Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Aravelle blinked and frowned, as if she was about to tell him not to be silly. Then she nodded slowly and he knew his father’s wound was as bad as he’d feared. But he was also pleased, because it meant she acknowledged he was old enough for the truth and they were in this together.

  Once the wind filled the sail, Aravelle took the tiller. She knew the way back through the island channels. It fell to him to sit with their father and, even though it was mid-afternoon, he was exhausted. The tiredness was like a great, smothering grey blanket creeping over his mind.

  He fought it, but the waves of weariness kept returning, inevitable as the incoming tide. Each time he drove it back, it rolled over him. In the end, he picked up the curved needle and pricked his skin repeatedly to stay awake.

  As long as Aravelle was on duty at the tiller, he had to be alert at their father’s side. It was the least he could do.

  IMOSHEN DIDN’T WANT to be here, but she had no choice. She’d known Bedutz since he and Iraayel first became friends. As a child, Bedutz had smiled trustingly up at her when she told the boys stories. Today he was seventeen, and Vittoryxe would send him to his brotherhood.

  Imoshen didn’t want to be here, but as leader of the sisterhood, she had to witness the ceremony. While the Malaunje played a solemn dirge, she lit the ceremonial candles. Their scent of bitter almonds reminded her of other deaths, both real and symbolic.

  The candles sat in their niches, illuminating the underside of the sisterhood gate. It was that grey time before dawn, when babies are born and the elderly die.

  Schooling her face to betray nothing, Imoshen stood to one side while Vittoryxe plaited Bedutz’s long hair. As his choice-mother, Vittoryxe had done his hair since it grew long enough to braid and now, in their last moments together, she braided it again.

  Some of the females chose not to touch their choice-sons, preferring to distance themselves. Imoshen was surprised to see Vittoryxe do Bedutz’s hair, but the gift-tutor was nothing if not devoted to T’Enatuath ritual.

  After completing the braid, Vittoryxe wound the ceremonial leather around Bedutz’s plait at shoulder height. Then she took the scissors and cut his hair off above that point. While cutting his hair, she was also cutting the shallow gift link that all T’En mothers shared with their children.

  Lifting the severed braid to show the sisterhood, Vittoryxe said the words to complete the ritual. ‘My choice-son, Bedutz, is dead. This is all I have to remember him by.’

  The sisters moaned in sympathy.

  Imoshen’s heart raced as her gift tried to break free of her control. She would not declare Iraayel dead. She would not turn her back on him. She would not...

  Be able to do otherwise, because her sisterhood would refuse to acknowledge him. Even as she thought this, Bedutz walked past the long row of sisters and each one symbolically turned their back to him.

  When he came to Imoshen, she refused to look away. With tears in her eyes she met the gaze of the boy she had grown to love.

  For a heartbeat his chin trembled, then he clenched his jaw and turned away from her.

  Would that be Iraayel on his seventeenth birthday?

  Seething with fury, Imoshen watched as the Malaunje stripped Bedutz so that he stood naked on the cold paving stones. Seeing him like this, there was no denying he was an adult man, but this did not mean he was their enemy.

  Turning him out and forcing him to give his loyalty to an all-father – that was what turned him into their enemy. It was all so wrong.

  Pale-skinned and perfectly formed, Bedutz went through the sisterhood gate and out of their lives.

  Hueryx’s gift-tutor and four adepts waited to escort him to his new home. At least he was not going to Kyredeon’s brotherhood.

  The gift-tutor placed a cloak around Bedutz’s shoulders, symbolically cloaking him with the protection of the brotherhood. Then the warriors strode off with him in their ranks. He did not look back.

  Imoshen watched until she could see him no more. Other leave-takings had not caused her so much pain. She knew it was because her time with Iraayel was running out, but even knowing this she could not armour herself against the loss.

  Blinded by tears of impotent fury, she walked home with the women of her sisterhood, her back stiff and straight. She did not blink, for fear the tears would fall. Some sisters sobbed softly. Not Vittoryxe; she walked in front of Imoshen, head held high, Bedutz’s plait cradled in her arms.

  No one spoke. After today, no one would speak his old name, Bedutz Choice-son Vittoryxe. He would be Initiate Bedutz of Hueryx’s Brotherhood.

  Vittoryxe stumbled on the palace steps. Her devotee tried to help, but the gift-tutor brushed her aside.

