Exile (54 page)

‘They won’t take her in. Their husbands will refuse to give her shelter.’ Imoshen saw the T’En women didn’t understand. ‘She’s not one of us. She has no sisterhood to protect her. She’s utterly alone.’ Imoshen addressed the girl. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Every door is closed to me. I’ll have to go to the port and sell my body to buy bread. I’d rather throw myself in the bay.’

The T’En women muttered in shock.

‘But she’s Mieren. She doesn’t belong with us,’ Egrayne said. ‘Even amongst the Malaunje, she won’t be welcome.’

‘If we turn her away, we are no better than the Mieren who threw her out,’ Imoshen said. ‘I won’t send her away to die. My sisterhood will take her in.’ This reminded her. ‘Reyne, tell the brotherhoods to call me if any Mieren want to sell their Malaunje kin.’

Then, despite Egrayne’s disapproval, Imoshen sent for the leader of her sisterhood’s Malaunje and the girl was taken away.

‘No good will come of this,’ Egrayne said. ‘It’s not our way to take in girls like her.’

‘Exile will change our ways.’

T
HAT NIGHT,
R
ONNYN
tried to distract his little brothers while he waited for his mother and sisters to come back from the creek. He was weak with hunger and his gift had not stirred for days. There was never enough food, and tonight there had been less than usual. The Mieren complained that the trip was taking longer than they’d expected.

To his relief Aravelle returned to the camp with the cleaned cooking pots. Itania trailed along behind her, grizzling softly; she was tired and hungry. Aravelle dropped the pots by the fire then picked up Itania, trying to jolly her along.

‘Come on,’ crooked-tooth said. There was something in his voice that made Ronnyn uneasy.

The Mieren unlocked the cage. Aravelle passed Itania up to Ronnyn.

‘Where’s Ma? I want Ma,’ Tamaron whimpered.

‘She’s coming,’ Aravelle said and went to climb up. But the youth grabbed her by the arm, then swung the door shut, clicking the padlock closed with his free hand.

Ronnyn thrust Itania aside and sprang to the cage door. ‘What’re you doing? Let her go.’

‘Make me,’ crooked-tooth leered.

The instant the youth was distracted, Aravelle ducked under his arm and ran into the undergrowth. He took off after her.

Ronnyn shook the cage door so hard it made the cart rock. Pain spiked in his bad arm. ‘Run, Vella!’

He strained to hear. There was a thump and the sound of undergrowth collapsing, then muffled grunts and thuds of flesh striking flesh.

She’d been caught. She was fast like a cat, and she might be as tall as the Mieren who chased her, but once crooked-tooth caught her, she didn’t stand a chance.

Fury poured through Ronnyn. He shook the cage. His power stirred, called by the depth of his emotion.

Why hadn’t he jumped out of the cage when he had the opportunity? A howl of pure rage tore from his throat.

His gift surged and skittered across his skin like stinging ants, burning him. Then it was gone, dissipating into the night, leaving him empty and exhausted.

Patches of grey came and went in his vision. His mind felt dull and flat.

He was useless – an untrained mind-manipulator, who couldn’t create illusions. Tears burned his eyes as sobs of impotent fury shook his shoulders. He wept and wept. Wept until he’d worn away all outrage and only despair remained.

And then there was nothing but the catch in his throat as he tried to recover his breath.

In the silence that followed, a whimper made him turn. The little ones shrank away from him.

Ronnyn lifted his hands only to discover they were bleeding. And he recalled gripping the bars of their cage.

‘Vittor, Tam...’ His voice rasped, raw in his throat. ‘Tani.’

The little ones hung back, frightened of him.

‘I’m sorry. So sorry.’ Shamed, Ronnyn crawled up to their end of the cart. ‘I’m better now. Come to me.’

This time, when he opened his arms, they went to him, sobbing their hearts out. Not that they understood what was happening, but he’d frightened them and that mortified him.

Gathering them close, he hugged the little ones as their small frames shook with the force of their emotion. And all the while, he hated himself.

‘Why did they take Ma and Vella away?’ Vittor whispered. ‘Did they kill them?’

Ronnyn shook his head.

‘They killed Da.’

He shook his head again, unable to speak. He’d failed his father, and now he’d failed his mother and sister.

‘Wants Ma,’ Tamaron cried.

Itania hiccupped as dry sobs shook her, making Ronnyn’s heart swell.

