Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘I’ll never forget you, Vella. Never.’ Ronnyn hugged her, his voice thick. ‘I didn’t mean it. I don’t want the brotherhood to find us. I don’t even know why I said it.’

  But she knew why. Like her, he wanted more than endless days of working to put food on the table. They lived the lives of struggling Mieren, when they were heirs to all the beauty and knowledge of the Celestial City.

  She was so angry, her head hurt. Impatient, she thrust him away.

  ‘I said I was sorry,’ Ronnyn protested.

  ‘I’m not angry with you.’ How could she tell him that she was angry with their parents, with their people, with the Mieren? With life. ‘I’m not angry with you. I’m just... angry.’

  ‘You’re always angry about something.’

  ‘I know. I can’t help it.’

  ‘Vella.’ He offered her his hand.

  After a moment, she took it and held on.

  Chapter Nineteen

  AFTER ARRIVING IN port, Sorne went straight to the Father’s church, taking time only to change. Now he wore the too-short rich vestments of a high-ranking priest, borrowed from Zabier’s wardrobe. Perhaps he would start a fashion for calf-length robes. But fine robes could not hide the fact that he was a Wyrd and his kind had been exiled. The whispers and looks both here and back in the palace reminded him that he was a half-blood in a world of True-men, and they could turn on him at any time.

  Priests scurried and penitents scattered as he strode the familiar corridors. He was sure they were running to the person who had stepped in to fill the void when Zabier left with the king.

  Sorne headed for the high priest’s private chambers, where he found a round little True-man wearing the robes of high priest.

  Despite having only a few moments’ warning, the True-man greeted him at the door and led him into the formal chamber. Several curious assistants watched through the doorway, but Utzen was not amongst them.

  ‘Warrior’s-voice.’ The plump True-man’s gaze avoided his missing eye and dropped to the ruby on Sorne’s six-fingered hand. First Oskane had worn it, then Zabier. This new high priest had to be wondering if Sorne intended to claim the role. ‘We did not have word the king was returning.’

  ‘No, it was a sudden decision. The siege has been successful. The Wyrds are to be exiled by winter cusp. I see you have moved into the high priest’s private chambers.’ Complete with hidden stair and apartment for his mistress or, in Zabier’s case, secret family.

  ‘Yes. We were all deeply saddened when we received word of High Priest Zabier’s death, but someone had to ensure the smooth running of the church. The people of Chalcedonia rely on us for spiritual guidance.’

  ‘Of course. You are lucky High Priest Zabier left his assistant behind. Where is Utzen?’

  ‘Ah. Unfortunately, he disappeared the first night of the riots.’

  Sorne remembered the riots: burning buildings, mobs in the street and the bodies of Wyrds strung from shop signs. If Zabier had tried to send Valendia to safety that night, Utzen might not have made it out of the city. Had she been killed and her body thrown in a nameless grave? Fear cramped Sorne’s belly, but he schooled his face to betray nothing.

  He focused on the high priest, who was watching him intently. For all that this man reminded Sorne of someone’s jolly uncle, he had to have political acumen to have risen to this position. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘High Priest Faryx. I have served the church, man and boy, for forty years. Please take a seat. I’ll call for refreshments.’

  Sorne recognised the ploy. Faryx was treating him like a guest. The True-man was determined not to give up power. That suited Sorne. He knew what was involved in running an organisation this size, and did not want the task. As long as he found Valendia and ensured Imoshen and her people reached the ships in safety, he was happy.

  When he sank into a chair, Faryx relaxed a little. After sending an assistant to bring the refreshments, the new high priest took the seat opposite. Sorne remembered how, when King Charald returned to Chalcedonia, King Matxin’s daughter had claimed sanctuary in this very room. She had been a plain speaker.

