Exile (36 page)

‘But Iraayel–’

‘Iraayel? You should never have been made his choice-mother.’ The gift-tutor’s thin lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of frustration. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’

Vittoryxe went into her chamber and slammed the door.

W
HEN
S
ORNE RECEIVED
Imoshen’s latest message, informing him of the reward for live Wyrds delivered either to the port or to the city, he went straight to High Priest Faryx, who agreed to spread word through the churches. It was the fastest way to reach the people of Chalcedonia, and the bounty should help to ensure the safety of Wyrds travelling to port.

Then he went to see the harbour-master to let him know about the reward and to the Wyrd wharf, where he informed the strongarms. If any Wyrds were delivered to the port, he was to be contacted and he would pay the bounty. Lastly, he rowed out to the largest of the sisterhood ships to see a certain cabin boy.

He found Toresal at lessons. The boy was glad to escape, and bounded across the deck to join him.

‘So how are you settling in with the sisterhood Malaunje?’ Sorne asked.

‘They’re not so bad.’ His face brightened. ‘The ship’s cat has had kittens. Do you want to see them?’

‘Not right now.’ Sorne smiled. ‘I have good news. Captain Ardonyx made it to the Celestial City.’

‘He’s safe? What about...’ He rattled off half a dozen other names.

‘Sorry, all I know is that the captain and some of his crew made it to the city.’ Sorne noticed this ship’s captain heading this way.

‘Good,’ the cabin boy muttered. ‘I’m glad the Dacians didn’t get him.’

‘Off to your lessons,’ Sorne said, moving to meet the captain, who was Malaunje like him.

‘Good news,’ Sorne said, by way of greeting. ‘Captain Ardonyx reached the city safely.’

‘He might be safe, but there’s no still sign of his two ships. If we’re not careful, someone will sail off with them. Then we’ll never track them down.’

‘I’ll follow it up with the harbour-master,’ Sorne said.

The Malaunje captain gestured to the shore. ‘This is our home port, but we might as well be in a foreign kingdom. My people have to get permission from the harbour-master’s guards to go into port, and even then they’re escorted.’

‘It’s for their own good,’ Sorne said. ‘I was here during the riots. The Wyrd warehouses were burned, and–’

‘That’s another thing. We’re only allowed to buy our stores from certain merchants. And the prices they’re charging...’

Sorne wasn’t surprised. ‘I suspect the harbour-master is channelling Wyrd gold into his supporters’ pockets. Anything else?’

‘Where are the rest of our people’s ships? I know of two captains who should have returned by now.’

‘Messages have been sent to the harbour-masters of all the major ports along the Secluded Sea. As soon as a Wyrd ship docks, they are supposed to tell them to make all haste back to this port.’

‘And what if they don’t give them the message? What if cut-throats slip aboard at night, murder the crew, steal the cargo and sail off with the ship? How would we know? It’s not like our people can go into a tavern and hear news of our exile. They’re confined to their vessels.’

Sorne’s head spun. He’d been concentrating on getting the Wyrds across Chalcedonia to the port. ‘What do you suggest? Would a reward for the return of Wyrd vessels help?’

The dour ship’s captain grimaced. ‘Why should they accept a reward, when they can take a ship and make a living from it?’

‘I’ll write to the causare.’ Truth be told, he didn’t see what any of them could do.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A
S
A
RAVELLE LIT
the scented lamp, she savoured the exotic perfume. It reminded her of other season cusps, going right back to when she was small and there had only been her brother and her parents.

Tonight, as she prepared for the spiced wine ceremony, she concentrated on doing everything just right. She selected the spices: cinnamon, vanilla bean and cloves. Then, because it was the autumn ceremony, she added lemon rind and a diced apple. She stirred it all into the wine as it simmered over the heat.

In the centre of the table was a sea-boar tusk, which Father had carved to illustrate how she and Ronnyn had saved his life. The story was told in a spiral, in bas relief, rising to the tip. Instead of the usual poem painting, they used the carved tusk as a focal point for their meditation, while she prepared the spiced wine to give thanks.