‘Come here, Tani.’ He lifted her onto his lap. Then he sang the song his mother always sang to put them to sleep. His voice was deep and raw, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough. Tamaron snuggled in next to Vittor.

Soon Ronnyn heard their regular breathing and marvelled that they could sleep. He certainly couldn’t.

When he was sure Itania was asleep, he tucked her in between Tamaron and Vittor.

And then he waited.

When his mother returned, he helped her climb into the cart then stopped, not sure what to do.

His mother took in the little ones, huddled together, and her gaze flew to Ronnyn’s face. ‘Where’s Vella?’

‘Crooked-tooth took her.’

Sasoria swung around to clutch the frame. ‘You promised me. You promised!’

Ferret-face finished bolting the padlock, shrugged with a satisfied smirk and moved off towards the fire.

Ronnyn bristled. He couldn’t sit still. Not when Aravelle was still out there.

A sob escaped his mother.

He hugged her. She smelled like ferret-face. It made his stomach turn, but kept his arms around her. ‘Did he hurt you, Ma?’

‘He promised not to touch Vella,’ Sasoria whispered. She went very still, then thrust his arms away, lurching to the side of the cart where she vomited through the bars. It didn’t take long. There was not much in her stomach. Ronnyn rubbed her back, his own stomach heaving in sympathy.

When she was through, he offered the waterskin. ‘Here.’

Sasoria rinsed out her mouth and washed her face. Ronnyn didn’t like the way her hands shook.

‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. ‘I’m just so angry...’

The cart door swung open. Aravelle stood there, her mouth and nose bleeding, her nightgown held in place with both hands.

‘Vella,’ Sasoria moaned.

Ronnyn crept forward to help his sister in, but she thrust his hands away. He could only sit back and watch as she crawled to the far end of the cart, near the little ones. And there she huddled, shivering occasionally, knees drawn up under her chin.

Crooked-tooth locked the cage and swaggered back to the fire.

Ronnyn looked to their mother.

She grimaced, hugging her belly, as she drew her breath in through clenched teeth.

‘The baby’s coming?’ Ronnyn could not believe their bad luck. ‘Now?’

She nodded, unable to speak, and her free hand reached out for him. He caught it in his good hand, marvelling at her strength as she panted through the contraction. When it had passed, she fixed on him, fiercely determined as always. ‘The baby’s had the full year, so it is not too early. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.’

He nodded. They sat in silence while the Mieren settled down for the night.

After a while, his mother’s gaze became unfocused again and her breathing changed as she rode the pain of another contraction.

Ronnyn had never delivered a baby. When Itania was born, he and Vella had been sent outside to keep Vittor and Tamaron busy. Back then, he hadn’t been afraid. Their father had been with them and it seemed they lived a charmed life. Now...

‘Vella, I need you.’ Ronnyn called softly over his shoulder.

No answer.

‘Vella?’

‘Leave her.’ Sasoria squeezed his arm, recovered for the moment. Her lips twitched. ‘I’ll be fine. I have done this before, you know.’

He had to smile. ‘I know, it’s just...’ He gestured to the cage.

‘Babies come when they are ready,’ Aravelle said, suddenly at his side.

Relieved, Ronnyn reached for her.

‘Don’t touch me.’ Anger contorted her face as she brushed his hand aside. ‘Don’t...’

She shuddered and he lifted his hands and backed off, but he couldn’t go far. He watched as his mother and sister put their heads together.

‘What needs to be done?’ Aravelle asked, sounding practical and firm, as if she hadn’t nearly fallen apart when he touched her.

‘Not much,’ their mother said. ‘I’ll ride the contractions. Right at the end you’ll need to ease the baby’s shoulders out. But what about you? Did he hurt you?’

‘He can’t hurt me.’ Aravelle lifted her head to glare through the cage at the Mieren. ‘Nothing he could do could ever hurt me.’

In that moment, Ronnyn loved her more than he had ever loved anyone.

‘Oh, Vella,’ their mother whispered, but before she could say more another contraction took her.

All that long night, while the little ones slept, Ronnyn remained where he was, unable to help. Aravelle wouldn’t let him near her or their mother. He wished there was something he could do to ease his mother’s pain. Sasoria bit on a wadded cloth and held onto his sister’s hand each time the contractions took her.