  ‘Let me be plain,’ Sorne said. ‘I am the king’s advisor. You are the high priest of the Father’s church, greatest of the Seven. I am sure we can help each other. The king has given me the task of ensuring all Wyrds are rounded up and exiled by winter cusp.’ He hesitated, because he did not know if Faryx was aware of Zabier’s secret family, or his relationship to Sorne. ‘I have heard rumour of Wyrds being kept in the Father’s church–’

  ‘Here? Oh, no.’ Faryx shook his head, drawing back a little. ‘We have nothing to do with tainted blood.’

  ‘High Priest Zabier carried out Wyrd sacrifices in his capacity as Father’s-voice.’

  ‘He did.’ The corners of Faryx’s mouth turned down in disgust. ‘But that was between him and the king. It was not approved of by the established church.’

  This came as a surprise to Sorne. He picked his words with care. ‘During King Matxin’s reign, I was in exile with King Charald. I was told the church condoned sacrifices.’

  ‘During King Matxin’s reign, the church did what it had to, to survive. Everyone did.’ The high priest hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. ‘You have been frank with me. Let me be frank with you. Our parishioners like ceremonies that consist of beautiful music, incense and singing. No one likes ceremonies that go horribly wrong, where people die. At King Charald’s last sacrifice, fifteen people died, including one baron, the Warrior’s-voice and four of his priests. Charald called them martyrs and we managed to smooth it over, but if the king intended to continue this practice, we...’ He ran down as if aware he had been about to deliver an ultimatum. Faryx lifted his hands in a shrug. ‘He is the king.’

  ‘He is unpredictable.’ Their eyes met, and Sorne was aware they had come close to speaking treason. ‘But King Charald is infinitely preferable to Baron Eskarnor of Dace. Eskarnor fancies the crown. Baron Nitzane has united the Chalcedonian barons behind him and sworn loyalty to the king and his young heir. As long as Charald has Nitzane’s support, Eskarnor can’t make a move. That’s why Charald invited them both back to the palace.’

  ‘You’re telling me this because...’

  ‘You sit in the centre of a web that stretches across Chalcedonia. Your priests hear things and these things reach you. If Eskarnor’s supporters attack Nitzane’s estates, you’ll hear.’

  ‘Why should I let you know?’

  ‘Eskarnor is from Dace. He has no respect for Chalcedonian gods. If he came into power, he would disband the church, steal its lands and wealth, and install Dacian gods and priests loyal to him.’

  Faryx’s eyes widened.

  ‘Ask what happened in Navarone at the abbey.’ Sorne shrugged. ‘Then, if your priests notice Eskarnor’s men-at-arms slipping into the city, let me know.’

  ‘King Charald is lucky to have such a loyal servant,’ Faryx said.

  At that moment a penitent arrived with a tray of refreshments.

  When the door closed Faryx turned back to Sorne. ‘We heard the silverheads snatched Prince Cedon from the palace nursery, simply disappeared with him. How is this possible?’

  ‘No one knows. The Wyrds have promised to return the boy with his club foot healed. King Charald believes the Warrior is acting through them to give him a healthy heir.’

  Faryx’s eyes widened, but all he said was, ‘The king is very devout.’

  ‘Very,’ Sorne conceded. ‘And he has appointed me to facilitate the Wyrd exile. I have reason to believe High Priest Zabier sent his assistant away with a half-blood female the night of the riots. She needs to be collected and exiled along with the rest of the Wyrds.’

  ‘I know Utzen left with a cloaked woman, but I don’t know what became of them. I’ll make enquiries.’

  Sorne thanked him. ‘And I will advise the king against making sacrifices.’

  ‘Excellent. Wine?’ Faryx offer
ed.

  Sorne accepted.

  RONNYN RAN ACROSS the dunes, feet spearing into the sand. At the top of the dune he looked down across the beach and saw Mieren boats, two of them. They’d come for revenge. They’d come to kill his family. He had to warn them. Had to get them safely into the hide.

  But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t run fast enough. It felt like he was forging through waist-deep surf, like nothing he could do would save himself or his family.

  ‘Ronnyn, wake up.’ Aravelle shook him softly.

  He came awake on a gasp, heart racing.

  She drew him close. He relished the warmth of her skin through the much-washed nightshirt. She rubbed his back, uttering soft crooning noises, and he let her, too grateful to protest.

