Exile (49 page)

I
MOSHEN WRAPPED A
cloak around her shoulders as she ran out of the palace and down to the sisterhood gate. It was dusk, and the gate guard was just lighting the lanterns. By their glow, she didn’t recognise either of the T’En men. But she did recognise Kyredeon striding up the causeway road with his two seconds.

‘We have a message from Adept Tobazim,’ the smaller of the two said.

‘And Captain Ardonyx,’ the big one added. ‘They gave us two copies in case one of us...’

Imoshen nodded and took the message from the smaller man. As it started to rain again, she stepped under the gate arch to read. The two lanterns illuminated the archway above her and made the pouring rain to each side gleam like a shimmering curtain. Kiane shifted uneasily as Imoshen tilted the message to the light. One glance told her the news was dire indeed.

‘What are my brotherhood warriors doing, reporting to the sisterhood?’ Kyredeon demanded, as he strode into the confined space under the arch.

‘These T’Enatuath warriors are reporting to the causare,’ Imoshen said. She wanted to back off and put more distance between them, but the all-father would see that as a weakness. She met his eyes. ‘We have to leave the city within the next couple of days, or we’ll never reach port.’

‘What?’ Kyredeon baulked.

‘Give him the other message,’ Imoshen told the big T’En male.

Kyredeon read it with both his seconds looking over his shoulder. He lifted his head. ‘I know you claim he’s your spy, but can we trust the Warrior’s-voice?’

‘Can we afford to doubt him?’ Imoshen countered. ‘He gains nothing by warning us. He’s been exiled, too.’ She folded up the message. ‘I’m going to the all-mothers with this. You take that copy to the all-fathers. We’ll start packing tonight.’

Her mind raced. They’d be safest in one large group. Normally it took six days by cart to port, but after the rain the road would be ankle deep in mud, and who knew how long it would take.

Once the besieging barons saw them leave, they’d turn their men loose on the city. This would occupy them for a couple of days. But Tobazim had warned that Baron Eskarnor’s people would try to send a message to him at the palace. Those messengers must not get through.

If her people could reach the Wyrd wharf before Eskarnor learned of it, then all they had to do was board the ships. But only four of their ships had arrived in port. They’d been hoping for a ship for each brotherhood and sisterhood. Which reminded her... the people out on the estates thought they had until winter cusp to reach port.

‘Kyredeon, each brotherhood will need to send messengers to their estates, telling them to make all haste to port.’ There had been around forty estates, but she knew for certain eleven no longer existed. ‘Thirty messengers riding out tomorrow will arouse suspicion, so they need to make their way under cover of darkness tonight. No word of our early exodus must reach port. When we leave, the brotherhoods will need to position warriors as outriders. If they spot a Mieren messenger making for the city, they must stop him.’

‘We can organise our own people,’ he told her shortly, but she could tell he was pleased to be going before the all-father council with orders. He gave her a curt nod and headed out into the rain.

The two warriors went to follow him.

‘No,’ Imoshen said. ‘I need you to ride out tonight on fresh horses. Unless we can purchase more ships, or more of our ships arrive in the meantime, half our people will be stranded in port.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

R
ONNYN HUDDLED DOWN
low in the prow, shielding his two little brothers from wind. He shivered as the sun set on the fifth day since their father had been murdered.

‘Get up. Look lively, now.’Their ferret-faced captor kicked his thigh. ‘Lower the sail, cripple.’

Ronnyn came to his feet, holding his left arm against his chest. Most of the time he managed, but the cold made the muscles spasm without warning. While they’d been sailing north, weaving through the islands, he’d been playing up the problem. Anything to make the Mieren underestimate him.

Ronnyn moved slowly, stiff with cold, sore from blows, and hollow with hunger. He beckoned Vittor. Luckily, his little brother was a quick learner. He’d always wanted to go fishing with Da.

Mustn’t think about Da lying dead on the beach.

Mustn’t think about flames burning his home. The only home he’d ever known.

Ronnyn felt his gift try to rise as it sought to defend him, but the innate power, usually so hard to contain, was feeble, drained by days of hardship and the blow to his head.

‘Like this.’ Ronnyn showed Vittor how to secure the ropes.