On the right-hand side of the table, Vittor, Tamaron and little Itania watched. Their wide mulberry eyes sparkled with excitement. Her parents sat on the left side of the table, with Ronnyn closest to her. His skin was flushed from hard work and the scrubbing he’d given himself in the lagoon. His long white hair was bound in a damp plait. Their father’s shirt was tight across his shoulders and short in the sleeve.

He looked distracted, as if he was hearing music no one else could hear, and it worried her. She kicked him under the table. His eyes flew to hers.

She didn’t let them connect. Instead, she poured a little water into a bowl and sprinkled lemon-scented leaves into it. First she presented the bowl to her mother, who dabbed a little on her eyes and lips, then her palms, in the ritual cleansing; then her father did the same, moving slowly, with painful care. The injury had turned him into an old man before his time.

Ronnyn watched closely. Today would be the first time he took part in the spiced wine ceremony.

A surge of resentment stung Aravelle. She’d had to wait until she was thirteen for this honour. But their parents had decided to acknowledge Ronnyn’s hard work and bravery by elevating him early.

And now his gift was manifesting. He thought she didn’t know, but she wasn’t stupid. When she massaged his arm, it felt like the sensation of an impending summer storm. Wonderful, and yet frightening. Just thinking about it made her heart race and her skin tingle.

One day, the storm would break. Then what would their parents do? If they went back to the city, it would tear their family apart, but it also would mean her father and brother could be healed. And Ronnyn needed to study under a gift-tutor.

She knew he worked at controlling the gift as assiduously as he’d worked at regaining the use of his left hand. She wasn’t about to betray him, but...

His gaze met hers across the steaming wine.

She looked down to where the wine swirled as she stirred it over the heat, lamplight gleaming on its silky surface.

If she was absolutely honest, she wasn’t about to reveal his experiments with the gift because the sensation made everything more intense, colours brighter, scents stronger and life richer. She didn’t want to give it up.

Judging the spiced wine ready, Aravelle poured it into the cups. There were only two proper glass cups with brass handles. She presented the first to her mother, with the handle turned to her mother’s left. Then she went to present the second to her father.

Sasoria shook her head. ‘Your father and I will share. You two use the other, take turns.’

Their mother raised the cup, her eyes on their father. ‘I give thanks for the safe delivery of my bond-partner, Asher, my love. And I give thanks for our fine strong children, who have worked so hard.’

Sasoria took a sip from her cup, then offered it to Asher. He deliberately turned the cup so that his lips touched where hers had been, then took a sip. All the while, his eyes never left hers. Their love illuminated their faces, illuminated their lives.

Vittor gave a sigh of happiness.

Aravelle smiled. But she wished she could rid herself of this burning envy. She couldn’t help thinking it was because Ronnyn was T’En, that their parents honoured him early. To make up for these unkind thoughts, she offered the second cup to him. ‘I give thanks. You killed the stink-badgers to protect us. I should have been quicker to save your arm. I failed you.’

‘No...’ He gestured for her to go first. ‘You risked your life so I could drag Father away from the sea-boars. You sewed up his wound, then you brought the boat home safely. You should go first.’

Warmth filled her, dissolving the kernel of jealousy.

Feeling lighter of heart, she bathed her face and hands, then lifted the spiced wine to her lips. The wine was sweet and tart, and warm. And it slipped down her throat like the fire of life.

A gasp escaped her.

Ronnyn’s lips lifted in an uneven grin and his forehead crinkled in that familiar endearing way. She offered him the cup. He took it, raised it to salute her and sipped.

His eyes watered a little, but he swallowed and took another sip. This one went down smoothly.

Then he looked to her over the cup, and his hard gaze held her.

This was the new side of him, the side which kept challenging her. Was he daring her to reveal the gift games he’d been playing? He had to realise she wouldn’t, but did he guess why? Shame made her cheeks flush, and she looked down.

‘Arm wrestle, Ronnyn?’ Asher suggested.

Their mother rose from her seat, graceful despite the swell of her belly. That was another thing: if the baby was going to be Malaunje, it would come by the next new small moon. The longer her mother was pregnant, the more chance the baby would be T’En.