  They finally stopped outside Vittoryxe’s door, and each of the women came forward to kiss the gift-tutor’s cheek, offering her the words of sympathy to formally acknowledge her loss.

  Imoshen waited until last. She leant forward, letting her lips brush Vittoryxe’s cold, dry cheek. In the past she had been able to say the appropriate words. Today they stuck in her throat. She could not offer false coin.

  She thought it wrong to drive these boys away. She feared if she opened her mouth all her private thoughts would come tumbling out, that or tears. But not to say the words insulted Vittoryxe’s loss, so she tried to force her tongue to move. ‘I... I–’

  ‘You? You make a mockery of everything we believe. You were raised by covenant-breaking males.’ Vittoryxe’s voice rose dangerously. ‘You don’t value our sisterhood’s great heritage. You think the division into brotherhoods and sisterhoods is wrong. You don’t deserve your raedan gift. You perform transposition by accident, then laugh at my gift lore. You don’t deserve to be causare!’

  And the gift-tutor’s hand lashed out in a slap that Imoshen could have blocked. But she chose not to, because everything Vittoryxe had said was true. If Imoshen had her way, she would dismantle the covenant and so much more.

  The slap rocked her head.

  Even though her gift rose to defend her, she did not react.

  Infuriated, the gift-tutor raised her hand again.

  ‘Enough.’ Egrayne caught Vittoryxe’s. ‘Dretsune, Ysattori.’

  The warrior-turned-scholar and her shield-sister stepped between them, blocking Vittoryxe’s view of Imoshen.

  The rest of the sisters stood in stunned horror. If Imoshen and Vittoryxe had been brotherhood warriors, this insult would have meant a challenge at dawn, or an apology of such magnitude it would cripple the attacker’s stature.

  ‘Vittoryxe?’ Egrayne’s voice was heavy with meaning. But Imoshen did not want a feigned contrition. Vittoryxe had meant every word she said.

  ‘No, Egrayne,’ Imoshen said, even as her gift tried to break free to protect her, even as her right cheek burned and tears poured down her cheek. ‘Our gift-tutor’s heart is breaking. As a mother, I understand and take no offence.’

  Then she turned on her heel and walked off.

  That afternoon, Imoshen sat at her desk and turned over the latest message to inspect the seal. Not from the Sagoras. She was disappointed, but there was still time to hear back from them.

  When exile had been confirmed, she’d sent messengers to all the T’Enatuath’s estates. Some had returned promptly to report estates burned to the ground, or inhabited by Mieren with no sign of their original inhabitants. But there was good news, too. Some estates planned to bring in their harvest early, then trek to the coast to meet up at Port Mirror-on-sea. Like this one.

  She smiled, put the reply aside and crossed another estate off her list. More of her people safe, or safe once they reached the port.

  Her hand settled on the last message from Sorne. When the brotherhood and sisterhood warehouses had been burned in the riots, records of the merchant shipping fleets’ whereabouts had been lost. Sorne was having trouble tracking the ships down.

  Although Imoshen had grown up on Lighthouse Isle and was used to fishermen, she did not know a lot about long sea voya
ges. She wished the last all-mother hadn’t sent Captain Iriane to find a route through the ice-floes to the far-east. The sisterhood had sent Iriane north in an attempt to beat Captain Ardonyx, who was trying to find a route south through the Lagoons of Perpetual Summer. The first to reach the far east would establish a trade agreement and bring riches to his or her brotherhood or sisterhood. Now Imoshen could have used Iriane’s knowledge of the sea. If not Iriane, then her bond-partner Ardonyx. She wished Ardonyx was back safe. He did not even know that she’d fallen pregnant and delivered a healthy sacrare daughter.

  ‘Have you eaten, Imoshen?’ Egrayne asked from the doorway.

  ‘No...’ She hid a surge of fear, for her mind had been unguarded. None of the sisters knew the identity of Umaleni’s father, not even Egrayne.

  ‘I thought so. You’ll wear yourself into the ground.’ Her voice-of-reason came in to peer at the papers on Imoshen’s desk. ‘Have you had bad news? What troubles you?’

  ‘I‘ve been thinking about the logistics of taking our people into exile,’ Imoshen said. Hopefully, Egrayne would put her sorrow down to leaving the city. ‘If only Iriane hadn’t been sent to find a northern passage.’

