Exile (53 page)

Wearing only his breeches, he turned, startled. ‘Jaraile, what is it?’

She was supposed to be seducing him, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. Instead she shook her head and ran to him. A storm of tears surprised her. She hadn’t known her emotions were so close to the surface. Angry sobs shook her as he folded her against his chest.

For a moment, he just held her. When she felt him draw breath to ask for an explanation, she lifted her face to his. ‘I’ve been so frightened.’

His breath caught in his throat, but he led her to the chair by the hearth and sat her down.

‘You shouldn’t be here alone. Let me get you a cup of wine, and then I’ll take you back to your chambers.’

Why did he have to be such a good man? Frustration made her moan. She was supposed to be seducing him, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

‘Don’t cry.’ He knelt beside the chair. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

Eskarnor raped me. I’m pregnant and I want you to think you’re the father so you’ll protect me, Prince Cedon and this child.
But if Nitzane tried it, Eskarnor would kill him. Good men could not stand against bullies who didn’t care who they hurt to get what they wanted. Her father had been a good man, but he hadn’t been able to protect her. It was a mistake coming here.

‘Jaraile?’

She sprang to her feet and her vision dimmed. She felt herself collapse in his arms.

‘There. What did I tell you?’ Eskarnor demanded. ‘Your wife is unfaithful.’

She blinked as her sight returned, and saw Eskarnor with the king in the doorway. Charald staggered back a step, hand on his heart.

Eskarnor caught her eye and gave the slightest shrug, as if to say
how could I pass up the opportunity?

Nitzane set her on her feet. ‘Sire, I swear–’

‘Save your lies!’ Charald turned and bellowed down the passage. ‘Fetch Commander Halargon.’

Eskarnor smiled with hateful satisfaction.

It was too much for Jaraile. She ran to the king, throwing herself at him, weeping. ‘He raped me!’

‘Nitzane raped you?’ Charald laughed, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Why should he, when you’d bend over for him?’

‘Not Nitzane. Eskarnor.’ She did not have to pretend to shake with anger. ‘I ran to Nitzane and tried to tell him, but I passed out. He was helping me up.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Eskarnor sneered.

‘I wondered why you were so upset,’ Nitzane said then bristled as he strode over to confront Eskarnor. ‘You’re without honour. You force yourself on the queen, and when she comes sobbing to me, you accuse me of the very crime you committed.’ Nitzane could hardly speak, he was so furious. ‘I swear, I’ll–’

‘King Charald, you sent for me?’ Commander Halargon strode towards them. ‘What’s going on here?’

They all turned to him in the hallway. Everyone spoke at once. Jaraile wanted Eskarnor locked up. Nitzane wanted to challenge Eskarnor and defend the queen’s honour. Charald wanted to believe her and Nitzane’s version of events, she could tell.

Jaraile could feel the king trembling and feared his heart would give out. She tried to make them understand that the king needed to sit down, but Charald would have none of it.

A dozen servants clustered around, watching, wide-eyed.

Several of Baron Eskarnor’s honour guard came running from the other direction. They thrust through the servants and lined up behind Eskarnor.

Halargon reached for his weapon. Nitzane joined Halargon, even though he was unarmed.

Meanwhile, Jaraile tried to support the king, who kept pushing her away. She gestured over her shoulder to the servants. ‘Fetch Halargon’s men.’

But they just stood there, gawking stupidly.

‘Commander Halargon, the Wyrds are coming,’ a youth in the uniform of the king’s guard ran up the hall towards them. ‘The Wyrds are coming!’

Charald turned. ‘What is it, lad? Speak sense.’

The youth dropped to one knee. ‘A merchant rode in through from the west gate, sire. He says the Wyrds are coming to port.’

‘Of course the Wyrds are coming,’ Charald snapped. ‘They’re preparing for exile.’

‘No, they’re
all
coming. There’s thousands of them, filling the road to port. He said the first of them will start arriving tomorrow.’

‘Why?’ Charald muttered. ‘Why leave early?’

Jaraile glanced to Nitzane, who looked to Halargon.

‘I don’t know, sire,’ the commander said. ‘But I’ll make sure they get through the port to the Wyrd wharf.’

‘Where’s Sorne?’ The king sounded plaintive. ‘Where is he? He should be here.’

‘I think he rode off on Wyrd business,’ Nitzane said.

