Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  The adept glanced to the door. ‘I heard that Kyredeon sanctioned that sacrare girl’s murder–’

  Tobazim’s choice-mother had hinted as much. ‘But he executed the warriors responsible, strangled them with his own hands.’

  Haromyr nodded. ‘He had to. They botched it.’

  ‘Why would he have her killed?’

  ‘She was a sacrare gift-wright, able to reach into a T’En and cure or cripple their gift.’

  Tobazim’s knees went weak and he sank onto the window seat behind him. ‘Sanctioning the murder of a T’En child. That’s–’

  ‘You think Kyredeon would not do it?’

  Tobazim thought Kyredeon would, and that terrified him. ‘We’re sworn to serve him until we die.’

  ‘Or until he dies.’

  Tobazim looked up, startled.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about offering challenge.’

  ‘He’s powerful, and so are his two seconds. And he has his inner circle’s support. It would be suicide.’

  ‘I know. But the alternative...’ Haromyr shuddered.

  Tobazim swallowed. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else?’

  ‘I only told you because you hate him as much as I do.’

  ‘Speak of this to no one. No one. You understand?’

  ‘Can you go on living like this?’ Haromyr whispered. ‘We’re sworn to obey our all-father. What if he asks you to murder Imoshen’s sacrare child?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SORNE OFFERED QUEEN Jaraile a strawberry, grown in the palace’s very own hot-house.

  She thanked him, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes, which focused off into the distance. ‘You’re so kind.’

  His kindness was motivated by guilt. When he’d suggested Imoshen kidnap the prince, he hadn’t considered Jaraile’s feelings. Desperate with worry, the queen had grown pale and thin since her son was taken.

  ‘You must eat.’

  She picked up a strawberry, took one nibble then seemed to forget it. They sat at the king’s table in his private dining room. Charald was down one end playing cards with Baron Nitzane. The baron was losing and the king was having a great time. It was clear Charald preferred Nitzane’s company to the queen’s. And now that the Wyrds were to be exiled, his son would be returned hale and hearty, and the Chalcedonian barons had pledged to serve the king’s heir under Nitzane’s leadership, Charald had no fears. He had no more use for Sorne.

  In the tent, Sorne was the king’s advisor and confidant. In the palace, he was an embarrassment.

  ‘He doesn’t like thunderstorms,’ Jaraile said, her mind on the prince. ‘They frighten him. I hope the she-Wyrds are kind to him.’

  ‘They are very kind. I’ve been corresponding with Causare Imoshen. Prince Cedon is with their healer. She’ll take very good care of him.’

  She nodded, but she didn’t believe him.

  He’d told her the same thing every day since arriving in the port. Now he added, ‘It’s in the Wyrds’ best interests to make sure he is returned safely.’

  ‘But things can go wrong. To the Wyrd leaders, my little boy is only a means to an end.’

  ‘True. But in this case, the leaders of the T’Enatuath are women, not men.’

  ‘How strange.’ She turned to him, her eyes alert for once. ‘Does that mean they aren’t afraid of their husbands?’ Then she heard what she’d said and sprang to her feet. ‘It’s late. I’m tired. Good night, Sorne.’

  Jaraile went around the table and dutifully kissed the king’s cheek. He waved her aside without looking up from his cards. She drew back and turned to bid the baron good night.

  ‘You win, sire.’ Nitzane threw in his hand. ‘I swear I have no luck tonight. Queen Jaraile must shuffle the cards to bring me luck.’ He gathered the cards.

  ‘Bring you luck?’ Charald poured himself more wine. ‘She never brought me any luck. All she ever gave me was a crippled son and a stillborn. I’ve had to make all my own luck by serving the Warrior.’

  Jaraile flinched. Nitzane frowned, then presented the cards to the queen.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know how to shuffle. I’ve never played cards.’

  ‘Never played? Why ever not?’ Nitzane asked.

  ‘My father didn’t think it was a suitable game for a young girl.’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d understand the rules, more like,’ Charald said, nudging the baron.

  ‘I’ll teach you,’ Nitzane offered. ‘Let me show you how to shuffle.’

  ‘Not now,’ Charald protested. ‘Hurry up and deal. I’m on a winning streak.’