  ‘Poor Iriane...’ Egrayne whispered. ‘She’s in for a nasty surprise when she returns.’

  Imoshen nodded. ‘But there’s nothing we can do. At least she didn’t take the sisterhood’s flagship. With a little crowding, we should be able to fit the whole–’

  ‘I don’t see how we can transport everything. See that painting? It’s a Tamattori original.’ Egrayne pointed to an oil painting of Imoshen the Covenant-maker’s meeting with the all-fathers. ‘It’s a true record, painted by Tamattori, who memory-shared with one of the surviving gift-warriors whose mother had been a young initiate at the time. I hate the thought of leaving it for the Mieren.’

  ‘We won’t. It will be safe in the hold of our sisterhood’s flagship.’

  ‘And what if the ship sinks?’

  ‘If our ship sinks, the fate of a painting will be the least of our worries,’ Imoshen muttered, then saw Egrayne’s expression. Her mind raced. ‘We’ll make copies of all the great artworks so every ship has one, and we’ll spread the originals across the fleet. That way we lower the risk. And it will give our Malaunje craftsmen and women something to do while they wait for exile.’

  ‘And what of the sculptures? Some of them are twice as tall as a full grown man.’

  Imoshen’s head swam.

  Egrayne squeezed her arm and headed for the door. ‘Promise me you’ll eat something?’

  Imoshen nodded and went back to work.

  A few moments later, Frayvia came in with Umaleni.

  ‘Uma’s walking,’ her devotee announced.

  ‘Of course she is. You’re holding both her hands.’

  ‘She walked without holding on a moment ago.’ Frayvia slipped her hands free from Umaleni’s, then backed off. ‘Come on. Walk to me, Uma.’

  ‘She’s not one yet,’ Imoshen said with a smile.

  ‘She’s not far off.’ Frayvia held out her hands. ‘Come to me.’

  Umaleni stood there and did nothing.

  Imoshen laughed, but came out from behind her desk anyway and opened her arms. Umaleni took three steps, then fell forward. Imoshen caught her, and swept her up for a cuddle.

  If only Ardonyx could see his daughter. ‘I wish...’

  ‘Has there been no word of him?’

  ‘Nothing. If his ships return after winter cusp, Charald will have him and all his crew executed.’ Imoshen hugged her daughter, drawing comfort from her. Umaleni rubbed her eyes.

  ‘She’s ready for her nap,’ Frayvia said.

  They carried her into the nursery, sang her to sleep and then closed the connecting door.

  ‘What of your link?’ Frayvia whispered. ‘Can’t you reach–’

  ‘Too tenuous. The distance is too great and we haven’t reinforced it since the night Uma was conceived.’

  ‘Could you contact him through the higher plane?’

  ‘Only if he was also gift-working on the plane at the same time.’ Imoshen tried to rub ink off her finger.

  Frayvia covered her hands. ‘My stomach churns with your frustration and fear. At this rate you’ll wake Uma.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just... Ardonyx knows the sea, and we are going into exile. I trust his judgement. I need him. I miss him.’

  Frayvia gestured to the bed. ‘Would it help?’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  Frayvia laughed softly. ‘They’re your memories.’ She went to the bed, patting the spot beside her. ‘And they are such happy moments.’

  ‘I know.’ Imoshen smiled through her worry. ‘I chose the best ones for you to keep safe for Uma, in case I–’

  ‘If you died, I would die.’

  ‘According to gift lore. But I’m not convinced.’ She went over to the bed and sat with one leg tucked under her so that she faced Frayvia. ‘If I am killed, I need you to hold onto life for Uma’s sake. No one loves her like we do. They all see her as a sacrare, a powerful tool who’ll serve the sisterhood. Only we see her for herself. Oh, Fray, don’t cry.’ Imoshen cupped her devotee’s cheek astears stung her own eyes. ‘These things have to be said, my love. If Ardonyx and I are killed, then I want you to watch over Uma. When she is big enough, tell her about the memories. They are my legacy to her. It may be the only way she knows her mother and father.’

  Frayvia nodded through her tears.

  Imoshen pulled her close, cradling her as she stroked her devotee’s hair.

  After a moment, Frayvia sat up, wiped her cheeks and summoned a smile. ‘Which memory do you want to share? How you met?’