Ronnyn swung one leg over the bench and offered his bad arm to Father. While recovering from the stink-badgers’ attack, he’d been arm wrestling with Asher every night. And every night Vittor watched and cheered, then insisted on arm wrestling Father, who let the six-year-old test his strength, sometimes letting him win. Even little Tamaron insisted on having his turn, taking his place with a great seriousness that told Aravelle, in his mind, he was already a fearsome warrior.

Tamaron’s face had healed, but he would always have a scar on his bottom lip and chin. Every time she saw his scarred face, she felt guilty. She should have protected him. And she knew Ronnyn felt the same way.

Vittor crowed with delight; Ronnyn was holding his own. In fact, as she watched, he forced Asher’s hand past the vertical. She glanced to their father’s face. He was not making it easy; he strained to keep his arm upright.

She bit her bottom lip, willing Ronnyn to win.

There could be no doubting the effort both of them were putting in. They concentrated, knuckles white, forearms corded. Ronnyn’s mouth formed a tight line of pain. Then his muscles spasmed and their father slammed Ronnyn’s arm down on the table before he could help it.

Aravelle winced in sympathy.

While Asher made sure he hadn’t hurt Ronnyn and Vittor assured Ronnyn he had nearly beaten their father, Sasoria beckoned Aravelle. ‘Time to bring out the zither, Vella.’

As soon as Ronnyn’s injury started to heal, their mother had begun coaching him to relearn to play the instrument. Arm wrestling for brute strength and the zither for fine coordination – their parents were doing everything they could for Ronnyn.

Everything, short of taking him back to their people. The thought surprised Aravelle. It made her feel disloyal.

T
OBAZIM GIFT-ENHANCED HIS
sight as he stood on the wall-walk. He’d chosen a cloudy night to cloak their actions from the Mieren on shore. Above him, the winch took the strain of the statue’s great weight.

The thought of their ancestral enemy inheriting the Celestial City was bad enough, but the thought of what the Mieren would do to their works of art had eaten away at him until he found a solution. He’d suggested they make small copies of their largest statues to take with them. Meanwhile, they could sink the originals in the lake to preserve them. Down in the depths, the marble statues would be safe from wilful destruction. The sawbones had put the idea to Kyredeon, who had approved Tobazim’s plan.

Tonight was the first test of the winches he’d designed. His gift told him everything would work, and he’d also calculated the stresses and double-checked his figures, but this was the true test. Would the winch support the statue, or would the marble plummet onto the barge, injuring the Malaunje workers below? He gripped the rail, worried he’d overlooked something, or his gift had led him astray.

Beside him, Ardonyx and Haromyr watched the procedure.

‘Steady...’ Ardonyx whispered, as Malaunje guided the statue into place on the barge. It landed with a solid thump and the barge settled, but remained afloat.

Tobazim breathed a sigh of relief.

Originally he’d seen his suggestions as both a solution to the problem and a way to gain stature for his non-martial gift, but now all he felt was relief.

He noticed Ardonyx’s grin and realised the new brother understood. This both annoyed and fascinated him. Since midsummer, he had accompanied Ardonyx to the exile-councils. Only two brotherhoods and one sisterhood owned merchant shipping fleets, and the others had had to negotiate with them for ships. It had been fascinating, watching the interplay of power as each T’En dealt with the logistics of exile, while trying to maintain their own stature and that of their brotherhood or sisterhood. The only two who were not worried about their stature were the causare and Ardonyx and, paradoxically, this enhanced their authority as they spoke with quiet confidence. Ardonyx knew so much about the larger world beyond the T’Enatuath, even the causare deferred to him.

With a non-martial gift, Tobazim had never expected to mix in the company of such high-ranking T’En.

‘Do you want to try for the second statue?’ Haromyr asked, recalling him.

‘Yes.’ If the barge could take these two medium-sized statues, it should take the weight of Sculptor Iraayel’s
Fallen All-father.

Tobazim gave the signal, and the Malaunje retrieved the ropes and pads and began securing the second statue.

Then he studied the sky. A storm was coming. He hoped to be finished before it struck. ‘As soon as the second one is loaded, we’ll set off.’

They had a quite a distance to row, as the lake stretched back towards the mountains. They needed a deep spot. Malaunje fishermen had explained there was a whole hidden landscape of valleys and hills under the water. Tobazim found the idea fascinating.