  ‘I was having a nightmare.’

  ‘I know. You cried out in your sleep.’

  ‘It was so real. The Mieren were here, coming after us.’ He felt her go still.

  ‘Was it a vision?’

  ‘No. I don’t... my gift isn’t moving yet.’

  ‘A bad dream, that’s all.’ She sounded relieved. ‘How will you know when your gift starts manifesting itself?’

  ‘I... I don’t know.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t think Ma and Da know. Malaunje aren’t privy to T’En secrets.’

  ‘So how will you know?’ she persisted.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The thought both annoyed and excited him. And he felt himself harden.

  She pulled away.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help it.’

  ‘Roll over.’

  So he did, giving her his back. She cuddled up to him.

  ‘I’m sorry. It just happens.’ More and more, recently.

  ‘That’ll probably be what it’s like when your gift comes on you,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll just happen.’

  And he wouldn’t have any control. That was why T’En children began their training when they were empowered, between thirteen and fourteen. Only he wouldn’t get the training he needed. How would he know what to do? What if he hurt someone?

  ‘You’re thinking too hard.’ Aravelle’s gruff voice made him smile. ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘You go to sleep.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

  He felt her chuckle, her chest pressed to his back.

  Everything would be all right. No one knew they were here; they’d dealt with the fisherman. They’d been safe for twelve years.

  But what about his gift?

  ‘You’re thinking again.’

  ‘How can you tell? You gifted now?’

  But this time his banter made her turn away.

  He rolled over and sat up on one elbow. ‘Vella?’

  No answer.

  ‘Vella?’

  Silence.

  ‘I didn’t ask to be born T’En.’

  Still no answer.

  His parents’ answer had been to run away. But what if that was the wrong answer?

  He tensed. Their parents loved them and would never do anything to hurt them.

  As he stretched out on his back, a small voice chipped away at his certainty. What if his parents had been wrong to run away? What if he lost control and hurt someone?

  He’d never forgive himself.

  The gifts were powerful. The T’En trained from the age of thirteen for twenty years to become an adept. What made him think he could manage on his own?

  But surely his parents would have thought of this? They wouldn’t put the others at risk if his gifts were dangerous. Look how quickly his father had acted, killing the injured fisherman to hide their family.

  Then why did it take twenty years to become an adept?

  Perhaps he should go back to the Celestial City?

  And leave his family? It would tear him apart.

  Tears burned his eyes as he faced the very real possibility that he would have to leave. It would break his heart, but if it meant keeping his family safe, he’d do it.

  He’d do it in a heartbeat.

  There. Now he had his answer, he was able to sleep.

  ‘WHAT IS THIS?’ Imoshen asked as Egrayne dropped the message in front of her. She picked it up, regarding the royal seal with some misgivings.

  Egrayne sank into the seat opposite. It was late. They were tired. Between them lay a pile of scribbled notes, the logistics of exile – messages to outlying estates, messages to their ships. They’d been at it all evening, balancing the challenge of reaching port in time to set sail by winter cusp, while delaying as long as possible to bring in the harvest on their estates, since they didn’t know when they would be able to grow their own food again.

  Egrayne gestured. ‘Open it.’

  Imoshen broke the seal and unfolded the heavy paper. She scanned it quickly, then laughed and handed it to Egrayne. ‘Sorne has been appointed to ensure our exile goes smoothly.’

  Egrayne smiled. ‘He’s a clever one. You should–’

  Iraayel thrust the door open. ‘It’s Saf. She’s up to something, and I... you should come now. Both of you.’

  Imoshen glanced to her voice-of-reason. Saffazi’s fragile beauty hid a strong will and an equally wilful gift. They sprang to their feet, tiredness forgotten.

  Iraayel led them out into the corridor up a floor and around to the scriptorium. It was dark. Imoshen tensed as soon as she stepped into the room, her senses alerted by gift-working.

  Iraayel cursed. ‘She promised to wait!’

