Exile (46 page)

‘It wasn’t their fault,’ Saffazi said. ‘I talked them into it.’

‘I don’t need to be a raedan to know that,’ Imoshen told her.

Saffazi laughed, not at all abashed, and little Umaleni laughed because she liked it when people were happy. They stepped out into the aviary, carried on a crest of joy.

The gift-tutor sniffed disapprovingly. Her devotee mirrored her expression.

‘Vittoryxe, I see you are ready.’ Imoshen assumed a suitably solemn expression. The balcony overlooked the city, facing west into the setting sun.

Behind the gift-tutor, the birds called and flew about their perches, each a work of art. They had been bred for their glorious crests, brilliant colours and lilting songs, and they were Vittoryxe’s passion, so it was only right that she make a ceremony of releasing them.

Two Malaunje musicians consulted with the gift-tutor, then began to play the tune she’d chosen. It was a dirge, hardly appropriate for giving the birds their freedom. Still, Imoshen had to acknowledge the depth of the gift-tutor’s emotion, as tears coursed down her cheeks. Vittoryxe had been breeding birds since she was a child.

‘Which ones have you chosen to take with you?’ Imoshen asked to divert her thoughts.

‘None.’ She walked around the aviary.

‘You can take your favourite pair,’ Imoshen reminded her. ‘I’ve made provision for their feed and housing.’

As if she didn’t have enough to organise.

‘Better for them to die free.’

It was on the tip of Imoshen’s tongue to say the birds might feel otherwise, but she restrained herself.

Vittoryxe reached the end of the aviary where Malaunje servants had loosened the west wall of the cage. With a vicious push, the gift-tutor sent it crashing onto the courtyard tiles.

Umaleni jumped in Imoshen’s arms, her little hands clutching in fright. Imoshen hugged her tight.

The birds chirruped, flapped and circled but did not leave. Weeping, Vittoryxe ran into the aviary to thrust them off their perches. The birds fluttered and wheeled. Squawking and shrilling, some made their way out into the world, but many did not. Vittoryxe redoubled her efforts to drive them off, weeping and cursing.

Imoshen knew that later, when the gift-tutor calmed down, she would regret her loss of control.

Right now, Vittoryxe was beyond thought. Between her cries and the birds’ cries it was a cacophony.

Imoshen felt her daughter stiffen and tremble. She tried to reassure Umaleni, but it was all too much. The infant’s bottom lip turned down and she wailed in sympathy. The Malaunje musicians struggled valiantly on, but their subtle pipes and strings were drowned out.

Imoshen could not console her daughter. Tears streamed down the infant’s face.

What was meant to be a solemn, grand send-off became a shambles. Desperate to distract Umaleni, Imoshen went to the edge of the balcony, pointing west to where the first of the birds headed off, silhouetted against the setting sun.

‘Look, there they go. Pretty birds, Uma.’

Umaleni gulped and her cries eased.

‘You!’ Vittoryxe’s angry whisper made Imoshen turn. ‘You should never have been taken into this sisterhood. Look what you have brought us to!’ She gestured to the empty cage. ‘Our heritage has been squandered. Our ancestors must be moaning in their crypts!’

Frightened by Vittoryxe’s anger, Umaleni wailed anew. Imoshen turned her shoulder to the enraged gift-tutor and caught her devotee’s eye. Frayvia took Umaleni and left the balcony.

With her distraught infant safe, Imoshen turned back to deal with Vittoryxe, but the gift-tutor had gone.

Imoshen fought to control the surging of her gift. It wasn’t her fault the Mieren king wanted them gone. They were lucky to have turned genocide into exile.

One part of her was angry, the other sympathised with the gift-tutor. Since spring cusp, Vittoryxe had lost her choice-son and her prized birds, and soon she would lose her home.

The musicians came to the end of their piece, bowed and left. Doubtless, they’d talk of the gift-tutor’s outburst in the Malaunje dining hall.

Silence fell, save for the call of wild birds heading home to roost. How long would Vittoryxe’s birds survive in the wild?

Were their people a product of the Celestial City’s hot-house? Imoshen frowned. Would they suffer the same fate? She shivered as the last of the sun’s rays left the marble columns and glass doors along the balcony and, except for the highest dome and tower, the Celestial City was swallowed by twilight.