As they approached the mainland, riding in on waves bronzed by the setting sun, the grey clouds lifted. Now that they were close, he could see a shadowy cleft in the rock face.

The larger vessel went first, between the spraying foam and tall pillars of rock. Their family’s boat went next with ferret-face steering, hand on the tiller and his eyes on the sea, responding to the waves and the wind. Ronnyn admired his seamanship even as he hated him.

Inside the narrow bay it was already dusk, and the wind dropped away immediately. Ronnyn’s ears buzzed in the sudden silence. The sea’s surface still rolled, but there were no white caps. A single pier ran into the dark water. Three fishing ketches were moored there.

Someone shouted.

Ronnyn looked up the valley’s steep slope to see people and dwellings clustered in a hollow halfway up. Chimney smoke ran straight up in spirals, above the tall pines, until the smoke left the protection of the valley and was caught by the wind and whipped away.

‘They’re back safe,’ a lookout cried.

A youth came running down the slope from the village, carrying a lantern. An old man followed at a more sedate pace with another lantern. Dogs barked and ran back and forth. Ronnyn lost sight of the lights behind the half-lowered sails of the larger boat as it berthed.

‘Don’t just stand there. Get moving, cripple.’ Ferret-face clipped him over the head, making the swelling on the back of the skull throb.

It had taken him three days to see straight. And he only knew this because Vittor had kept track.

Momentum carried the boat towards the pier.

‘Get a move on.’ Another blow. His ear stung. ‘Help your brothers.’

Ronnyn secured the boat, then swung his legs over and landed on the weathered boards of the pier. For a moment, his head reeled, as he regained his land-legs.

Their captors called greetings to the fisher-folk, who watched from various vantage points on the path up to the village. They were delighted with the return of their men, delighted with the success of the raid, but underneath was an undercurrent of...

Fear.

They feared him. How strange. And how ironic, when he could do nothing to protect his family.

As he turned to help his brothers, he heard his mother’s voice and little Itania’s soft whimpering. No sound came from Aravelle. He knew she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t complain, wouldn’t give in. Ever.

And that thought warmed him.

Vittor climbed onto the boat’s side and jumped down onto the boards. He staggered a little before finding his feet. As soon as Vittor disappeared over the side, Tamaron wailed, fearing he’d be left behind.

Ronnyn leaned down, caught his little brother under the arms and hauled him up and over. His bad arm chose this moment to jerk in a painful spasm and he almost dropped the four-year-old. Vittor came to Tamaron’s rescue.

Mieren surrounded them, all taking excitedly as ferret-face showed off Ronnyn’s family boat. If the addition of a fifth boat to the village’s fishing fleet was cause for celebration, just wait until they saw his mother’s torc.

The fisher folk spoke so fast, Ronnyn had trouble following them. He’d only learnt enough Chalcedonian for trading.

‘Ma,’ Tamaron cried in delight. Leaving Ronnyn’s side, he darted between the grown men, running towards their mother.

Even heavily pregnant, Sasoria carried two-year-old Itania on one hip, but she couldn’t pick Tamaron up as well. The four-year-old wrapped his arms around her, clamouring to be picked up. Aravelle hugged him.

Ronnyn headed for his family. Vittor flung his arms around their mother, who leant down to plant a kiss on his salt-stiffened white hair.

Then she looked up to Ronnyn and winced. ‘Your nose... Turn around. Let me see the back of your head.’ She made a disgusted noise. ‘It’s matted with blood.’

‘It’s cleaner than it was. I washed it in sea water, like you taught us. But without a comb–’

‘Ronnyn?’ Sasoria turned him around and searched his face, her eyes keen with worry. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

‘I don’t remember much, apart from the headache and throwing up.’ A flash of his home burning. His father’s body left on the beach for the scavengers. Tears stung his eyes. He battled on. ‘Couldn’t see properly for a few days, but I’m fine now.’

His mother nodded. ‘For all that you’re not thirteen until spring, you’re as big as a full-grown Mieren. That’s why they hit you so hard, to teach you a lesson.’

‘Then it’s just as well his gift hasn’t manifested,’ Aravelle said, intense wine-dark eyes filled with warning.

Only she and his father knew that his gift had come on early. And Da...

He gave a little nod of understanding.

