Exile (52 page)

‘If you’re heading for the bridge, it’s been washed away,’ the first Mieren called through the driving rain. ‘We’re making for the ford.’

‘The ford’s impassable, at least for our cart,’ Sorne said. The hood covered most of his face, but he noted them looking over his whole party with calculating eyes.

‘We’ll try the ford,’ the first one said, and the two groups parted.

Sorne edged his horse closer to Graelen. ‘I don’t like the look of them.’

‘I don’t like the way they were looking at Dia,’ Graelen said.

Sorne agreed. ‘We need to put some distance between us.’

‘How will we cross the river? They said the bridge is out.’

‘There’s the new Wyrd bridge, two days ride to the east. It’s sturdy, built of stone.’ Sorne remembered Nitzane mentioning it.

The road that followed the river was thick with mud, slowing the cart. They pushed on. By evening, two days later they, still hadn’t reached the Wyrd bridge, but it looked like Sorne’s concerns had been unjustified; there’d been no sign of the other travellers.

They pulled off the road and made camp, a miserable affair of cold food and wet blankets. By now rain had worked its way under the cart’s cover and everything was damp, if not sopping wet. They hadn’t posted a watch while in the mountains, but since they met the other travellers near the washed-out bridge they had. Sorne took first watch.

The evening was swiftly turning dark. With the cloud cover there was no moonlight and the constant rain meant Sorne could hear nothing but its drumming. He felt like he was both blind and deaf.

He didn’t like it.

He kept making larger and larger circles around their camp. When he reached the road, he discovered that even though they had pulled off the road and the lantern was turned down low, the covered cart glowed through the trees.

On instinct, he went back the way they’d come, keeping to the road verge.

He’d only gone around two corners when he spotted a dull glow. Edging closer, he found a camp fire, under an overhang. At first he thought it was another group of Mieren altogether because there were five of them. Then he recognised the one who’d spoken to him.

Sorne turned and ran. It was almost completely dark. He spotted the cart from the road, darted through the trunks and pulled back the flap. ‘We need to get out of here.’

‘The travellers?’ Graelen came to a crouch, reaching for his knives.

Sorne nodded. ‘There’s five of them, and they’ve camped within an easy walk.’

‘I’ll hitch up the pony,’ Valendia said.

‘No.’ Graelen and Sorne both spoke at the same time.

Their eyes met. They’d have to leave the cart.

‘I’ll get the horses,’ Sorne said, leaving Graelen to convince Valendia to part with her instruments. The horses were not happy. They were cold and tired and were developing saddle sores under the wet blankets.

Working in the dark, Sorne found the bridles and fastened them. The feisty gelding showed its displeasure by trying to nip him. He sympathised with the beast. The last thing Sorne wanted to do was head off into the cold rain. But he persisted and prepared the two horses, then put a halter on one of the cart ponies.

He was debating whether he had time to saddle the horses, when he heard a shout and saw figures silhouetted against the glow of the covered cart. Graelen struggled with someone who was trying to drag Valendia away. She jerked and twisted, her cloak tearing from her shoulders. She fell. An attacker jumped on Graelen’s back. The big adept threw the man to the ground.

Sorne ran towards the cart, dragging the horses with him. By the time he reached the cart, Graelen was helping Valendia to her feet. More Mieren arrived.

Graelen caught Valendia around the waist and threw her onto one of the horses, and they took off through the dark, brushing up against tree trunks and barrelling through bushes. Sorne glanced back and saw Mieren swarming over their covered cart, then his shoulder collided with a trunk and he kept his eyes forward.

When they reached the road, which appeared only as a slightly paler strip in the consuming dark, Graelen switched Valendia over to the pony and leapt astride his horse. Sorne had never ridden bare-back. He pressed his knees into the horse’s flanks. Frightened by the altercation, the horses took off at a gallop, but they were sensible animals and soon slowed to a trot, then a walk. The night was just too dark and the rain too heavy to risk anything more.

Sorne had to hope their abandoned cart kept the Mieren occupied. He knew the bridge was coming up soon, and was worried they might miss it.

He only realised they were on the bridge when the horses’ hooves echoed on the stone and he heard the rush of the river under the arches.

