Exile (47 page)

Ronnyn covered his brother’s mouth.

Too late. Kolbik’s eyes went straight to them.

‘There!’ Kolbik pointed. ‘There’s all the silverheads you could ask for!’

The Mieren looked up.

The brute grunted in surprise. ‘But their hair’s white.’

‘Be thankful it is,’ Kolbik said. ‘If it was silver, it would mean they’d come into their gifts. The children have no power.’

‘Then we don’t have to worry about looking into their eyes,’ ferret-face said.

‘Run, Ronnyn!’ Sasoria cried in T’En.

Ronnyn scrambled away from the ladder with Tamaron clinging to him. Vittor joined him at the far end of the loft. The only way to go was out the tiny window. He could push the others onto the roof, then crawl out after them, jump to the ground and run, but his little brothers would never reach the hide.

Besides, Ronnyn couldn’t leave his parents and sisters to the Mieren.

Ferret-face came up the ladder. He grabbed Tamaron’s ankle and pulled. ‘Got you!’

The four-year-old shrieked and clutched Ronnyn’s legs, his nails scraping.

‘Don’t hurt him!’ Vittor sprang towards the ladder, striking the Mieren’s head and shoulders.

Ronnyn grabbed Vittor and pulled him away. But ferret-face caught Vittor’s nightshirt and dragged him towards the ladder like a puppy. Vittor locked his arms around Ronnyn, holding on for dear life. Now that he was free, Tamaron launched himself at the Mieren, hitting his back and shoulders with tiny, furious fists. Ronnyn was so proud of him.

And so afraid for him; for all his family.

Ferret-face caught Tamaron. ‘Catch the cub, Kolbik.’

There were muffled noises from below as Tamaron was dropped into waiting arms, then ferret-face turned to deal with Ronnyn and Vittor.

‘It’s all right.’ Ronnyn squeezed Vittor’s arms. He glanced over to ferret-face and spoke Chalcedonian. ‘We’re coming down.’

‘Sure you are.’ The man climbed up into the loft, hunching double beneath the roof.

‘Go on, Vittor.’ Ronnyn sent him ahead down the ladder.

Then he went next. When his chest was level with the bed, the ferret-face spoke. ‘Eh, silverhead?’

Ronnyn looked up and ferret-face’s fist slammed into his face.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A
RAVELLE GASPED AS
the Mieren punched Ronnyn. Her brother flew back off the ladder. The Mieren scattered. Ronnyn’s head and shoulders hit the kitchen table with a horrible dull thud. Her mother cried out in protest. The table creaked, then collapsed.

In the ensuing silence, Kolbik swore. ‘He’s worth five silver coins!’

‘He’s not worth anything if we can’t control him,’ the thin-faced one said as he came down the ladder, then stepped over Ronnyn’s legs. ‘Now he’ll think twice before he gives us trouble.’

Aravelle did not dare move, but she searched Ronnyn’s face. Blood poured from his nose. Was his chest moving? Yes. Relief made her dizzy and slightly nauseous.

Someone had put a bounty on their heads.

The ferrety Mieren stepped around the collapsed table and went over to where the brute held her father down. He grabbed Asher by the hair and jerked him up to his knees. ‘Where are they? Where’s the precious stones Kolbik told us about?’

‘Give them the torc,’ her mother said in Chalcedonian. ‘Vella, show them where it is.’

‘Show them, Vella,’ her father urged.

She understood why she should cooperate, but her heart was ripe with rebellion as she knelt in front of the hearth to remove the stone. First she pulled out the leather satchel with the brotherhood cards.

The trader exclaimed over these. ‘Very fine. But I saw gems, yellow gems. Where are they?’

Carefully, she removed the mat and the box.

The trader tucked the card satchel under one arm and snatched the box from her, shook it, then tried to pry it open. He thrust it at her disgustedly. ‘Open it.’

She wanted to defy him, but didn’t dare. Hating herself, she obeyed, springing the catch to reveal her mother’s torc.

At the sight of it all, the Mieren fell silent. One of them whistled.

Kolbik took the box from her and removed the torc. It hung from his fingers, a thing of palaces and princes, completely out of place in their driftwood cottage.

‘Now you have it, take it and go,’ her father said. ‘Leave us alone. We’ve never done you any harm.’

‘How much is that worth, Kolbik?’ the ferret-faced Mieren asked, eyes aglow with avarice.