Imoshen’s heart ached for their ancestors, who had striven to create beauty and harmony, never dreaming their descendants would be forced to leave the city. Her heart ached for her generation, who set off into the unknown, and for their children, who would only ever know of the Celestial City through stories and memory-sharing.

‘Well, that was a disaster,’ Saffazi remarked, coming over to join her. The young initiate wrinkled her nose. ‘I almost felt sorry for Gift-tutor Vittoryxe.’

‘You should,’ Imoshen told her. ‘Vittoryxe will find it hard to adjust to exile.’

‘That’s silly,’ Saffazi said. ‘It’s exciting!’

Imoshen laughed. ‘You’re right.’ She linked arms with Saffazi. ‘That is how we must see exile, as a great adventure.’

R
ONNYN CHECKED THE
hen-house was secure, then made sure the goats were safe in their pen. Finally, he walked around to the front of the cottage and stood on the beach for a moment, watching the wisp of smoke drift from the chimney.

The cries of the birds as they went to their roosts faded. The first of the night hunters took to the evening sky. Meanwhile, their cottage rested safe and secure. The wood heap was stacked high against one wall, and the pantry was stocked with preserved food.

Satisfaction welled up in him. In the spring before he left, he would do everything he could to set up his family before leaving. Tears stung his eyes.

He could not imagine life without them, but he had to go, for their sakes. Even as he thought this, his gift rose, demanding that he use it. He forced it down.

Aravelle opened the front door. Silhouetted against the light, she beckoned him. ‘Come in, the water’s hot.’

Tonight was their bath. Crossing the sand, he entered the cottage and closed the door after him. Itania and Tamaron sat with their father by the hearth, where Asher combed the tangles from their hair.

Vittor knelt in the knee-deep tub, head down, as Aravelle rinsed his hair. His pale skin gleamed like the moon on a clear night. He came to his feet, innocently naked, while Aravelle wrapped a cloth around his hair, squeezing it dry. Vittor had the curls, like Itania and Tamaron, but his hair fell in long rippling waves to his thighs.

Privately, Ronnyn thought hair this length was a nuisance, but it was a matter of pride for their mother. The T’Enatuath wore their long hair in elaborate styles, so she made special scented soap, and ensured her family’s hair was properly dressed, even if only in plaits.

‘There’s fresh hot water,’ Aravelle told Ronnyn.

‘You go first.’ He knew she liked to freshen the bath water before using it.

‘I’ll be quick.’ She smiled and pegged the blanket across the corner of the cottage, stepping behind it while he sat on the far side near the fire.

Ronnyn tried to build a cottage in his head, planning the frame, the timber he would need, how he would make the joints, brace the walls...

The scent of verbena-scented soap was so sharp it almost stung his nostrils. Around him, the little ones laughed and sang, but he felt isolated by the impatience that rode his body. At the same time, he felt focused by the concentration it took to rein his gift in. He could have been sitting there forever, waiting for her.

He couldn’t stand it a moment longer. His heart beat like a great drum, pounding through his body. He felt his gift rise. This time he could not keep it shut away. He had to get out.

He sprang from his seat. ‘I’m going to check on the animals.’

Without waiting for an answer, he went out into the cold moonlit night.

As he paced the familiar paths, his mind raced. He couldn’t go on like this. He didn’t want to restrain his gift. He felt she owed him the chance to test his limits. He knew she wanted it as much as he did, and didn’t see why she refused.

He should make her admit it. He would...

He could not trust himself.

Surprised by this self-knowledge, he dropped to his knees in the sandy soil behind the chicken coop. Heat and power radiated from his skin, making the chill moonlit air feel luxurious.

A sound made him turn.

Aravelle stood there in her night shirt, wet hair down to her knees. She finished weaving it into a braid and flicked it over her shoulder. ‘Your gift was troubling you?’

Ronnyn lifted his hands. ‘It gets into my head. It changes the way I think and feel. I tell myself I won’t let it, but it does.’

‘You’ll learn to control it.’

He didn’t want to control it. He wanted to use it. ‘Go away.’

‘You’ve got to come inside.’ She took a step closer. ‘Dinner’s ready. They’re waiting for–’

He sprang to his feet, caught her arm and swung her up against the chicken coop wall; felt his gift surge.

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Don’t do this. You’ll be sorry tomorrow.’

He was dimly aware she was right, but...

Something slammed into the back of his knee. His leg crumpled and he fell.

‘Back to the house, Vella.’ Asher’s voice was hard.