  Imoshen laughed softly. ‘At Merchant Mercai’s? I was so angry when Ardonyx turned up for my language lessons, but he wasn’t there to spy on me. He didn’t even know who I was.’

  ‘For him, you were someone sent to learn the language of the wise Sagoras.’

  Imoshen nodded. ‘He hadn’t even been in the city when I executed Rohaayel.’ After twelve years, it was still too painful to recall that day.

  Attuned to her sorrow, Frayvia touched her arm in sympathy.

  Imoshen covered her devotee’s hand. ‘I sent a message to the Sagoras, but I haven’t heard back. If they don’t give us sanctuary, I don’t know where we can go.’

  ‘Mercai won’t let you down. You became more than teacher and pupil, you became friends.’

  ‘As much as one of the Mieren will accept one of the T’En,’ Imoshen conceded.

  ‘You know him. You spent years studying his language–’

  ‘It was worth it, to meet Ardonyx.’ Imoshen squeezed Frayvia’s hand. ‘He was so angry when he discovered who I was that he sailed off, but he could not stay away. I want to remember when his ship returned. We both wore the Sagora veils as a courtesy to our teacher. When he saw me, he took his off, revealing his face. He knew I could read how he felt. We...’

  She reached for Frayvia, stretching out on the bed with her devotee in her arms. The warmth of Frayvia’s soft cheek pressed against the hollow of her throat. Their breathing synchronised and she opened her gift, drawing on the memory Frayvia had held in safe-keeping. It had been laid down the very day it happened, so it was as fresh and sharp as the event itself and each time they revisited it, it became stronger, more firmly implanted.

  But as wonderful as reliving the memory was, it was also a torment; she knew it would only make her miss Ardonyx more.

  TOBAZIM SLOWED AS he heard the name of his choice-mother’s estate.

  ‘...Silverlode?’

  He increased the length of his stride to walk behind the two high-ranking adepts, as they all headed to the dining chamber.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ceyne asked. ‘When did you hear?’

  ‘Just this afternoon, I sent one of my Malaunje to the free quarter to the jewellers. I swear everyone has the same idea. They all want precious stones. Easily transportable wealth. The prices–�
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  ‘You were saying, about Silverlode Estate?’

  ‘Yes. My servant overheard a sisterhood Malaunje talking about the massacre.’

  ‘Everyone at Silverlode Estate was killed?’ Ceyne asked.

  ‘After the warriors died defending the gate, the Mieren herded everyone, even the children, onto the wall. They were thrown over the cliff.’

  Tobazim knew that wall. In winter when the winds blew in from the north, you could not stand upright. In the summer you could see the whole of Chalcedonia laid out below.

  A rushing filled his head and his vision went grey. Staggering, he stepped into a doorway to hide his weakness.

  Memories swamped him – afternoons spent under the orchard trees reading, Learon chasing him up the tower stairs as they pretended to be great warriors, his choice-mother and her sisters sitting by the fire on cold winter nights, singing to the children.

  Gone. All gone.

  He wanted to find Learon and tell him.

  But his choice-brother was also gone. Nothing was left, not Learon, not Vanillin-oak Winery, not Silverlode or his choice-mother...

  The door opened behind him and he almost fell.

  Haromyr steadied him. ‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’

  ‘Silverlode Estate was overrun by Mieren. Everyone’s dead.’ He had to tell someone. ‘My choice-mother’s dead!’

  Haromyr looked shocked.

  Tobazim regretted his slip. He was not supposed to mourn his choice-mother’s death. She should have died to him the day he left the sisterhood. ‘Forget it, I–’

  Haromyr pulled him into the chamber.

  He was vaguely aware of artworks, some carefully wrapped, some damaged, and recalled Haromyr saying he’d wanted to train as a sculptor, but had been advised to take the warrior’s way. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Trying to think of a way to save our precious works of art from being desecrated by the Mieren.’ Haromyr shrugged in apology. ‘I’m sorry about–’

  Tobazim went to the window, which looked out over a courtyard. On the verandah opposite Malaunje women sat at their looms, singing while they worked. They reminded him of childhood winter nights around the fireplace. ‘I must tell Athlyn. We shared the same choice-mother. He’ll take it hard.’ He turned and noticed Haromyr’s troubled expression. ‘What’s wrong?’