Judging the spiced wine ready, Aravelle poured it into the cups. There were only two proper glass cups with brass handles. She presented the first to her mother, with the handle turned to her mother’s left. Then she went to present the second to her father.
Sasoria shook her head. ‘Your father and I will share. You two use the other, take turns.’
Their mother raised the cup, her eyes on their father. ‘I give thanks for the safe delivery of my bond-partner, Asher, my love. And I give thanks for our fine strong children, who have worked so hard.’
Sasoria took a sip from her cup, then offered it to Asher. He deliberately turned the cup so that his lips touched where hers had been, then took a sip. All the while, his eyes never left hers. Their love illuminated their faces, illuminated their lives.
Vittor gave a sigh of happiness.
Aravelle smiled. But she wished she could rid herself of this burning envy. She couldn’t help thinking it was because Ronnyn was T’En, that their parents honoured him early. To make up for these unkind thoughts, she offered the second cup to him. ‘I give thanks. You killed the stink-badgers to protect us. I should have been quicker to save your arm. I failed you.’
‘No...’ He gestured for her to go first. ‘You risked your life so I could drag Father away from the sea-boars. You sewed up his wound, then you brought the boat home safely. You should go first.’
Warmth filled her, dissolving the kernel of jealousy.
Feeling lighter of heart, she bathed her face and hands, then lifted the spiced wine to her lips. The wine was sweet and tart, and warm. And it slipped down her throat like the fire of life.
A gasp escaped her.
Ronnyn’s lips lifted in an uneven grin and his forehead crinkled in that familiar endearing way. She offered him the cup. He took it, raised it to salute her and sipped.
His eyes watered a little, but he swallowed and took another sip. This one went down smoothly.
Then he looked to her over the cup, and his hard gaze held her.
This was the new side of him, the side which kept challenging her. Was he daring her to reveal the gift games he’d been playing? He had to realise she wouldn’t, but did he guess why? Shame made her cheeks flush, and she looked down.
‘Arm wrestle, Ronnyn?’ Asher suggested.
Their mother rose from her seat, graceful despite the swell of her belly. That was another thing: if the baby was going to be Malaunje, it would come by the next new small moon. The longer her mother was pregnant, the more chance the baby would be T’En.
Ronnyn swung one leg over the bench and offered his bad arm to Father. While recovering from the stink-badgers’ attack, he’d been arm wrestling with Asher every night. And every night Vittor watched and cheered, then insisted on arm wrestling Father, who let the six-year-old test his strength, sometimes letting him win. Even little Tamaron insisted on having his turn, taking his place with a great seriousness that told Aravelle, in his mind, he was already a fearsome warrior.
Tamaron’s face had healed, but he would always have a scar on his bottom lip and chin. Every time she saw his scarred face, she felt guilty. She should have protected him. And she knew Ronnyn felt the same way.
Vittor crowed with delight; Ronnyn was holding his own. In fact, as she watched, he forced Asher’s hand past the vertical. She glanced to their father’s face. He was not making it easy; he strained to keep his arm upright.
She bit her bottom lip, willing Ronnyn to win.
There could be no doubting the effort both of them were putting in. They concentrated, knuckles white, forearms corded. Ronnyn’s mouth formed a tight line of pain. Then his muscles spasmed and their father slammed Ronnyn’s arm down on the table before he could help it.
Aravelle winced in sympathy.
While Asher made sure he hadn’t hurt Ronnyn and Vittor assured Ronnyn he had nearly beaten their father, Sasoria beckoned Aravelle. ‘Time to bring out the zither, Vella.’
As soon as Ronnyn’s injury started to heal, their mother had begun coaching him to relearn to play the instrument. Arm wrestling for brute strength and the zither for fine coordination – their parents were doing everything they could for Ronnyn.
Everything, short of taking him back to their people. The thought surprised Aravelle. It made her feel disloyal.
TOBAZIM GIFT-ENHANCED HIS sight as he stood on the wall-walk. He’d chosen a cloudy night to cloak their actions from the Mieren on shore. Above him, the winch took the strain of the statue’s great weight.