That reminded Jaraile of how Eskarnor had claimed Sorne was the only man who could stop him. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Eskarnor and his men disappear down the end of the passage. ‘The baron’s getting away.’

‘Arrest Eskarnor. He...’ The king suddenly went stiff in Jaraile’s arms. His eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped to the floor, his body shaking.

Horrified, Jaraile could only stare.

‘He’s having a fit!’ Nitzane said. ‘Stand back.’

By the time he’d knelt next to Charald, the king was no longer shaking, but neither was he conscious. Between the baron and Halargon, they got Charald back to his chamber. Jaraile sent for the manservant.

While she did this, she overheard Nitzane tell Halargon that Eskarnor had raped her, but she was concerned for her son.

She drew Nitzane and Halargon away from the bed. ‘Commander, nothing must go wrong with the handover of Prince Cedon. You must ensure the Wyrds reach the wharf safely. That’s the most important thing.’

Halargon nodded. ‘I’ve had my people watching for men-at-arms slipping into port, and I swear Eskarnor only has his honour guard. I’ll send some men to arrest him. By tomorrow, he’ll be under lock and key and I can concentrate on the Wyrds.’

He headed off. Now that her son would soon be restored to her, she felt impatient with any delay.

‘I’m sorry, Jaraile,’ Nitzane said softly.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.’

For a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about. Then she realised. Nitzane couldn’t have protected her from Eskarnor. She was glad there would not be a duel. But she was still pregnant. She needed to think. ‘I’m going to sit with the king.’

Charald lay on his bed, mouth agape, deeply asleep. Jaraile pulled up a chair and watched Charald the Great snore.

If she was going to protect her son and safeguard the kingdom for him, she needed to gather men around her who were resolute, capable and loyal. She didn’t need a feeble-minded king. Charald either had to get better or he had to... The thought shocked her.

The manservant arrived, wringing his hands. ‘They’re saying the king had a fit. What happened?’

If the servants down in the kitchen had heard, soon the whole port would hear.

‘King Charald threw a fit, and he hasn’t woken up yet,’ Jaraile whispered. She knew Bidern had resented Sorne’s interference with his treatment of the king. ‘What should we do?’

He glanced to the bed, his devotion clear. ‘My brother the apothecary has been consulting the books. The shakes, the aches, the fears, the raving are common for a lot of ailments, but the red-coloured urine is typical only of one. We can give him purges and let blood to help ease his symptoms, but the best treatment is based on arsenic.’

‘Then we must treat him,’ Jaraile said.

‘He’s never had a fit before.’ Bidern hesitated, then confided, ‘I think I should double his dosage.’

‘If you think you should do it, then do it,’ she said, and she did not feel a moment’s compunction.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I
MOSHEN HAD KNOWN
it would be a challenge travelling with this many people. Seven days on the road and they should have already been at the wharf. Instead, they would not arrive until tomorrow. Each evening, the last of their party would catch up long after dark. The roads were knee-deep in mud. Each day they passed abandoned wagons and carts, stripped bare.

When the axle broke on one of her sisterhood wagons, they had to drag it to the side of the road, unhitch the horses and take what they could carry. Even as they walked away, Mieren came out of the fields to strip what was left. She was sure, when the roads were in better condition, they’d return with horses and take the wagon, too.

It was unnerving knowing the Mieren stalked them, but these were poor farm folk, not men-at-arms. They had been lucky. So far, there had been no attack by the barons’ men. The brotherhoods had intercepted all messages Eskarnor’s supporters had sent to port.

That night, as they made camp, there was no singing or laughter, only endurance. Imoshen had erected her sisterhood tent next to the healer’s, and they shared the meagre warmth of a brazier, trying to heat food for the children.

The constant rain meant fires would not light. Most nights they ate cold meals, and went to bed wet and cold. Daily they were growing short-tempered and more on edge.

And they had not even sailed into exile yet.

But there was good news. Imoshen knelt next to the healer as she worked on little Prince Cedon’s foot. Reoden offered her hands. ‘Now rise onto your toes.’

He did this, using her hands to help him balance.

‘Very good. Did you see, Imoshen?’

‘Clever boy,’ Imoshen told him. He’d turned three back in the spring and was fast leaving the toddler behind, growing into a little boy. He was a sweet child, and she’d grown fond of him. She hoped that by returning him to King Charald they were not putting his life in danger, but she suspected they were.

