Exile (38 page)

‘You didn’t.’

‘I hurt you.’

‘It’s me. I hate feeling useless.’

‘Your arm is getting better every day,’ she assured him, misunderstanding the source of his frustration. ‘Do you want to try again?’

Did he? Did he want to try to breach her natural defences, and fail again? What if he succeeded and she realised what he’d done and hated him for it?

He felt like laughing at his own stupidity. All this time he had been trying to sense her thoughts, ignoring the fact that if he succeeded he’d drive her away.

‘Ronnyn?’

‘That’s enough for today.’

‘But...’ She flushed and looked down. ‘I haven’t finished.’

He wanted to try again. His gift crawled under his skin, driving him crazy. ‘Do you think it’s still warm enough to swim?’

‘Not really. But I’m sure all this swimming’s been good for your arm. Come on.’

She helped him lift his firewood basket, then slid the straps over his shoulders. He stood, feeling his thigh muscles take the weight, and tucked the axe through his belt. He watched as she arranged her own basket. She walked ahead of him. As she climbed the rise, the muscles of her calves and buttocks flexed, firm and strong. He looked away, concentrating on where to put his feet.

When they reached the cottage, he spent ages chopping wood until his gift was exhausted by hard work. Then he took a dip in the lagoon, scrubbing his skin clean with fine white sand. Some days it felt like he was scrubbing the top layer of skin off, but he scrubbed and scraped away every trace of his gift-enriched sweat.

S
ORNE COULD HEAR
the king shouting from the end of the corridor. Had they tried to discuss his deteriorating health? Charald was a proud, arrogant man; he would not welcome talk of his decline. This was why Sorne hadn’t broached the subject of his son’s future. So far, the right moment had not come along. And now...

The words ‘ungrateful’ and ‘conniving’ reached Sorne. Half a dozen servants lined up in the hallway, wringing their hands or listening with interest. Sorne fingered the Khitite soothing powder he carried with him. As soon as they’d returned to the port, he’d located an apothecary and made sure he had a supply. He was prepared to slip it into the king’s wine and talk him to sleep if need be. But he was tired of cleaning up after King Charald. There were other things he should be doing. He’d just been down to the wharf to pay for another delivery of Wyrds but, according to Imoshen’s latest message, she would be sending someone to manage the Wyrd wharf soon. Then he could hand over to them and try one last time to find Valendia. If that failed, he’d have to conclude she’d died the night of the riots and go into exile with the T’Enatuath.

This reminded him – before he left port he should give Jaraile the soothing powders so she could handle the king.

His heart sank when he entered the chamber to find Baron Eskarnor at one end looking pleased with himself, the king striding back and forth ranting, and Jaraile and Nitzane down the other end.

‘You’re here.’ The king turned to him. ‘I found these two in the solarium.’

‘We were playing cards,’ Nitzane protested. ‘Nothing more.’

Charald flung an accusatory hand at Jaraile. ‘She was laughing. She never laughs for me. All I ever get is long-suffering sighs. Besides’ – he gestured to Eskarnor – ‘the baron tells me he saw them kissing.’

Sorne laughed. ‘And you believed him?’

The king looked to Sorne with hope.

‘When did this kiss occur?’ Sorne asked the king.

‘Three days ago, the afternoon I was meeting with the law scholars.’

‘Ah, that explains it. It would have been right after I gave the baron this message for the queen. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jaraile had kissed Nitzane.’

Sorne offered Charald the latest message from Imoshen.

The king took it and unfolded it.

‘Second paragraph down,’ Sorne said. The king frowned and Sorne realised Charald’s sight was going. ‘The handwriting is cramped. I’ll read it.’

He retrieved the message and found the line. ‘
You can tell Queen Jaraile I saw her little boy yesterday. His foot is almost completely corrected. He showed me how he exercises it every day to build up the muscles. By winter’s cusp, we expect him to be able to jump and run, and get into mischief.
’

Forgetting that she was supposed to have already heard this, Jaraile clasped her hands to her chest, eyes filled with tears of relief.

Sorne gestured to her. ‘Never doubt your queen’s love for your son, King Charald.’

As Sorne put the message away, he looked over to Eskarnor. The man’s eyes glittered. Sorne allowed himself the slightest smile.

The southern baron turned on his heel and walked out.

Charald beckoned the queen. Nitzane followed. As they reconciled, Sorne noticed the way the king reached for both Jaraile and Nitzane and he realised Charald felt vulnerable.