The thought of their ancestral enemy inheriting the Celestial City was bad enough, but the thought of what the Mieren would do to their works of art had eaten away at him until he found a solution. He’d suggested they make small copies of their largest statues to take with them. Meanwhile, they could sink the originals in the lake to preserve them. Down in the depths, the marble statues would be safe from wilful destruction. The sawbones had put the idea to Kyredeon, who had approved Tobazim’s plan.
Tonight was the first test of the winches he’d designed. His gift told him everything would work, and he’d also calculated the stresses and double-checked his figures, but this was the true test. Would the winch support the statue, or would the marble plummet onto the barge, injuring the Malaunje workers below? He gripped the rail, worried he’d overlooked something, or his gift had led him astray.
Beside him, Ardonyx and Haromyr watched the procedure.
‘Steady...’ Ardonyx whispered, as Malaunje guided the statue into place on the barge. It landed with a solid thump and the barge settled, but remained afloat.
Tobazim breathed a sigh of relief.
Originally he’d seen his suggestions as both a solution to the problem and a way to gain stature for his non-martial gift, but now all he felt was relief.
He noticed Ardonyx’s grin and realised the new brother understood. This both annoyed and fascinated him. Since midsummer, he had accompanied Ardonyx to the exile-councils. Only two brotherhoods and one sisterhood owned merchant shipping fleets, and the others had had to negotiate with them for ships. It had been fascinating, watching the interplay of power as each T’En dealt with the logistics of exile, while trying to maintain their own stature and that of their brotherhood or sisterhood. The only two who were not worried about their stature were the causare and Ardonyx and, paradoxically, this enhanced their authority as they spoke with quiet confidence. Ardonyx knew so much about the larger world beyond the T’Enatuath, even the causare deferred to him.
With a non-martial gift, Tobazim had never expected to mix in the company of such high-ranking T’En.
‘Do you want to try for the second statue?’ Haromyr asked, recalling him.
‘Yes.’ If the barge could take these two medium-sized statues, it should take the weight of Sculptor Iraayel’s Fallen All-father.
Tobazim gave the signal, and the Malaunje retrieved the ropes and pads and began securing the second statue.
Then he studied the sky. A storm was coming. He hoped to be finished before it struck. ‘As soon as the second one is loaded, we’ll set off.’
They had a quite a distance to row, as the lake stretched back towards the mountains. They needed a deep spot. Malaunje fishermen had explained there was a whole hidden landscape of valleys and hills under the water. Tobazim found the idea fascinating.
‘Soon the other all-fathers will be following your lead, secreting their largest statues to protect them from the Mieren,’ Haromyr said. ‘Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the causare sent for you to do the same for the sisterhoods!’
Tobazim hid a smile. That would be sweet indeed. To think he had been worried about gaining stature because of the nature of his gift.
‘Can I come out on the lake with you?’ Haromyr asked.
Tobazim hesitated. ‘Lowering the statue in the dark is going to be dangerous. We could tip the barge and swamp it. I’ll go alone, with the Malaunje for this first attempt.’
But, when the time came, Ardonyx simply
stepped onto the barge and Tobazim said nothing. They set off across the dark water.
With the stars and moons cloaked by cloud and only the occasional flash of lightning, the night was very dark. Tobazim relied on the Malaunje fisherman to judge their position; even with his gift-enhanced sight, he could only make out the faintest line where the surrounding hills met the sky. A flash of lightning illuminated the clouds and Tobazim recognised the shore line.
Aftera while, one of the Malaunje fisherman reported, ‘We’re here.’
‘Do a depth sounding,’ Tobazim said.
The Malaunje hurried off. Tobazim heard the slither of weighted rope falling away, and the rhythmic movements as the fisherman pulled it up, then called the result.
‘Right,’ Tobazim said, keeping his voice low. Sound carried over water. He did not want curious Mieren sailing out here to investigate after his people were exiled. In theory this part of the lake was too deep for anyone to dive, but Ardonyx had told him of pearl divers he’d seen on his southern voyage, who could hold their breath to amazing depths.
