Exile (39 page)

Relief lightened his load as they breasted the dune overlooking the beach. Clean white sand stretched out to the shallows where their boat rocked on its moorings. The tide had come in farther than they expected.

‘Looks like we’ll be getting our feet wet,’ Asher muttered, face grey with exhaustion.

Ronnyn wished he was old enough to manage the trade alone. He’d suggest it next time. They needn’t have worried about the trader recognising him for T’En.

‘Come on.’ Asher headed down the dune and they followed him.

A shout made Ronnyn turn. Four Mieren ploughed down the dune to their left. They rode short-legged, shaggy-haired ponies which were hardly hampered by the soft sand. Ronnyn recognised Trader Kolbik, accompanied by three strangers.

‘Run!’ Asher cried.

They plunged down the dune, sending cascades of sand ahead of them. Ronnyn could hear his father grunting with pain every time his bad leg took his weight.

Ronnyn cast a glance back to the Mieren, judging their distance and speed. Already the ponies were only a stone’s throw away. They wouldn’t make it back to the boat. The sacks thumped on his back and the heavy pick threw his stride off balance. His heart hammered. He paced himself; he didn’t want to leave his father and Aravelle behind.

Asher stopped where the soft sand started to harden.

‘Vella. Go to the boat, pull up anchor,’ Asher ordered, between gulps of air. ‘We’ll delay them.’

‘I won’t leave you.’

‘Go. Ronnyn’s bigger and stronger.’

A rush of pride warmed Ronnyn.

Aravelle hesitated only for a heartbeat, then turned and ran into the shallows, sending up sprays of water. One of the ponies peeled away to cut her off, and the other three headed for Ronnyn and his father.

He felt his gift pulse and try to rise. Useless thing. If he couldn’t influence minds, it was nothing but a liability. Savagely, he forced it down.

Ronnyn dropped his sacks and swung the pick off his shoulder. Its sturdy weight felt good in his hands. Now, when he could not afford to falter, he used his right hand.

His father just had the cane and his fish-gutting knife. Razor sharp, it was only good for close fighting. Ronnyn didn’t want the Mieren to get that close.

The nearest man jumped from his pony, slid a cudgel from his saddle and approached. He weighed them up as he decided who to attack first. He had the same odd sky-blue eyes as the trader; they all did. His hair was the colour of wet sand, and shoulder-length. A beard covered his lower face, making it hard to read the expression around his mouth.

A second man jumped down from his pony. He was armed with a nasty-looking sword, the metal nicked and stained. The two were so alike they had to be brothers.

Looking at the Mieren, Ronnyn realised that he stood taller than either of them. No wonder their attackers watched him carefully. The one with the cudgel edged around to confront Asher. The swordsman drew nearer to Ronnyn, caution in every step.

Meanwhile, Trader Kolbik clambered down stiffly. ‘Hand over the pouch, Saskar, and we’ll let you go.’

But even as he spoke, one of the Mieren lunged in to attack Asher. Ronnyn only caught a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye; he was still watching his own opponent, who did not move to attack.

A grunt of pain made Ronnyn glance around in time to see his father go down, clutching his bad leg. Now both Mieren faced Ronnyn.

One lifted the cudgel, the other swung his aged sword in a wide arc. Ronnyn dodged, blocking with the shaft of the pick. He couldn’t leave his father, who struggled onto one knee, bad leg extended, hand clamped to his thigh, which was bleeding again. He’d need help to get to his feet.

Ronnyn cast a quick look over his shoulder. The fourth man was trying to drive Aravelle back towards the beach. He didn’t like to think what they’d do to her, if they realised she wasn’t a boy.

The swordsman struck. A heartbeat later, the other swung the cudgel.

Ronnyn aimed the pick at the swordsman, who deflected with his ancient weapon. The sword snapped at the same moment as the cudgel hit Ronnyn’s forearm. The strength went out of his fingers, and the pick flew from his grasp. He bent double, gasping with pain.

But he didn’t go down. He regained his balance, to stand over his father. For the moment his right arm was useless. He pressed it to his chest and drew his fish-gutting knife with his left.

Both Mieren eyed him warily.

He watched the one with the cudgel. If the man got in one good blow to the head, his wits would go. And then who would save his father and Aravelle?

The cudgel wielder swung. Ronnyn ducked.