Since Sorne had discovered he was King Charald’s unwanted half-blood son, he had both loved and hated this man. He’d admired the king’s tactical brilliance and physical strength, and the way he managed his war barons. He’d despised his blind rages, and his reliance on a fictitious god to justify his campaigns.

Now, for the first time, Sorne felt pity.

Leaving the king with Jaraile and Nitzane, Sorne headed for his chamber. Eskarnor stood watching him from the end of the long gallery. Without his men around him joking, blustering and posturing, the baron seemed more threatening rather than less.

All Eskarnor had to do was bide his time. Jaraile was sweet and kind-hearted, but she was not King Matxin’s daughter; Marantza could have ruled a kingdom. As for Nitzane, he wasn’t a natural leader of men like his brother or a cunning diplomat like his grandfather. He was just a good-hearted, impulsive man who happened to have been born into a position of power.

When Sorne went into exile with the Wyrds, Eskarnor would make his move. Sorne told himself it was none of his business. All he had to do was ensure the Wyrd exile went smoothly and make one last attempt to find Valendia.

He was hoping his sister had made it out of the city the night of the riots. He was hoping Zabier had lied to him and re-opened Restoration Retreat without the church administration knowing. He was hoping Valendia was safe there.

If it was at all possible, he would save Valendia and set her free.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

R
ONNYN FELT LIGHT-HEARTED
. He’d been released from the chores and released from their island. For the first time ever, bothhe and Aravelle had accompanied their father to Trade Isle. Before sailing, their father had taken him aside and revealed it was not uncommon for Malaunje women and girls to be kidnapped off the street by the Mieren. He’d made Ronnyn promise to protect Aravelle.

She would have been furious, if she knew.

The chill in the air held the foretaste of winter. He blew on his hands and pulled the sailor’s knitted cap down over his head to hide his white hair. They could never pass for Mieren – even if their six fingers and toes escaped notice, their distinctive wine-dark eyes would give them away – but Ronnyn could pass for Malaunje if he hid his hair. ‘How do I look, Da? Good enough to fool the trader?’

‘Good enough.’

‘And me?’ Aravelle asked. She wore a pair of Ronnyn’s old breeches and a seal-skin vest that hid the curves of her upper body. Like him, she wore a fisherman’s cap, but wisps of copper hair peeped from its rim. ‘Do I pass for a Malaunje boy?’

Ronnyn felt a grin tug at his lips as Father shook his head.

‘What’s wrong? What’s giving me away?’ Aravelle demanded.

‘You’re too pretty,’ Ronnyn said.

‘No, it’s not that,’ their father said. Then, seeing her expression, he smiled. ‘You’re just as lovely as your mother, Vella, but that’s not what’s giving you away. It’s your manner. You’re too feminine. You tilt your head, you use your hands.’ He mimicked her.

The sight of their father pretending to be a girl was too much for Ronnyn. A laugh bubbled out of him and he couldn’t stop.

Without warning, Aravelle jumped him, caught him in a headlock and mock-punched his face. He was laughing too much to fight back.

‘Yes, that’s better, Vella.’ Asher applauded. ‘Much more boy-like. Although I think we’ll call you Araven. And you, Ronnyn, will have to be Ronaric. It’s a Malaunje version of your name.’

When Aravelle released him, Ronnyn rescued his cap, which had come off in the scuffle, and straightened up. He expected her to grin at him. But she was staring at their father. Without warning, she threw her arms around Asher, hugging him with all her might.

Ronnyn couldn’t see what had prompted her. But their father seemed to understand because he hugged her back just as hard and, when they pulled apart, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Aravelle glanced to Ronnyn, her features suffused with love, willing him to share the moment.

She was so beautiful she took his breath away. No wonder Mieren coveted Malaunje women.

‘Right.’ Asher cleared his throat. He studied their boat, which was moored in the shallows, and then the sky, judging tide and time. ‘Come on. Trader’s been meeting me in the same clearing ten days after autumn cusp since we escaped. I suspect he’s in league with the sea-vermin who live on the far side of the island, so I don’t like to linger.’

Ronnyn sobered at the mention of the ruthless predators. He’d seen their sails skimming the sea, like dragonflies on a pond. Luckily, the sea-vermin hunted fat-bellied merchant vessels with packed holds, not lone fishing-boats like theirs.