‘As much as I can get for it. Half goes to me. That’s our agreement.’

‘Come on.’ He hauled Aravelle to her feet. ‘What else is in there?’

‘Nothing.’ Aravelle’s voice cracked.

The leader gestured to Kolbik, who dropped to his knees to search the space under the stone. ‘Nothing.’

‘There’s this.’ Ferret-face held up the tusk their father had carved. ‘That’s got to be worth something. And this.’ He lifted the cane.

‘I’ll take that.’ Kolbik claimed the cane.

‘Take it. Take it all and go,’ Asher urged. ‘Just leave us alone.’

‘Not likely.’ Ferret-face cuffed Aravelle. ‘Collect everything of value.’

On Kolbik’s orders, she dragged the quilt off her parent’s bed and piled everything onto it, the pots and pans, the crockery, her father’s poems, the zither, the inks and the spiced-wine herb chest. All the while she was aware of Ronnyn lying unmoving in an ever-increasing circle of blood on the collapsed table.

Meanwhile, the others drove the rest of her family outside. When she heard the hens cackling indignantly and the nanny-goat bleating, she realised the Mieren meant to take everything. How would her family survive?

Then it hit her. They weren’t staying. They’d been taken captive to exchange for a bounty of silver coins. They should have gone back to their people while they still could.

Ferret-face carried the quilt filled with all their possessions outside.

‘Now bring him,’ the trader told Aravelle, nodding towards Ronnyn, who had not moved.

She ran around the collapsed table and knelt next to her brother. Where he wasn’t covered in blood, he was pale. His nose was swollen and he breathed through his mouth.

‘Ronnyn?’ she whispered, hoping he was playing possum.

He did not stir. Her heart shrivelled with fear.

Kolbik laughed wildly and she looked up in time to see her parents’ bed catch fire. The base, stuffed with dried dune grass, burned fiercely. As she watched, the trader tossed a burning brand into the loft above.

Smoke quickly filled the cottage, making Aravelle’s eyes burn. But it was tears of rage that nearly blinded her as she slid her arms under Ronnyn’s broad shoulders and dragged him off the table, out the door and down onto the sand.

The brute had her father restrained on his knees and, further along, her mother crouched in the sand with the three little ones. One of the Mieren strode down the beach swinging squawking chickens by their legs. He tossed the birds into the boat. With their wings clipped, they couldn’t escape. She felt as helpless.

Aravelle dragged Ronnyn over to her mother, then knelt, holding his head so sand wouldn’t get into the wound. Her mother inspected his injuries, first his nose, then the back of his head.

‘Will he be alright, Ma?’ Vittor asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of the flames.

‘Of course he will. Now sit still and be quiet.’

And he was satisfied, but Aravelle held her mother’s eyes. This was bad. This was...

‘I’ve seen men walk away with worse,’ Sasoria whispered.

‘What did he mean, five silver coins for a silverhead?’

Sasoria shook her head.

A particularly sharp crack made them both turn.

The cottage roof had caved in.

Itania clutched Aravelle’s arm. Flames painted her little sister’s sweet face in shades of orange, and the tear tracks glistened on her cheeks.

It was amazing how quickly the cottage burned.

Heat beat on Aravelle’s face, making her skin feel tight. The blazing building lit up the night, bright as the double full-moons. But unlike that lovely silvery light, this light was filled with crazy, leaping shadows. Everything had a reddish glow, as if stained with blood.

The Mieren backed off as the flames roared, reaching into the sky. Leaping and crackling, the fire spat and growled like a pack of caged beasts, the noise so loud it drowned out all other sounds.

Beside Aravelle, little Tamaron clung to Vittor. The four year-old’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, while the six-year-old stared at their burning home, the fire reflected in the depths of his furious mulberry eyes.

She had to look away. She couldn’t bear to see their home burn.

Glancing over her shoulder, down the beach, Aravelle noticed the Mieren’s fishing ketch. It was larger than her father’s and floated in the shallows of their sheltered cove.

‘Kolbik?’ her father yelled. ‘
Trader Kolbik?
’

The trader crossed the sand to Asher, who knelt at the brute’s feet. Due to the roaring fire, Aravelle couldn’t hear what her father was saying, but she could tell by the way he jerked his head towards the boat that he was telling them to take their booty and go.

Kolbik laughed and turned his back on Asher, approaching the rest of her family. He caught Aravelle’s arm, hauling her to her feet so quickly Ronnyn’s head slid off her lap onto the sand.

