Exile (37 page)

‘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

S
ORNE FOUND
K
ING
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.’

‘Now that you mention it, he doesn’t want to play cards anymore either,’ Nitzane said.

‘His health has declined quickly in the half-year since he came back,’ Jaraile said. ‘The trembling is getting worse.’

‘That trembling...’ Nitzane muttered. ‘Has he spoken with the sawbones?’

‘That would mean admitting he’s growing old,’ Jaraile said, with a twinkle in her eye.

They smiled at each other; it was very sweet and quite inappropriate.

Eskarnor would be happy to use this relationship to drive a wedge between the king and Nitzane. As long as Charald had Nitzane and the Chalcedonian barons’ support, the southern baron could not move against the king. Sorne suspected everyone was aware of the king’s tremor, and his rages were legendary, but other than himself and the manservant no one knew of the king’s hallucinatory conversations with the Warrior, and his absent-mindnessness had been noticed only by those closest to him and the law scholars. What would the Chalcedonian barons say if they knew Charald’s mind was failing? It could all unravel so easily...

‘...you, Sorne?’ Nitzane asked.

He found he’d reached the palace steps with no idea what the baron had just asked. ‘Have either of you said anything to the king about his health?’

Both of them shook their heads.

‘Someone is going to have to speak to him while he can still make decisions.’

They looked at each other, clearly reluctant to broach the subject.

‘The king is an old man,’ Sorne said. ‘His mind is going and he’s not going to live to see Prince Cedon grow up.’

‘He’s only just decided to trust me again,’ Nitzane said. ‘I don’t want him thinking I plan to steal his throne.’

‘He despises me,’ Jaraile said, ‘he always has. Could you speak to him?’

R
ONNYN FINISHED FILLING
his firewood basket and sat with his back against a tree trunk, waiting for Aravelle to join him. She’d massaged his arm every day since the bandages came off. His range of movement had improved, but he’d still had to use his right hand for most things. Sometimes he caught himself reaching for objects with both hands, as though his body didn’t know which to use.

Aravelle put her basket next to his. Either she’d grown or the smock had shrunk. It barely brushed the top of her thighs now. Their mother would have to make her a new one.

As she turned towards him, he felt his gift rise. It was easy now. At least, calling the gift was easy and forcing it down had become second nature. He still had no luck guiding it to do anything useful.

Aravelle joined him in the shade, folded her legs under her and rubbed rosemary ointment on her hands. He loved the smell.

As she reached for his arm, he reached for his gift. From his mother’s stories, he knew touch enhanced the gift. Surely this time he would sense her thoughts.

But as Aravelle continued to massage his arm, he met resistance; no matter how he tried to slip around it, he could not get even a glimpse of what she was thinking.

Was his gift so weak? It didn’t feel weak. At times it felt so strong it threatened to overwhelm him. Maybe it was him. Maybe he had no control...

A lightning arc of pain shot down his arm, making his fingers jerk. He pulled his arm away. Driven by pain and frustration, he jumped up and paced.

‘I’m sorry.’ Aravelle scrambled to her feet. ‘I didn’t mean to–’