‘Prepare to lower the first statue.’ Tobazim had calculated the stresses and weights for this, too. Even so, he tensed as the operation began.
Ardonyx strolled over to join him, his expression hidden in the darkness. He said nothing as the winches creaked and their braced arms swung out over the lake.
‘In position,’ the Malaunje called.
‘Go ahead and lower it. But gently.’ Tobazim did not want a splash to attract attention.
‘It’s submerged.’
‘Release the ropes.’
He waited for the slither of the ropes that told him the statue was sinking, and felt the barge lift under his feet, felt his gift make the adjustment that told him where the centre of weight lay and where the stresses were.
‘One safely away,’ Ardonyx said softly.
‘Move the barge over a little, then prepare the next statue,’ Tobazim said. While this was done, he waited for Ardonyx to broach what was on his mind. Since midsummer, he’d come to regret the necessity of keeping the sea captain at a distance.
‘Do you think our people will ever come back here?’ Ardonyx asked. ‘Or do you think other people will discover our treasures perhaps a thousand years from now, when the exile of the T’Enatuath is a myth? Do you think they’ll wonder why we hid our greatest statues?’
Tobazim realised he’d been so intent on saving their heritage from Mieren he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Now his mind raced, grappling with the idea.
‘They’d need a sealed vessel, one with fresh air and lights, and a manoeuvrable arm that could put slings under the statues.’ Even as he said it, he began to conceive plans, discarding them one after the other as flaws appeared. ‘Metal would make the best ship, but the weight, the propulsion...’ His gift stirred and his skin prickled as excitement pumped through him. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his desk and start on the plans.
Ardonyx drew closer, attracted by the surge in his power. And, as Tobazim felt his gift respond to his new brother’s, he realised he admired Ardonyx’s vision.
‘We’re ready,’ the Malaunje called.
Tobazim cleared his throat. ‘Go ahead.’
‘You have won stature for yourself and for our brotherhood,’ Ardonyx said.
Tobazim grimaced. ‘Stature is only worthwhile if it allows me to do things like save our heritage or build my visions.’ And even as he said it, he knew it was true. When he’d come to the city, it had been specifically to win stature, but his values had changed. Disconcerted, he reached out to steady himself, felt Ardonyx accommodate him, and his gift reached for Ardonyx’s.
Tobazim reeled it in, but did not pull away. Ardonyx could see further than him. Admiration stirred in him, along with longing. Nothing in Kyredeon’s brotherhood was pure and good. Nothing, except Ardonyx.
‘We’ll be leaving for the port soon,’ Ardonyx said softly.
Leave the city and their land... Tobazim found it hard to believe.
After the second statue was sent to join its brother they rowed back across the lake towards the Celestial City, which floated like a glowing vision, balanced on its own reflection.
‘Our home is a beacon in a dark world,’ Tobazim said. ‘And soon our home will be a fleet of sailing ships, precious little protection from violent Mieren and the untamed elements.’
‘That’s where we differ,’ Ardonyx said. ‘I love the sea. Certainly, she’s a harsh mistress and she punishes fools. She can be capricious. But she can also set us free.’
And Tobazim knew, if he ever took a shield-brother, it would be Ardonyx.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SORNE FOUND KING Charald in his chamber of state. Official documents had been spread across the polished mahogany table, but the king was asleep in his chair, snoring. It was so unexpected, Sorne nearly laughed. Then he noticed how aged the king was looking. Ever since the attack on the Wyrd city, and his reaction to the pains-ease, Charald seemed to have shrunk in mind and body.
Rather than disturb him, Sorne went to back out of the room, but the king jerked awake, sat up and assumed an alert expression like a player assuming a role.
‘Ah, it’s only you.’ He relaxed. ‘Didn’t I tell you the Warrior would be pleased when I rid the land of Wyrds? It looks like we’ll have our best harvest in ten years.’
Afraid of betraying his contempt, Sorne looked down. Just then the law scholars arrived with another draft for King Charald’s approval.
‘How goes the preparation for exile?’ the king asked Sorne, as the scholars took their seats and opened their leather folders, removing sheafs of paper.