  So Jaraile retired for the night and the men resumed their game.

  Restless, Sorne stood and stretched. The balcony doors faced west, looking out over the bay. Something caught his eye, a glow where there shouldn’t be one.

  He went onto the balcony from where he could just make out a ship’s sails burning. The vessel was nowhere near the wharf that the harbour-master had put aside for the Wyrds.

  Satisfied, Sorne went inside to find that Charald and Nitzane had started another game. Loud laughter and the clump of boots echoed down the hall, interrupting them.

  ‘Eskarnor and his men are back early,’ Nitzane said. Both barons had come to court with a dozen-strong honour guard. Eskarnor preferred a night on the town to a night playing cards with the old king. Captain Ballendin and his men were more comfortable keeping the king’s palace guard company of an evening.

  Nitzane discarded two cards, took another two, and grimaced.

  Charald chuckled. ‘Your face betrays you. Now, your grandfather, he could keep a straight face. I never knew what he had in his hand.’

  The belligerent laughter came nearer. A high voice yelled something. The men laughed louder. Sorne tensed at the tone. Charald and Nitzane put their cards down.

  ‘Dacians,’ Charald muttered.

  ‘All southerners are barbarians,’ Nitzane agreed.

  The door swung open and Eskarnor strode in. He’d been drinking, but he was by no means drunk. Sorne stepped back into the shadows.

  Eskarnor looked around the room and spotted him. ‘Just the man, or should I say Wyrd, I want to see. Look what we found being harangued by a mob.’ He gestured to his men, who had remained out in the hall. ‘Bring him in.’

  Two men came through the door, dragging a Malaunje boy of about ten between them. Sorne made sure his face revealed nothing. The boy writhed and kicked, and cursed in five languages. He was bloody, muddy and ferocious.

  Why had Eskarnor saved him? Certainly not out of the goodness of his heart.

  The lad glared, saw Sorne and went very still.

  ‘Here.’ The baron shoved him towards Sorne. ‘Another one for exile.’

  The boy glanced to Eskarnor, then back to Sorne, clearly confused.

  ‘Go on.’ Charald gestured to Sorne. ‘Get him out of here.’

  ‘Yes, get him out of here,’ Eskarnor echoed. ‘The king’s dining room is no place for a Wyrd.’

  The implication stung Sorne. He stepped around the table and directed the boy to go ahead of him, but that meant approaching Eskarnor. The lad hesitated.

  ‘Wait...’ Eskarnor looked Sorne and the boy up and down. ‘Seeing you with the lad’s made me think of something. Sire, you’ve ordered us to execute all Wyrds who remain here after winter cusp. Does that include this one?’ He gestured to Sorne.

  From the king’s expression, it was clear he had not thought that far ahead. Charald came to his feet, his mouth working as he chewed this over.

  ‘The Warrior returned Sorne from the dead,’ Charald said. ‘I was there. I saw it.’

  ‘The god returned him to rid the country of Wyrds,’ Eskarnor said. ‘Once he’s done that, he’s nothing but another Wyrd.’

  ‘That’s right.’ The king was relieved. ‘The god returned him to get rid of the Wyrds. That means he’s only the Warrior’s vessel as long as the god needs him.’

  ‘So he’s to be exiled wit
h the rest?’ Eskarnor spoke to the king, but his eyes challenged Sorne.

  ‘Yes. He’s served his purpose.’

  Sorne fought a surge of anger. He made himself turn and bow to the king. ‘You appointed me your agent to make sure the Wyrd exile goes smoothly. Until then, I will serve you, sire.’

  He turned to leave.

  The baron smiled and stepped aside so slowly it was an insult. His men parted to let Sorne and the boy through. Sorne felt the boy tremble as he guided the lad with a hand between his shoulder blades.

  Laughter echoed up the corridor after them. Sorne seethed; tonight, Eskarnor had manipulated them all.