‘I can jump, too,’ he told her. ‘Watch and thee.’

‘See,’ Imoshen corrected. Ree had been working on that too.

‘See,’ he repeated and jumped with so much vigour he nearly overbalanced.

Reoden laughed, catching him. ‘My clever boy!’

‘My Ree-ma!’ He threw his arms around her neck.

A sharp male voice cut through the soft female chatter.

Imoshen tensed. The thought of Umaleni sleeping, vulnerable, in the wagon with the other children made her heart race and her gift rise. But surely if they were under attack, there would be screams and shouts, and the sound of fighting would have started over on the edge where the brotherhoods camped, not here in the centre where the sisterhoods were.

‘I said, no further,’ Reoden’s hand-of-force warned.

The sisters scrambled to their feet, looking to Imoshen and the healer. Several of the warriors quietly collected their weapons and went outside. The little prince reached for Reoden.

She took his hand and beckoned her scryer. ‘Watch over him, Lysi.’

‘If it’s Mieren, hide him,’ Imoshen said, speaking T’En so the prince would not understand. ‘If it’s Baron Eskarnor, he’ll kill the boy outright.’

‘You need to come out here, Imoshen.’ Egrayne sounded wary.

In the lantern-lit, rainy night Imoshen found Hand-of-force Cerafeoni and three of her warriors confronting a dozen T’En males. Cerafeoni had lost an eye the day Reoden’s daughter was killed, and had never forgiven herself for failing to protect the child. She radiated distrust, her gift on alert.

The brotherhood warriors tensed, hands on the hilts of their long-knives, gifts roused in response to the threat of so many powerful T’En women. They were led by...

‘Reyne?’ Imoshen recognised All-father Hueryx’s hand-of-force. She tried to read him, but all her gift gleaned was tension.

‘Causare.’ Reyne acknowledged her, then signalled the warriors who stood behind him.

They parted to reveal a frightened Mieren woman – no, a girl; she was no more than fifteen or sixteen – huddled under a travel-stained cloak. Her feet were bare.

‘We caught her trying to sneak into camp,’ Reyne said.

‘Why?’ Imoshen asked.

‘She would not say.’

Unable to understand their language, the girl watched their faces. To Imoshen’s gift, she radiated equal amounts of terror and determination.

Most T’En had had little to do with Mieren before King Charald marched on their city, and even less to do with them since. Knowing she had to negotiate with the Mieren king, Imoshen had read everything she could find about them. Women were only ever mentioned in relation to men, as a man’s mother, sister, daughter or wife. Imoshen knew only that girls were considered old enough to marry at thirteen or fourteen, and women owned nothing, not even their children. In fact, women were considered the property of the nearest male relative.

Imoshen took a step closer.

‘Watch out, causare, she could have a weapon under that cloak,’ Reoden’s hand-of-force warned. ‘Reyne would not let us near her.’

‘Did you search her?’ Imoshen asked Reyne.

His lips curled in a half-smile.

Imoshen could see why the warriors were not afraid of the Mieren girl. She only came up to mid-chest on them.

Imoshen held the girl’s eyes and spoke in Chalcedonian. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for the queen of the Wyrds.’

‘She means you,’ Reyne told Imoshen.

‘Thank you, Reyne.’ Imoshen could not keep the sarcasm from her voice. What would drive this girl to come here, demanding to see the enemy’s leader? ‘I am the causare. It is an elected position, unlike your queen or king. What do you–’

An infant’s cry cut her off. From the sound of the cry it was a newborn, no more than a few days old. One little hand reached out, six fingers splayed.

‘Half-blood,’ Imoshen breathed, then raised her voice. ‘She brings a Malaunje babe to us.’

Everyone relaxed, and Imoshen felt the gift tension subside.

‘I have silver,’ Egrayne said. She opened the drawstring purse and removed a coin. ‘There you are.’

But the girl pulled back. As if sensing her anxiety, the baby whimpered and uttered a mewling cry.

‘I don’t want silver for her. She’s all I’ve got.’ The girl tried to soothe the baby. ‘My husband threw me out. He said he didn’t want a wife who birthed a Wyrd brat. I’ve nowhere to go.’

No one spoke.

‘We can’t take a Mieren with us into exile. It wouldn’t be right,’ Egrayne said in T’En. ‘She can go to her sisters.’