On the far side of the bridge, Graelen asked Valendia if she was all right.

‘Of course I am,’ she told him. Her voice sounded firm, and it was impossible to see her face.

‘We need to get off the road,’ Sorne said. He looked for the white stone marker that indicated the turn off to Nitzane’s estate and Riverbend Stronghold.

A little later he found it and led them off the main road. At least now the Mieren wouldn’t find them.

His next goal was to find the stronghold. They needed dry clothes and warm food. Going on a memory almost five years old, and his horse’s instincts to find a warm dry barn, Sorne led them through the night.

Luckily, the rain eased off and the moons broke through the clouds. It seemed they’d been riding the better part of the night when he spotted the towers and battlements of Nitzane’s stronghold, silhouetted against a cloudy sky.

‘Not far now, Dia,’ he said.

She didn’t answer. He glanced back to see that Graelen rode at her side, his horse towering over the pony.

The last time Sorne had been here, the village had been dilapidated; now a sturdy gate sealed the village wall. Sorne hammered on the gate. ‘Open in the name of the king.’

It took a while, but the gate-keeper arrived with a lantern. He opened up, then looked Sorne over and appeared to be having second thoughts.

‘I’m on a mission for the king, with a message from Baron Nitzane for Captain Ballendin.’

The familiar names convinced the man, who stepped aside and let them through. He bolted the gate and led them up the rise. A light rain began to fall, forming a halo of drops in the circle of the lamplight.

Captain Ballendin was already at the stronghold gate, alerted by his night-watch. Sorne slid off his horse, staggering on legs numb with cold.

‘What happened to you?’ Ballendin asked. He was one of the few Mieren Sorne counted as a friend. ‘Is Nitzane all right?’

‘He was when I left the port,’ Sorne said. ‘We need shelter.’

‘Come in.’ Ballendin said

As Sorne turned to the others, Valendia pitched sideways off the horse. Graelen caught her and his wet hood fell back, revealing he was T’En.

Ballendin’s eyes widened. ‘What have you brought us, Sorne?’

‘Friends in trouble,’ he said. ‘My sister’s been riding all day and night.’

‘And she’s with child,’ Graelen said.

Sorne watched, stunned, as Graelen carried her inside.

Ballendin sent the night-watch out of the guard house, providing blankets and a warm bed, then left Graelen to see to Valendia and drew Sorne over to the doorway. ‘Why have you brought a silverhead into the stronghold?’

Sorne filled him in on the situation in the palace and the port. ‘...and Nitzane’s fallen in love with the queen,’ he finished.

Ballendin cursed. ‘He can’t resist a woman in trouble.’

Sorne nodded. ‘He needs the advice of a cool head. I’ve been trying to think of a reason to send for you, to bring fifty good men. Now I have it.’ He gestured to Graelen and his sister. ‘We need an escort to port.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A
T FIRST,
A
RAVELLE
had watched their Mieren captors for a chance to escape. But they never let all of her family out of the cage at the same time. If she even so much as looked sideways at ferret-face, he cuffed her. For seven days now they’d followed the coast road north, delayed by rising flood waters and roads that were axle-deep in mud. Despite the sail covering the cart, the wind blew the rain in. They were wet, cold and miserable.

Each morning, they were given the near-empty porridge pot and each morning, in their hunger, they burned their fingers as they scooped up the remains.

Itania whimpered, waving reddened finger tips. Their mother blew on the little pink tips to cool them.

‘Come here, girlie.’ Ferret-face opened the cage door and beckoned Aravelle. ‘Time to earn your keep.’

His nephew, crooked-tooth, guided her down to the icy cold creek. There were only two bowls and the pot, but having to clean for the Mieren at all infuriated her.

Crooked-tooth smirked as she worked. ‘Does my heart good to see you scrubbin’. You need takin’ down a peg or two, you do.’

She bit her tongue and gave him a wide berth as she gathered the clean pot and bowls and hurried back to the camp. The pot was heavy and she was sure if she brought it down hard enough on the back of his head, she could knock him out, but she had to choose the right moment.

Crooked-tooth stalked along behind her. By the time she reached the clearing, her teeth were chattering. She dumped the pots on top of the Mieren’s travelling kit and tucked her hands under her arm pits, running over to the cage. Her mother looked relieved.