As Ronnyn and Aravelle each took some spare sacks and the sacks containing the sea-boar ivory, their father limped on ahead. Once they were over the rise and onto harder ground, he leaned heavily on his cane.

‘This is a chance for you to practice your Chalcedonian. Trader usually comes alone, but he sometimes brings a youth to help with the load.’ Asher bent and scooped up a couple of distinctive, smooth white stones. ‘If he’s not there, I leave these in a circle, that way he knows I want to trade.’

Ronnyn realised Asher was telling them all this in case he died and they had to come alone in future. For all that Ronnyn had been doing the work of a grown man, he wasn’t ready to take on his father’s role. Not when the decisions he made could mean the difference between his family eating and starving.

‘Ronnyn?’

He looked up, saw Asher and Aravelle were waiting for him, and hurried to catch up.

Shadows had gathered under the pines and Ronnyn was sweating by the time they reached the clearing, where an old, white-haired Mieren waited.

This was the first time Ronnyn had seen one of the Mieren on his feet, eyeing them with wary intelligence. So this was the face behind all the stories about Mieren turning on his people. The trader’s wiry white hair was barely long enough to tie back, and his jaw was covered in a salt-and-pepper beard. His ice-blue eyes were almost unnaturally pale, but it was clear he saw well enough when he straightened up as they approached.

A small goat-drawn cart stood on the far side of the clearing, carrying the trader’s wares. There were metal tools and implements they could not make without a forge, and the little luxuries that so delighted their mother.

‘Saskar.’ The trader greeted their father, with a brief nod. Ronnyn met Aravelle’s eyes. Their father hadn’t mentioned that he used a false name.

‘Trader Kolbik,’ Asher said, in Chalcedonian.

‘You brought help this year?’ Kolbik gestured to Aravelle and Ronnyn.

‘My sons, Araven and Ronaric.’

‘Fine strapping boys.’ He gestured to their father’s bad leg. ‘What happened?’

‘I was gored by a sea-boar.’

‘Then you’re lucky to come out of it with nothing worse than a limp.’ He gestured to the cane. ‘Can I see?’

Asher crossed the clearing to pass the cane to him. Ronnyn did not like the way the trader watched his father’s lopsided walk, or the calculating look he cast over both himself and Aravelle, noting their beardless cheeks.

Trader Kolbik studied the cane, and the fine carving on the handle, the snake curling around itself. He cast Asher a swift look. ‘How much?’

‘Not for sale.’

Kolbik shrugged and returned the cane, much to Ronnyn’s relief. ‘Let’s see the ivory.’

Asher signalled Ronnyn and Aravelle, who emptied the sacks onto the dark leaf-litter.

The trader prodded the ivory with his boot, then sucked at his teeth. ‘Not much here. You won’t get what you ordered–’

‘We can pay.’ Asher limped over to the cart to inspect the load.

Ronnyn noticed a sturdy pick.

Asher assessed the cart’s contents, putting a pile of them to one side. ‘You’re missing the glass window.’

‘Glass is a luxury item. Hard to get.’

‘We’ll take what you have.’

‘And what’ll you be paying with? Not this ivory alone.’ Kolbik rubbed his bristly jaw. ‘Even if you threw in the cane, I wouldn’t consider it.’

‘Stack the ivory on the cart, lads. Put the things in our sacks,’ Asher said.

‘Hold on,’ the trader protested. ‘I haven’t...’

Asher reached into his vest and drew out a small leather pouch. He loosened the drawstrings to pick through it, pulling out two small citrines. ‘This more than covers your goods.’

Kolbik’s eyes lit up, and he cast their father a calculating look.

Meanwhile, Ronnyn moved fast, stuffing things into the sacks. He had a bad feeling about this, but the trader did not object as they finished loading up. Ronnyn swung the pick over one shoulder, carrying his sacks in the other hand, and they set off. He found it heavy going, tramping back across the island. The pick dragged on his shoulder. He’d deliberately taken more of the load than Aravelle but, even so, they both struggled with the pace their father set. Asher’s limp became more pronounced. He stumbled several times, each time righting himself with more effort. He’d be stiff and sore tomorrow.

Aravelle gave Ronnyn a worried look.

Ronnyn studied the sky between the pines. Low clouds with blue-grey bellies promised a storm; already they’d delivered an early evening. Normally their father wouldn’t put out to sea until the storm had passed, but tonight would have to be an exception.