Each time he almost succumbed to sleep, he’d jerk awake, heart racing, nausea coiling in his belly. He would not sleep, not while his mother suffered. If he stayed alert, ready to help, then Aravelle would see and soften. She would forgive him.

Looking back, he remembered Itania’s birth as being quick. It had all happened in one afternoon, and his mother had been showing them the new baby by supper time. But not this birth; it went on all night.

Meanwhile, Aravelle watched over their mother. She didn’t seem to sleep. She didn’t speak to him. She didn’t look at him. Half of him wanted to shake her and tell her it wasn’t his fault.

The other half of him wanted to weep with her.

If only she’d weep.

T
HAT NIGHT,
J
ARAILE
and Nitzane took supper in the king’s private dining chamber, where Commander Halargon found them.

‘Where’s the king?’ he asked.

‘Sleeping,’ Jaraile said. Charald had been confused when he woke and complained of pain. They’d treated him with the Khitite soothing powders and Bidern had started him on the arsenic medication. ‘What is it?’

‘Eskarnor got away with his honour guard. They’d disappeared when I took a contingent of my men to his chambers. I’ve told all the gate keepers to watch out for him.’

‘He could take passage on any ship leaving port,’ Jaraile said. ‘We should declare him outside the law and his lands forfeit.’

‘Do that and the southern barons will unite behind him,’ Halargon warned. ‘The king must make that kind of decision.’

‘I wish I could have challenged Eskarnor,’ Nitzane muttered. ‘That would have settled it.’

Jaraile wished Sorne was here. ‘The more time we give Eskarnor, the more trouble he can cause.’

‘His honour guard consists of twelve men,’ Halargon said. ‘The king’s palace guard counts sixty, maybe seventy if I call in a few favours.’

‘What if he goes to the harbour-master?’ Jaraile asked. ‘Sorne said he was in league with Master Hersegel.’

‘If the harbour-master went through every tavern in the wharf district, he could muster maybe thirty or forty strongarms, and half of them would be drunken sots. We’ve time.’ Halargon shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, when the king is feeling more himself, he can decide what to do about Eskarnor.’

And Jaraile had to be content with that.

Chapter Forty

F
EAR CONSUMED
A
RAVELLE.
Her mother had been in labour since last night, and it was now mid-morning. Aravelle had given her sips of water, rubbed her aching back and tried to ease the jolting of the cart. Ronnyn had kept Vittor and the little ones occupied, returning every so often to Aravelle’s side to check on their mother.

When the three little ones had fallen asleep, Ronnyn crawled over to join Aravelle, just as another pain took their mother. She curled on her side, panting.

He whispered under the cover of the rattling cart. ‘The other births did not take this long.’

‘Nor tax her so hard,’ Aravelle agreed. There was almost no point in whispering. When the contractions struck, their mother was lost to the pain, but she did not make a sound.

‘I hate feeling useless.’ Ronnyn flexed his hands, his poor, cut, swollen hands. Aravelle felt for him. She knew he blamed himself and feared his gift would rise, but she couldn’t sense the slightest hint of power.

The cart’s creaking stopped as it came to a halt on the crest of a rise. Ferret-face pointed. ‘There it is. Port Mirror-on-sea.’

‘Go look,’ their mother urged. The contraction had passed. It was amazing how she could be completely swamped by pain one moment, then alert the next.

Aravelle came to her knees. In a half-crouch, she peered through the slats past the Mieren’s shoulders, across the valley. A long line of people, carts and wagons stretched along the main road, all heading for the port. From this distance, it was hard to make out much detail.

Port Mirror-on-Sea. She couldn’t see the sea, only the port’s defensive wall, and behind that, the buildings. The rain had stopped. It was one of those clear, windless, cold, sunny days. Smoke drifted up from myriad chimneys, collecting over the city.

‘So many Mieren,’ Aravelle whispered.

‘Who would have thought?’ Ronnyn looked grim.

First the fisher-folk, then the villages they’d skirted, now this... the size of Port Mirror-on-Sea stunned her.

‘Which do you think is the king’s palace?’ Ronnyn whispered.

She had no idea. There were many spires and domes. Would the exchange take place at the palace? How many other T’En and Malaunje had been captured? Why was the king paying a bounty for her people?

Ferret-face twisted in the seat to inspect her family. What he saw seemed to confirm something, because he nodded to himself, then he flicked the pony’s reins. But the cart didn’t go down the track toward the port; they turned off the path.