The youth unlocked the gate and Aravelle climbed in. ‘That stream was freezing.’

‘Here.’ Their mother took her hands, enclosing them in hers and breathing on them to warm her chilled fingers.

Ronnyn rubbed her back, putting his body between her and the wind. There was a flat patch in the middle of his nose, where the bone had been crushed. It changed his appearance, so that he did not look like the brother she had grown up with.

The cart gave a lurch as crooked-tooth climbed up next to his uncle. Ferret-face flicked the reins and they started off again, rattling over the ruts. As they came out of the trees, the wind picked up, driving the rain in on them. The little ones whimpered.

Their mother tried to spread the thin blanket to cover them all, but by the time the little ones were snuggled in, there was no room for her and Ronnyn.

Aravelle didn’t understand how their mother could be so calm. Whenever she thought of what the Mieren had done to Father, tears of rage threatened to blind her. She forced them down, afraid if she gave in now she would not be able to stop crying, and she refused to reveal weakness in front of their captors. She shut the rage and grief deep inside of her.

Crooked-tooth said something Aravelle didn’t catch. Ferret-face laughed, his gaze flicking to her. Aravelle didn’t like the tone of their laughter. Her mother sent her a worried look.

J
ARAILE MADE SURE
she was never alone. Eskarnor let her know he was awaiting his next opportunity. When no one was looking, he would cup himself suggestively. She took to carrying a sharp paring knife, tucked in her waist band. Although she suspected she would not get a chance to use it, it gave her some comfort.

Every afternoon, Charald, Nitzane and Eskarnor rode around the plaza. Since the king’s first ride, Eskarnor had been at pains to charm, playing the bluff war baron and complimenting the king on his improvement.

Because Charald, curse him,
was
getting better, and Jaraile had the bruises to prove it. She put it down to Sorne’s insistence the manservant stop treating him with arsenic. The king still had the tremor, but only when he was over tired. At first she thought he’d recovered completely – he appeared quite rational – then she realised he remained forgetful. He remembered every battle he’d ever fought, but not what he’d had for lunch.

Since he wasn’t aware of what he’d forgotten, he thought he was back to normal. He refused to discuss appointing advisors to watch over Prince Cedon in the event of his death or illness, and he’d taken to treating her with casual contempt while seeking out the company of the two barons.

They walked Charald up to his bedchamber. Today the king had ridden further than ever and, for all his talk, Jaraile thought he looked tired. She suspected he would sleep now until the evening meal.

As the king sat before the fire, his manservant removed his boots. Nitzane leaned forward to say something to Charald, and Eskarnor took the opportunity to step back and adjust himself so she would notice his state of arousal.

Infuriated, Jaraile looked away. She was always regular and should have bled this morning, but she hadn’t, and she was feeling nauseous. Frustration welled up in her. She had heard the Wyrd women used a herb to prevent conception, but as far as the True-men of Chalcedonia were concerned, it was a woman’s lot to bear children; any attempt to prevent conception, or to get rid of a baby, was punishable with death.

She’d been pregnant twice before. She knew the signs. There was only one thing to do. She would have to seduce her husband. If the king thought the child was his, he would protect her.

She waited until the men left, then told Bidern to take the afternoon off. As she helped the king into bed, she let her hands linger, but he didn’t seem to notice. Determined, she pulled the tie from her hair and felt the long plait unravel. She knelt on the bed beside him and took his hand in hers. ‘I’m so glad to see you well, sire.’

Eyes closed, he patted her hand and, taking this as an invitation, she stretched out next to him with her head on his shoulder. Her hand slipped under the covers, wandering across his belly. Before she could reach her destination, the king began to snore.

She sat up. The next snore was louder and deeper. She should have known. Charald hadn’t been capable for over a year now. And to think, he used to be so brutal. For all that he appeared to have rallied, his days were numbered.

She could not bear to be at the mercy of Eskarnor. Desperation drove her to check the hall. After the ride, Nitzane would retire to his rooms, strip and bathe to dress for dinner. When she was certain no one was about, she slipped into the baron’s chambers.