‘I’m hungry, Ma.’ Vittor’s teeth chattered with cold.

‘We’re all hungry,’ Aravelle told him as Tamaron and Itania chimed in.

‘Be brave,’ Sasoria said. ‘They’ll feed us soon.’

But would they?

Ronnyn looked around. The fisher-folk gave them a wide berth as they hustled about, unloading his family’s goats and chickens. Two people went past with his parents’ quilt, holding the corners up. He saw a flash of pots and pans, the minutiae of their life, stolen. It angered and saddened him.

‘Right you lot, get a move on.’ Ferret-face shoved them with their father’s cane as he herded them up steep steps hacked from the rocks and into a narrow valley.

At least ten cottages were built into the sod, their thatched roofs no higher than Ronnyn’s head. His family’s hens and goats complained as they were delivered to the village’s pens.

The fisher-folk kept pace with Ronnyn and his family from a safe distance. Dogs ran alongside them, barking and yipping. They were shoved past cottages redolent with the homely scent of fish stew.

Aravelle leant close to him. ‘There’s so many Mieren.’

Having grown up isolated on their island, Ronnyn had never seen more than his family and their captors in one place at one time. In the fishing village, there were too many people to count. Ten houses with six to eight people per house, at a guess.

Small children with runny noses clung to the adults, who watched and murmured. And there were twice as many youngsters as adults. Boys of eight or nine ran about, darting in to poke his family with sticks, then running off crowing about their bravery. Elders cuffed the boys, telling them to keep back, while casting worried looks at his family, at him. Just as well he had the crippled arm. Just as well his white hair hadn’t darkened to the silver that marked him as a gifted adult T’En.

Ferret-face and the brute drove Ronnyn and his family onto a patch of grass in the centre of the village, where an odd-looking cart stood. There was a hood jutting out over the cart’s seat and the back was box shaped. The hooded seat, roof and sides were covered by what looked like a ship’s sail.

It took him a moment to understand it was a cart with a cage built on the back. A cage for his family.

‘Get in.’ Ferret-face gestured to the cart with the cane. The fisher-folk prodded them with shovels and hoes.

Aravelle went first, helping the little ones. Their mother struggled to climb up; Ronnyn helped her. She was exhausted and lay slumped against the cart’s seat.

When Ronnyn climbed in, they all huddled together. Ferret-face secured the padlock and went off to speak with the others.

‘I’m hungry,’ Tamaron whispered.

‘I think there are more dogs than people in this village,’ Aravelle said. ‘Let’s count them.’

While she kept the little ones distracted, Ronnyninspected their prison. The cage had been stoutly made by boat-builders. The roof was not high enough to allow him to stand. A hinged gate was padlocked shut across the rear. The padlock was large and solid and not the sort of thing a poor fishing village would have lying around. All this was evidence of careful planning and preparation.

Given time and something to use as a lever, he could probably force the wooden slats, but he had nothing, only his nightshirt. None of them had more than what they’d been wearing when they were torn from their beds.

The weather was bitterly cold. The sail covered the roof and both sides, but left the front and back open. It kept the rain off, but did not stop the wind from blowing through. His brothers and sisters huddled around their mother, shivering and frightened.

At about a body length from the cart, their Mieren captors argued in fierce whispers. Ronnyn only caught the occasional word, but from what he gathered someone had to take his family to port to collect the bounty.

‘Bounty?’ he whispered to Aravelle.

‘Someone’s paying for our kind,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing it’s the king.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Ma said not to talk to the Mieren.’

Just then it began to rain. Ronnyn’s teeth chattered. If he was cold, the little ones must be freezing. Much as the words would choke him, he had to ask for blankets.

‘Please,’ Ronnyn called. ‘We need some blankets. The little ones–’

‘You’re a silverhead, make your own fire!’ the crooked-toothed youth jeered.

Ferret-face clipped the youth over the ear. ‘I told you, they don’t have gifts yet. Go fetch some blankets and food.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’ The youth scurried off and soon returned with a blanket. His uncle unlocked the cage door, and the youth tossed the bundle in. Ronnyn unwrapped a single blanket to find stale bread and a waterskin. He passed them to Aravelle, who solemnly broke the bread, sharing it out. It was not much, but it was better than nothing, and at least they were together.