The other one came in from the side; his fist caught Ronnyn a glancing blow to the head. Ronnyn’s ear rang. He shook his head, blinking hair from his eyes. Both Mieren backed away, making the sign to ward off evil. Ronnyn realised he’d lost his cap.

‘A silverhead!’ the swordsman cried. ‘Ya bastard, Kolbik. Ya didn’t tell us they had a full-blood Wyrd!’

The trader cursed.

The way the two closest Mieren eyed Ronnyn was almost funny.

‘Help me up.’ Asher held out a hand.

Ronnyn sheathed his knife, offered his left hand and pulled his father to his feet. For once, his bad arm didn’t betray him.

Asher leaned heavily on him, breath rasping with pain. Ronnyn wondered where the cane was, then spotted it a few steps away.

‘He’s only a boy,’ the trader said. ‘His hair’s still white. He doesn’t have any power. Take him down.’

The swordsman drew a knife and exchanged looks with the cudgel wielder. They fingered their weapons as they closed in.

‘Here, this is what you want.’ Asher pulled out the leather pouch. Ronnyn had to steady him, as Asher tipped the pouch’s contents into his hand. Two more citrines from his mother’s torc. It wasn’t fair.

‘You can have all six stones,’ Asher lied. ‘Just let us go.’

The trader and his companions went very still.

‘There!’ Asher threw the stones over their heads onto the soft sand.

The two nearest Mieren turned and raced back to where the stones had landed. Falling to their knees, they began sifting through the sand, looking for six stones where there were only two.

Trader Kolbik glared at Asher and joined his companions in the sand. A pony charged past Ronnyn as the fourth thief went after his share.

‘Ronnyn, my cane.’ His father pointed.

He scooped it up and then grabbed the sacks. His right arm was working again, if a little sluggishly. Luckily nothing was broken.

They headed for the boat, with his father limping badly. Aravelle reached it first, tossed her sacks over the side and levered her weight up. She went straight to the anchor.

Ronnyn threw his things over the side, saw his father was in difficulty. Without waiting to be asked, he hoisted Asher up and into the boat.

By the time Ronnyn was aboard, Aravelle had hauled in the anchor. Ronnyn tugged on the rope to raise the sail. It swung, catching the wind that drove the storm their way. His father grabbed the oar and limped to the bow where he pushed them out into deeper water. Ronnyn went to help him.

The storm hit, wind driving cold rain. Ronnyn hauled the oar in and glanced back to the shore. The four Mieren were still madly scrambling through the sand. Even as Ronnyn watched, the three younger ones stood, turned on the trader, struck him down and searched his clothing. No honour. They were scavengers; sea-vermin.

Ronnyn didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘That was so clever, Da.’

But his father didn’t answer. He crumpled in a heap.

Aravelle could not leave the tiller. Her frantic eyes met Ronnyn’s. He knelt next to their father, who was grey and unconscious. Asher’s heart raced under Ronnyn’s hand and his right leg was drenched in blood.

Cursing the Mieren, Ronnyn carried their father into the cabin and placed him on the bunk, where he packed the wound and wrapped it tightly. Seeing it bleed again made him feel guilty. He should have protected Asher, should have used his gift.

To do what? He didn’t know how to guide the power. It was like reaching for the pick with his bad left hand. It was much safer to use his right when he needed to be sure of his grip on the weapon.

The boat wallowed in a trough, before lifting to meet the crest of a wave. They’d come out past the headlands now and were taking the full brunt of the storm.

He pulled the blanket up and strapped his father in. Then he went out on deck to help Aravelle. The boat bucked as it fought the sea. He had to halve the amount of sail, and even then, it was too much for Aravelle to hold the tiller.

He tried to take over.

She resisted, shouting into the driving wind, blinking rain from her face, her features illuminated by a flash of lightning. He crowded her, taking the tiller in spite of her protests.

In the aftermath of the thunder, his ears felt raw. Despite the pain in his forearms, he fought to hold the tiller and keep the boat’s prow pointed into the waves.

She glared at him, braced against the rise and fall of the deck.

‘Go inside,’ he shouted. ‘See to Father.’

She hesitated, her head silhouetted against clouds illuminated from within by lightning.

‘Go.’

For the first time, she didn’t insist she knew better. He braced his legs and admitted it was a struggle to hold the boat on course. How Aravelle had managed, he did not know.

Then he just concentrated on holding the prow into the waves.

S
ORNE WATCHED
S
CHOLAR
Igotzon scribble madly.