She ran off, but only a body length.

Ronnyn rose from a crouch, turning at the same time.

Asher stepped back, cane raised. ‘Do you want to break your mother’s heart?’

And the madness left him as his gift dissipated into the night.

With a groan, he sank to his knees in the cold sandy soil. Tears of shame burned his eyes, and silent sobs shook his shoulders.

‘The greater the gift, the harder it is to control,’ Asher said softly. ‘That’s why the T’En females separate the boys when they get to your age. The power surges. It clouds the mind–’

‘I hate it!’ Ronnyn said and, at that moment, he meant it. He rubbed his face, trying to catch his breath. ‘I’m sorry. I planned to leave in the spring.’

‘He did.’ Aravelle backed him up.

‘Too late. We’ll pack up and go...’

‘Ma can’t travel with the baby due.’ Ronnyn pulled himself to his feet, had to lean against the chicken shed. He felt tired and flat. ‘I should go alone.’

‘Alone?’ Aravelle echoed.

‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ Asher reached out. Ronnyn felt a firm warm hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you can do this, son.’

‘I have to, don’t I?’ He sucked in a shaky breath, then looked to his father. ‘I’m all right now. Please don’t tell Ma.’

‘We’ll just tell her it’s time to go home.’

So he went inside, ate his dinner and, when it was time for bed, Aravelle made herself a nest in front of the fireplace, despite his offer to sleep on the floor.

As he lay down in the loft with the two little boys, who were already asleep, he thought he’d never drift off. At the same time, he was so tired, he couldn’t think clearly.

Ronnyn woke to a muffled noise. Had a possum climbed in and raided the larder again? His father would have to chase it around the cottage. No, Asher couldn’t run anymore. He would have to go down the ladder, catch the silly thing and...

His mother gave a ragged cry, alarming in its intensity.

‘Baby coming?’ he whispered, looking for Aravelle.

But she wasn’t there. The events of last night returned to him. He felt shame, but also relief now that their father knew.

Vittor sat up, rubbing his face, and Tamaron grumbled as he rolled over.

Ronnyn was going to tell them to go back to sleep, but an unknown male voice cut him off. Another unknown male voice answered.

Strangers in their cottage?

Had the brotherhood found them?

An angry curse made Vittor gasp and Tamaron sit bolt upright. Both little boys looked to Ronnyn, who lifted a finger to his lips. Vittor and Tamaron nodded.

He felt the weight of their trust.

Signalling for silence, he crept to the edge of the loft to peer down into the room below. No silver hair, or even copper.

They were Mieren.

Five men. He recognised Trader Kolbik, but none of the others.

So that was how they had been found... betrayed and hunted down by the trader. Ronnyn’s stomach clenched; one of them had Aravelle by her plait.

Another, a brute with huge shoulders and a barrel chest, held their father on his knees, with his arms pinned behind his back. The fourth, a youth with crooked front teeth, held a lantern high.

The last one was a mean-looking man with a thin, ferrety face. He advanced on their mother and tried to pull Ronnyn’s little sister away from her. Itania squealed as the stranger’s fingers pressed cruelly into her chubby arms.

‘Don’t hurt her,’ Sasoria cried in T’En, then switched to Chalcedonian. ‘Please, don’t–’

The ferret-faced stranger cuffed Ronnyn’s mother. She released Itania, staggering until she hit the wall. And there she stayed with one hand under her heavy belly to support the weight.

‘Sasoria!’ Asher roared, struggling against his captor. The brute forced him down, crushing his face into the reed mat, muffling his cries.

The others laughed, their strange, shallow eyes gleaming.

‘Bring me the Wyrd brat.’ Kolbik gestured. ‘Bring the lantern closer.’

Ferret-face presented Itania to the trader. Ronnyn’s little sister froze; she must have been terrified. As Kolbik turned her plump little hands over to count the fingers, righteous indignation filled Ronnyn and he burned to protect her.

‘She’s got the six fingers and the mulberry eyes, but,’ Kolbik dropped Itania’s hands disgustedly, ‘her hair’s copper. Only a half-blood, like the parents and the girl.’

Ferret-face thrust Itania into Sasoria’s arms and turned to confront the trader. ‘You said there was a full-blood. So where is he? We get five silver coins for a silverhead, and only one for a copperhead!’

‘What does he mean?’ Vittor whispered.