Sasoria sprang to her feet and tried to step between them, and Kolbik raised his hand to her mother. Miraculously, her father pulled the trader off them. But the brute caught her father by the shoulders and swung him around. His bad leg collapsed under him and he fell, sprawling.

When Sasoria tried to help him up, the brute shoved her aside so that she fell in the sand next to Asher, who clutched his thigh, grimacing in pain.

Vittor tried to go to their aid, but Aravelle grabbed him. Tamaron and Itania sobbed inconsolably.

‘Stay, Vittor.’ She spoke into his ear so he could hear her over the roar of the fire. ‘Look after Tam and Tani. Stay with Ronnyn.’

He nodded. The ferret-faced Mieren had hauled her mother upright. Now he swung Sasoria around by the neckline of her gown. The material tore as she staggered, falling in the soft sand.

Vittor tugged on Aravelle’s arm, pointing to Ronnyn, who stirred.

She dropped to her knees and leant over him, asking if he was all right. He pushed away from her and sat up blinking, much to Aravelle’s relief.

Blood drenched the shoulders, back and chest of his night shirt. He blinked as if having trouble focusing.

‘My head,’ he mouthed, then lurched to his knees to bring up his dinner.

She rubbed his back as he wiped his mouth. The fire’s roar was dying down now. ‘Are you all right?’

He nodded, then winced. ‘But the fire...’ He slurred his words. ‘The brotherhood’ll find us.’

Had he lost his wits?

‘Too late. The Mieren already found us.’

He looked confused.

‘The trader betrayed us. Don’t you remember?’ She moved out of his way and gestured to the Mieren, who were silhouetted against their burning cottage.

Ronnyn swayed on his haunches and blinked, as though the world did not make sense to him.

The ferret-faced Mieren hauled their mother to her knees. Her long copper braid had unravelled and her hair fell forward, covering breasts exposed by the ruined nightdress.

‘Don’t look,’ the brute warned. ‘They say Wyrd women can ensnare the unwary!’

‘Only if you let them,’ Kolbik said. ‘I recommend cutting out their tongues!’

Asher tore loose from the brute. Charging the trader from behind, he pulled Kolbik’s knife from his belt and stabbed him in the back before anyone could move. Even before the trader’s body hit the sand, Asher launched himself at ferret-face, knocking the youth flying as he passed. The lantern went spinning.

Hope made Aravelle leap to her feet.

But the brute caught Asher before he could take ferret-face down. Aravelle saw the brute’s blade flash as it sank into her father’s abdomen, up high under his ribs. Asher fell to his knees.

Her father blinked once, then pitched forward onto the sand.

Aravelle’s stomach turned over. She stumbled two steps, dropped to her knees and retched until she had nothing left to bring up.

When she lifted her head, she saw Vittor had shoved Tamaron and Itania aside, and sprung to his feet.

‘Stop him, Ronnyn,’ Aravelle hissed.

But all he did was blink slowly and stare at their father’s body.

She lurched to her feet, catching Vittor around the waist. ‘There’s nothing we can do.
Nothing.
’

Vittor shook with emotion, and the same outrage filled Aravelle. She wanted every last one of the Mieren dead. If only Ronnyn’s gift had reached its full potential. If only he had been trained by the brotherhood.

If only she had let him practise on her.

But she hadn’t. She’d been too weak to trust herself.

And now they were all powerless, and she hated it. She felt like sobbing until her heart shattered, but she couldn’t, not when her little brothers and sister needed her, and not when Ronnyn seemed to have lost his wits. Hatred for her own impotence seared Aravelle, erasing all thought but survival.

Dragging in a ragged breath, she searched Vittor’s face. When she was sure her brother would not do something rash and get himself killed, she released him. He shuddered and sagged against her. She sat abruptly, her legs giving way. Little arms and bodies wrapped themselves around her. She would do anything to protect them, but all she could do was reassure them.

‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be all right,’ she told them. It satisfied the two little ones, and Vittor seemed resigned for now.

Meanwhile, Sasoria had crawled over to their father and rolled him onto his back.

Their father’s death seemed to have sobered the four remaining Mieren. They stared at the knife hilt protruding from Asher’s stomach. Aravelle could see her mother’s lips moving as she whispered her father’s name, searching frantically for signs of life. When she found none, she gave a keening wail of despair. It rose on the night air, carrying above the sound of the fire.