‘The Wyrds complain that many of their ships are missing.’
‘I can’t be responsible for sea-vermin.’
‘I happen to know that in other kingdoms, some ships have been confiscated when they arrived in port,’ Sorne said.
Charald shrugged. ‘I can’t be held responsible for what happens in other ports.’
‘What does happen in other ports?’ Eskarnor asked, entering the chamber.
Sorne saw Charald stiffen slightly, but the king waved a casual hand. ‘Wyrd ships have been impounded.’
Eskarnor shrugged as if to say, what do you expect? ‘Have you heard back yet?’
‘Heard back about what?’ Charald asked.
‘The sickness in the camp besieging the Wyrd city. You said you’d send the court saw-bones.’
‘I said nothing of the sort. In fact, I don’t remember discussing this.’
Eskarnor looked troubled. ‘It was twelve days ago, just after autumn cusp, in this very room.’
‘Rubbish,’ Charald said fimly, but his head trembled slightly. He sat forward and cupped his chin in his hand. The action appeared casual, but Sorne had been observing the king and knew it was a deliberate ploy to hide his infirmity.
‘I... I must have been mistaken.’ Eskarnor backed out.
The law scholars exchanged glances, and Sorne realised they believed Eskarnor and not King Charald. Curious, he stayed while they read the new laws for the king’s approval. It soon became clear Charald was having difficulty concentrating. The scholars would explain something and get the king’s approval then, a little later, he wouldn’t remember what he’d agreed to. Charald grew frustrated and dismissed the scholars before they were done. No wonder the new laws were taking so long to draft.
Troubled, Sorne went to see the king’s manservant.
He found Bidern dozing before the fire in the king’s chamber. At the sound of the latch opening, the fellow sprang to his feet.
‘Don’t bother.’ Sorne closed the door and sank into the chair opposite. They’d known each other since Sorne had accompanied the king on his Secluded Sea campaign, at the age of seventeen. ‘Do you remember our discussion back when we were besieging the city? Have there been any more incidents? Will the king agree to see the court sawbones?’
‘He hasn’t trusted any sawbones,
since Baron Etri. I watch over him.’
‘Has he had any more conversations with the Warrior?’
‘No. But his tremors are worse and some nights he can’t sleep.’
‘And his memory?’
‘He can remember things in the past in great detail, but he forgets what he had for breakfast.’
Sorne nodded and came to his feet. ‘Send for me if his urine changes colour or if he does anything that worries you.’
Then he went looking for Nitzane. Eventually, he found the baron strolling around the royal plaza with the queen. A few autumn leaves skittered across the flagstones. The facades of the seven great churches of Chalcedonia glowed in the afternoon sun. It had rained earlier, and everything, including the sky, had been washed clean.
When Nitzane first took an interest in the queen, Sorne had been relieved; it had saved him the trouble of reassuring Jaraile that Prince Cedon would be returned safely. But now, as Sorne approached them, Nitzane bent his head to listen to something Jaraile said and Sorne knew by the tilt of his head that the baron was in love with her.
Not again.
He’d fallen for King Matxin’s daughter, when she’d taken sanctuary in the Father’s church and Charald was hounding her to marry him. What was it about women in trouble that appealed to Nitzane?
Marrying Matxin’s daughter had irritated the king and provided an alternative heir, but Sorne had managed to smooth it over.
Falling in love with Queen Jaraile...
‘I’m glad I found you.’ Sorne stepped between them. ‘Have you noticed the king becoming absent-minded of late?’
Nitzane shook his head, but Jaraile looked up quickly and Sorne had his answer.
‘What have you noticed?’ Sorne asked her.
‘He hardly speaks to me, so I couldn’t say if he’s becoming absent-minded, but he hasn’t been his usual self. The simplest thing used to drive him into a rage. He hasn’t had one since he came back. At first, I thought it was because he was happy about Prince Cedon being healed and the Wyrds being exiled. Then I realised he still got peeved, but didn’t seem to have the energy to get upset. Lately, I realised he lacks the concentration to work himself into a rage.’
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