‘After the Maygharian king surrendered, then what happened?’ The skinny priest didn’t even lift his head.

Sorne had been describing King Charald’s Secluded Sea campaign. It had taken eight years to conquer the five mainland kingdoms; Sorne was sure he could string out the story long enough to discover where Igotzon was hiding the Wyrd scrolls, Oskane’s journals and the reports. So far they had covered the conquering of Maygharia, and already he knew where the Wyrd scrolls were kept.

The bells rang for prayer.

‘Is that the time?’ Sorne came to his feet. ‘I must go.’

‘I know Charald forced the Maygharian king to part with his son as a hostage.’ Igotzon was still scribbling.

‘That’s what Charald thought, but the Maygharian king never intended his son to sit on the throne. The youth was a wastrel. The king had been grooming his daughter all along. When Charald insisted the Maygharian princess marry Baron Norholtz and the baron was crowned his puppet king, neither of the Chalcedonians realised Norholtz would be dead within a few years and the daughter would be the sole ruler.’

‘That’s right, King Charald sent you to quell the Maygharian uprising.’

‘Which I did, but Norholtz was a fool. He threw away the victory and the throne.’

‘How?’

‘That’s a story for another day,’ Sorne said, then smiled. ‘It feels strange. You know so much about my life.’

‘Well, I have read Scholar Oskane’s journals.’ Igotzon glanced to the chest beside the fireplace. ‘And I keep up with events. It’s my goal to write the history of our time.’

‘I don’t think I’ve come across anyone with that goal before,’ Sorne admitted. Now there was just the reports to uncover. ‘I must go. The king’s expecting me.’

‘The king...’ Igotzon frowned. ‘I plan to start the history at the beginning of King Charald’s reign. Your insights would be invaluable.’ He dipped his nib and tapped off the excess ink. ‘I’ll make up a list of questions.’

He set to work and Sorne left.

Back at the palace, Sorne heard the king’s voice coming from his chamber of state. He found Charald alone with a map of the known world on the mahogany table.

The king looked up as Sorne entered and spoke as though they’d been in the middle of a conversation. ‘My father left me a kingdom in chaos. The treasury was empty and the war barons were on the march. They thought they’d whip me and force me to form some sort of council, like the Wyrds have, where every baron had a vote. That’s no way to rule a kingdom. Oskane said...’ He looked around. ‘Where is Oskane?’

Sorne shut the door, came over to the table and put a hand on the king’s shoulder. ‘Oskane groomed me to replace him. You were fifteen when your father died. You had Oskane and Baron Nitzel to advise you. Your son will be four next spring. The Chalcedonian barons have united behind Baron Nitzane, who has sworn to serve Prince Cedon until he reaches his majority, but the southern barons are not men of honour. They’ll see a small boy and try to steal his throne. What will happen to your son, if you are struck down suddenly?’

For a heartbeat, he thought the king would bluster and refuse to face his own mortality.

Then Charald gestured to the map. ‘He’ll be high king of the Secluded Sea, with a full treasury. But you’re right, he’ll need men I can trust to govern the kingdom and groom him to rule.’

‘Exactly. Who will those men be? Have you spoken to them? Have you had your law scholars draft a formal decree giving them this authority?’

Suspicion sharpened Charald’s pale eyes. ‘You want to be one of those men?’

‘Me? No, I’m exiled with the rest of the Wyrds, remember? I’m thinking only of your son and the future of Chalcedonia. Have I ever done anything but serve you loyally?’
When it suits me?

‘That’s true,’ Charald muttered to himself. Then he looked up, head trembling. ‘You do it. You draft the decree.’

Relief made Sorne’s legs weak, and he realised he’d been troubled by the thought of leaving Jaraile and Nitzane with the floundering king, while Eskarnor circled with his pack of wolves.

Sorne took a sheet of paper from the writing desk, quill and ink, and prepared to write. ‘Who do you trust to guide the prince?’

‘Not Nitzane,’ Charald said. ‘He’s not the man his grandfather was.’

Since Nitzane’s grandfather had arranged for his son-in-law to be murdered so his widowed daughter could marry the king, Sorne saw this as a recommendation. He tapped the nib on the ink-well as if thinking. ‘While Nitzane might not be a ruthless politician, he has a good heart and he’s honourable. He would bring those qualities to the prince’s upbringing, and he listens to Captain Ballendin, who is a good strategist and judge of men.’