  Back during Charald’s conquest of the Secluded Sea, Eskarnor had seemed to be simply a successful war baron. But, Sorne realised now, Eskarnor couldn’t have been more than nineteen when Charald rode across Dace plundering the kingdom. The youth had turned and sworn to serve the invader. He’d taken a handful of survivors from his father’s estate and forged it into a company of loyal followers. Then, like Sorne, he’d had years to observe how King Charald played men off against each other. Now Eskarnor was in his late twenties and was not just a simple war baron. He was both capable and cunning.

  Sorne shut the door to his chamber and turned to the boy.

  ‘You’re not one of them,’ the lad said. ‘You’re a prisoner, like me.’

  Sorne grimaced. ‘What were you doing running around port? Don’t you know you have to stay on the Wyrd wharf?’

  ‘I don’t know any Wyrd wharf. I’m Captain Ardonyx’s cabin boy, and the Mieren stole our ships and cargo. They started a fire. While we tried to put the flames out, they snuck aboard, hacked up the crew and went for the captain.’ The boy’s chin trembled. ‘I don’t know if he got away.’

  Sorne rubbed his mouth. ‘Why would they attack your ship for the cargo, when they’ve let others berth at the Wyrd wharf?’

  ‘We’ve just returned from a voyage to the Lagoons of Perpetual Summer. In the hold, the spices were knee deep. Each sack was worth much more than its weight in gold.’

  Sorne let his breath out, went to his desk and took out paper, pen and ink. ‘Give me the names of the ships. I’ll take this complaint to the harbour-master tomorrow.’

  ‘The harbour-master told us where to berth.’

  So far, the harbour-master had smiled and nodded and done everything Sorne requested, while ensuring he turned a profit. Sorne had come across the type before: petty officials who used their position to feather their nests. The harbour-master would back down once he realised Sorne knew what he was up to. ‘Tell me anyway. Then go have a bath. I’ll take you to the Wyrd wharf tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m awful hungry.’

  Sorne smiled. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fed.’

  ARAVELLE HUDDLED IN front of the hearth, so weary she could hardly think straight. Sailing back with Ronnyn had been nerve-wracking. There was the dread that she would mistake the channels through the many islands, and the constant gnawing fear for their father. But they had made it home this morning with him alive, if feverish. Seeing her mother’s reaction to the wound had confirmed Aravelle’s worst fears.

  They’d carried their father in, placed him on the bed, and then cleaned the wound and bathed his body to reduce the fever. Even the little ones had known it was serious. They’d been subdued all day and gone to bed early, without complaint.

  Now, Aravelle and Ronnyn sat at the table by the glow of the fire and a single fish-oil lamp. Their mother took the pot of honey-tea off the hearth and poured three cups.

  ‘Will he be all right, Ma?’ Ronnyn whispered, ignoring the tea.

  Sasoria sat opposite and took their hands in hers, her mulberry eyes fierce. ‘He’s strong. Vella did well, stitching him up. I could not have done better. What we have to watch for now is inflammation of the wound. But I have the herbs to purify the blood.’ Sasoria squeezed Aravelle’s fingers so hard it hurt. ‘I won’t leave his side.’

  And she understood that if her mother could make this happen by sheer will alone, she would.

  Ronnyn nodded, but there was uncertainty in his wine-dark eyes, and worry gnawed at Aravelle’s stomach. Before this, their father had seemed invulnerable. Now...

  ‘Father won’t be the same, will he, Ma?’ Aravelle pressed. ‘He won’t be able to do the things he could.’

  ‘It will take a while for him to recover,’ their mother conceded.

  ‘But he will recover?’ Aravelle insisted. ‘We won’t have to go back to the city?’

  Sasoria looked a little startled. After a moment, she rallied. ‘We’ll make no decisions tonight, or any night soon, Vella.’

  Aravelle smiled and sipped her honey-tea, but she had not missed her mother’s concession. Return to the city was a possibility and, once there, her parents would be punished and her family torn apart. She could not bear the thought of losing her brothers to the sisterhoods. Somehow, she and Ronnyn would have to do all the things their father couldn’t. She was reasonably confident about things on the island, but she feared her knowledge of the sea would let her down. She had no idea where Trade Isle was and the islands were like a maze. There were things they needed from the trader. Would Asher be well enough to guide them, if they sailed the boat? Would he be well enough to conduct the trade?

