’ Tobazim offered the silver bands, head bowed. He feared if he lifted his head and met the all-father’s eyes, Kyredeon would see how much he despised him.

  He waited. Would the all-father see this as the insult it was intended to be, or would he interpret it as Learon preventing the torcs from falling into Mieren hands?

  ‘Just as well,’ Oriemn said. ‘We don’t want to give the Mieren any more trophies. I’ll take those.’

  Kyredeon took the arm-torcs. Tobazim’s hands were lighter, but his heart was heavy.

  ‘Learon died with honour,’ Haromyr said. ‘His shade will feast with the heroes in–’

  ‘My inner circle will not be escorting him to death’s realm,’ Kyredeon announced.

  Haromyr glanced to Tobazim.

  The all-father’s eyes narrowed. ‘I did not give him permission to seek an honourable death. I forbid anyone to escort his shade.’

  Tobazim fought the instinct to protest.

  Oriemn caught Tobazim’s arm, twisted it up behind his back and forced him to kneel before Kyredeon. It felt as if his shoulder was about to pop out of its socket.

  ‘Do you understand?’ Oriemn demanded. When Tobazim did not respond, he jerked his arm again making his shoulder scream in protest.

  ‘I understand,’ Tobazim ground out.

  ‘Use his title.’ Oriemn jerked Tobazim’s arm once more.

  ‘I understand, All-father Kyredeon,’ he said, locking his fury down deep inside. He dare not object, not when he’d seen Kyredeon’s idea of justice.

  Oriemn thrust Tobazim forward.

  Saving himself with his good arm, Tobazim came to his feet and gave obeisance as best he could before backing off. His death would not help Learon.

  Nothing would help Learon.

  Even so, he despised himself. If the winery had still stood, he would have asked permission to leave the city and serve the brotherhood there, but he was trapped. Trapped in the besieged city, and trapped in Kyredeon’s brotherhood, until the day he died. His silver arm-torcs, once a symbol of pride, had become a symbol of imprisonment.

  The full impact of his position hit him with such force that he staggered. Only Haromyr and Athlyn kept him upright. He was grateful they still stood by him.

  When he returned to the bedchamber he shared with Learon and the other young adepts, he found all the Malaunje who had escaped from the winery waiting for him. No one said anything. Paravia stepped forward and sang Learon’s favourite songs, one after the other.

  There was nothing sad about those songs, but many wept unashamedly. When it was over, everyone left, until only Paravia remained with Tobazim.

  He kissed her cheeks solemnly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Kyredeon sent for me last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t want me. He made me watch Learon’s humiliation. He never wanted me. He wanted to get rid of Learon.’ She caught his hand. ‘Tobazim, what did you do to make an enemy of him?’

  ‘Nothing. We only ever did what we believed to be right.’

  Tears slid down her cheeks. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I can’t spend the rest of my life living under this all-father.’

  ‘I know.’ Tobazim was so tired, his head felt thick. ‘One day someone will challenge him and we’ll have a new all-father.’

  ‘Not if he kills off all the adepts he sees as a threat.’

  Tobazim flinched. ‘Then I’m safe. I’m only a builder.’

  ‘Oh, Tobazim.’ She kissed him. ‘Goodbye.’

  He was too heartsore and tired to understand until the next day when they found her body.

  She’d jumped off the tallest palace tower.

  IMOSHEN GRIPPED THE stonework as the lone T’En warrior battled on the causeway. When he defeated the second group of Mieren, the brotherhood warriors cheered, their deep voices carrying up to the sisterhood palaces at the island’s peak. Her heart soared with their voices. These were her people. She was so proud of this glorious, hopeless warrior.

  At the same time, she was furious with him and his brotherhood.

  ‘Such a waste.’ Imoshen was surrounded by Malaunje and T’En now, all watching the battle. ‘Why would an all-father send one of his warriors out to die like this?’

  ‘Punishment?’ Arodyti shrugged. ‘Maybe it was his own idea, and he wants to impress his brotherhood and win stature.’

  ‘Will the Mieren send more warriors against him?’ a Malaunje boy asked. In his excitement, he had pushed in right next to Imoshen. ‘Why do they hesitate?’

  ‘Because they won’t waste–’ Imoshen broke off, wincing as Mieren archers cut down the T’En warrior.

  The boy clutched Imoshen’s arm. She felt his shock and pain clearly.

  ‘Now they’ll desecrate the body,’ Arodyti said.

  Sure enough, half a dozen of them picked him up and carried him off.

  The Malaunje and T’En around Imoshen were subdued as they left to go downstairs.

  Sarosune wiped the tears from her cheek. ‘He was very brave and very foolish.’

  Arodyti met Imoshen’s eyes. ‘This is how the brotherhoods behave after you ask them not to take action without approving it at an all-council. Now do you see why I won’t take any of their warriors with me? Their values are not our values. They put honour ahead of good sense.’

  Imoshen understood. She also realised she had a precedent for not taking her actions to the all-council for approval.

  SORNE PUT ANOTHER sheaf of reports aside and rubbed his face. He was so angry with Zabier, if his brother had been here, he would have grabbed him and shaken him. How dare Zabier die and leave him with no clue as to Valendia’s whereabouts?

  He frowned at Zabier’s travelling chest. There had been nothing personal in it, just piles of papers, all methodically tied with string. He would go through it all again, but at first glance there was no mention of a female half-blood, or a secret captive. There were, however, a lot of reports on Wyrd customs and gift working.

  Maybe Zabier kept his personal papers in his travelling bag. Sorne picked it up and unpacked it. Right at the bottom, he felt something familiar wrapped in a knitted vest. With
a growing sense of betrayal he took out his mother’s torc. There it was gleaming up at him, the silver neck torc with the blue stone. Zabier had had it all along.

  A shout made Sorne repack the bag.

  He went outside to see a mass of men-at-arms heading his way. They waved their swords and shields in celebration, and they were making for the royal tent. Sorne found Charald standing outside, with several of his barons.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Sorne asked.

  As the men drew nearer, Nitzane arrived and edged around behind the group to stand near Sorne.

  ‘First chance I’ve had to say I’m sorry.’ His voice was cloaked from the rest by the cheering men-at-arms.

  For a heartbeat, Sorne had no idea what he was talking about. Then he recalled, other than King Charald, Nitzane was probably the only one who knew that Zabier was his brother.

  ‘Do you remember we had a sister?’ Sorne asked. ‘Did Zabier ever tell you what became of her?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘She’s missing.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do...’ Nitzane put a hand on his shoulder. Sorne had helped him find his mother.

  The men-at-arms reached the king.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Charald asked.

  They nudged one another, until one of their own stepped forward and bowed. ‘A gift for you, King Charald.’

  The men-at-arms parted to bring forward the body of a huge T’En warrior. He was naked and his chest was full of arrows.

  As he lay sprawled in the snow at the king’s feet, a dozen different men-at-arms began to tell the story, speaking over each other. According to them, he’d walked down the causeway, brazen as could be, and challenged them. Of course, they cut him down.

  The men-at-arms tossed a True-man sword and shield on the snow next to his body, and complained about the lack of trophies: no silver braid, no arm-torc.

  Now that Sorne had gotten over the initial shock, he recognised the warrior. It was Learon. He went cold with shock. Was this the poor fellow’s punishment for letting him in to see Imoshen without telling his all-father? What had happened to Tobazim?