  ‘What is that girl up to now?’ Egrayne muttered, striding past Imoshen. Egrayne was no longer responsible for her – she had begun her initiate training – but a mother never stops worrying about her children.

  Fear prickled across Imoshen’s skin; the gift-working felt too powerful for an initiate to be in control.

  Iraayel took off at a run, weaving through the shelves.

  ‘Wait.’ Imoshen darted after him. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch her.’

  Imoshen reached the lamplit alcove in time to see her choice-son confront a Malaunje youth no older than him.

  ‘What happened?’ Iraayel demanded.

  ‘She went ahead. I was supposed to drop my defences, but it didn’t feel right.’

  ‘Saf?’ Iraayel knelt, reaching for Saffazi, who lay unconscious on the cushions.

  ‘Don’t!’ Imoshen cried.

  Too late.

  The moment he touched her, he toppled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. At their side, the kneeling Malaunje youth reached out instinctively.

  ‘No.’ Imoshen grabbed him by the shoulder.

  With a moan, Egrayne sank to her knees next to their two choice-children – beautiful youngsters on the verge of life, lying like discarded toys.

  Fatal accidents while learning to harness the gifts’ power were rare, but they did happen.

  ‘Saf complained that Vittoryxe was holding her back,’ Egrayne whispered. ‘Why didn’t I listen?’

  Imoshen took in the little nest they’d made for this illicit gift-working. They’d chosen a secluded alcove that looked out onto the aviary balcony. They’d placed cushions and bedrolls on the floor. And they had invited this Malaunje youth to join them. What were they up to?

  ‘Look at me.’ Imoshen fixed on the youth’s face, trying to place him. His gaze slid past hers, fear written in his features. He knew they’d been breaking the rules. His cheeks still had the roundness of a boy. Pale skin, mulberry eyes, vivid dark-red lips and hair, a crooked little sixth finger. She placed him. ‘Redraven. What’s going on here?’

  ‘Saffazi offered to dream-share with me, all-mother.’

  ‘Dream-share with a Malaunje?’ No wonder he looked guilty.

  ‘This is not dream-sharing,’ Egrayne said.

  Without a word, Imoshen knelt over Iraayel and Saffazi, not touching, trying to sense if their essences were still on this plane. Cold fear seized her. ‘She’s dragged them both onto the higher plane. Iraayel’s unprepared and she’s inexperienced.’

&
nbsp; ‘We should send for Vittoryxe.’

  ‘That will take time and–’ Imoshen broke off. They both knew the sisterhood’s gift-tutor would use this breach to belittle their choice-children and undermine their leadership.

  ‘I’ll bring them back,’ Imoshen decided. Arodyti’s death throes flashed through her mind, making her stomach clench with terror.

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ Egrayne insisted. ‘We can’t afford to lose our causare.’

  ‘Anchor me.’ Imoshen dropped her gift-walls and reached for her choice-son before Egrayne could stop her. The moment their skin touched, she let herself go and segued to the higher plane.

  She’d been prepared for conflict, but not for this.

  Mieren overran the palace, rampaging through the halls, tearing the paintings off the walls, overturning statues and furniture. She could hear their howls and the smashing of glass. For a heartbeat, Imoshen wondered if Saffazi had done the impossible and performed transposition through time.

  Then one of the Mieren rounded the corner and she looked into his eyes and knew he was no mortal man. Everything fell into place. The higher plane had taken form from Saffazi’s mind. The city was all she knew, and the night the Mieren stormed the palace had been the most terrifying night of her life.

  Until tonight.

  Every time the beasts destroyed a painting or smashed a vase, they tore a piece from Saffazi’s essence and devoured it. When they had shredded enough of her, she wouldn’t be able to maintain her concentration and they’d feast on her.

  All this passed through Imoshen’s mind in a flash as the predator approached her. Stripped of the illusion, she saw it for what it was: a scraeling, a scavenger. It was not strong enough to tackle her alone, but soon more would come. To defend herself from them she would have to expend power, and that would draw the more dangerous predators, the ones she did not want to test herself against.