  ‘We’ve only got half the usual amount of ivory. What will we trade?’ Ronnyn asked.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Sasoria’s mulberry eyes gleamed. ‘Scholar Hueryx provided us with something to ward against a day like this.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Ronnyn asked, sitting up. ‘I thought you ran away from him.’

  ‘So we did. But he was free with his gifts before that.’ Their mother laughed at their expressions. ‘Get the cards out, Vella.’

  Aravelle knelt in front of the fire and removed the hearth stone to reveal the safe-hole where they kept their most treasured possessions.

  She took out the pouch that protected the cards. How she loved the brotherhood cards, with their intricate, elegant lines, the rich coloured inks and exquisite gold-leaf work. Each card depicted a beautiful T’En man. They ranged from the brotherhood’s three leaders, through the scholar to the warrior, and the Malaunje cards: warriors, women and children. On the back of every card was a symbol of the snake swallowing its tail.

  Ronnyn knelt beside her, ready to help.

  ‘Look under the matting,’ their mother said.

  Aravelle handed the pouch to Ronnyn and reached into the shadowed cavity. Until now she hadn’t been aware that the safe-hole hid more than the cards. When she removed the reed mat base, this revealed a wooden floor to the safe-hole.

  ‘Slide your fingers in, lift it,’ her mother advised.

  She discovered that what she’d thought was a wooden floor was actually the lid of a shallow wooden chest.

  ‘Tricky,’ Ronnyn whispered in admiration.

  Aravelle took the chest out. It was surprisingly heavy and there seemed to be no catch. She looked to her mother, who held out her hands.

  They returned to the table where Sasoria ran her fingers around the chest’s smooth edge until she found something, then released it, sliding out a tray. Inside, on a bed of red velvet, lay a flat circle of golden plates linked by tiny chains. The plates were embossed with snakes in the same eternal circle as on the cards, and their eyes gleamed with gems.

  Aravelle had never seen anything so beautiful.

  ‘A golden necklace,’ Ronnyn whispered, awed.

  ‘An electrum torc,’ their mother corrected. ‘Scholar Hueryx gave this to me when... It was one of many things he gave me, but the only one I brought with me.’

  By the light of the lamp, they saw that six of the gems had been removed. Sasoria tapped the empty spaces. ‘These we bartered to aid our escape and buy our boat.’ She tapped the remaining yellow gems. ‘With just one or two of these citrines we can get what we need even at the prices the trader charges. So, you see, we don’t need to rush back to the brotherhood.’r />
  She returned the torc to Aravelle. ‘Put it away now and go to bed.’

  Aravelle did as she was told, but it was only as she drifted off to sleep that she wondered why Scholar Hueryx had given her mother, a Malaunje scribe, jewellery fit for a sisterhood leader.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Sorne took a horse from the royal stable, lifted the boy up before him and rode down to the Wyrd wharf. He passed trading houses, sail-makers and taverns before entering an area where the buildings almost met overhead.

  When he’d asked the harbour-master to put aside a wharf for the Wyrds, he hadn’t realised the man would see this as an excuse to raze the worst slum in the wharf district. According to the harbour-master, the area he’d torn down and burned was a den of iniquity, vice and disease, and the good folk of his district had wanted to be rid of it for years. Sorne suspected the harbour-master and his partners intended to divide the land between them. It was in a prime position.

  But the inhabitants of the rats-nest had to go somewhere and they had moved into this area. Now it was overcrowded, insanitary and filled with the dangerous and the desperate. Cruel-faced Mieren watched them ride past.

  After they came out the far side of the new slum, they crossed an area of charred timbers and blackened stone about a bow-shot wide, where the worst of the slums had stood.

  Ahead of them, a rubble barricade had been erected. It ran from the cliff on the right to the edge of the wharf on their left. This barricade was defended by the harbour-master’s strongarms. Apparently, the good folk of the port district had also claimed they could not sleep in their beds unless they knew the Wyrds were contained. About a dozen strongarms lined the barricade and clustered around the gate.

  The gate swung open and Sorne rode in. Only two ships had made it into port so far, and the Wyrds remained on board. Sorne delivered the boy, who protested because both ships were sisterhood ships and he was from a brotherhood.