Cry of the Newborn (9 page)

'Can you tell us how you are feeling and what you can see?' asked Kessian.

Mirron rocked on the stool. The flame guttered and fell away. She sagged back into Bryn's arms.

'Oh, my child, I am sorry,' said Kessian.
‘I
disturbed your concentration.'

Mirron gazed at him, her expression a little detached but intensely satisfied.

‘I
tried to talk but the flame wouldn't stay,' she said. 'It was beautiful.'

'It was indeed,' said Kessian. 'No,' she said. 'Inside.' 'What do you mean?'

'In my body and in my head. I could see paths in the air and through the ground.'

Kessian's throat dried. It was a direct quote from Gorian's writings. His theory about what an Ascendant would see. Hesther's hands tightened on his shoulders.

'Are you sure?' he whispered, voice almost lost in the roar of the forge.

Mirron nodded. 'Am I all right?' she asked, voice trembling. Kessian chuckled. 'Oh, my dear I think you are very much more than that.'

Bryn placed Mirron back on the floor and pushed her gently but firmly towards Kessian. The blacksmith cupped his hands together at his chest in the traditional Order of Omniscience encompassing sign. The Father frowned. 'Bryn, that's a little

He stopped when he saw Bryn's face. He'd seen that expression on Ossacer's face just a couple of nights before.

Dread fear.

Chapter 8

844th
cycle
of
God,
42nd
day
of
Solasrise

11th
year
of
the
true
Ascendancy

Every day for Han Jesson had been dark. The chill of loneliness engulfing him every time he awoke and taunting him every time he tried to close his eyes. The memories of that hideous day in Gull's Ford a year ago would not go away. The terror in his wife's eyes, her mute shock and screaming helplessness. The wails of his son. The blood across his street, and the bodies of people he had known for thirty years. The choking smell of burning. It was everywhere he walked, in every face he saw and in the dark scars on buildings that would never be repainted.

Those first days were vague. A despair so deep he barely registered living. He could recall but two things from them. The word 'gone' thundering through his muddled mind; and the tall man. The Gatherer.

The man who had promised him he would return his family to him. And though Jhered wrote to him at each levy time, he had no real news. Gave him no particular hope to cling onto. The letters were like reading reports on the war. They were disassociated from his pain.

Every day, Han walked to the east of the village and up to the crest of the valley where he would sit. Through the blistering heat of solastro, the shocking cold of dusas and the freshness of genastro, he made his short pilgrimage. And while he sat, the world passed him by.

Crops grew, were harvested and stored. New livestock was driven into the settlement. The sound of hammer and saw echoed up the valley, mixed with the shouts of men and the excitable chatter of children. Traders came and went. Th
e legion wagons rattled through
the streets, buying supplies on their way to the Tsardon front and selling spoils on the way back. The Gatherers came back too. Not the tall man this time but others. Assessing their progress, demanding a rise in the levy based on what they saw. And the civil war came ever closer to them.

But no sign of his family. No news but that the campaigns progressed and one day the Tsardon ruling dynasty would fall and reparations would begin. 'One day' was no good to Han Jesson. It was meaningless. And for every day that it did not come, his hope leached away.

It was late evening and the day had been searing hot with barely a puff of breeze to move the air. Han had been sitting in the shade of rock and tree for the larger part of the day, watching the hills to the east, the shimmer over the road to the south and the scattered river traffic. He'd seen riders moving in the distance in the late morning, impossible to say how many. Almost certainly Conquord cavalry though whenever he saw and heard bands of riders now, he shivered, his memories surfacing sharp and painful.

When the sunlight was gone, Han made his way back down the well-trodden path. In the early days he had lit fires for beacons and sat by them all night. But he had to live and maintain his business if his family were to have anything to return home to enjoy. So he lit the lanterns outside his repaired shop front and walked inside. Those lights would burn until dawn, just in case.

He shuffled about his workshop, lighting candles and more lanterns. He'd kept the shutters closed all day and the shop was relatively cool though the heat of solas had permeated his tiles and whitewashed walls. It was a small house with the workspaces dominating the ground floor while up the single flight of stairs were living and sleeping areas and a roof terrace. But it felt cavernous and his every movement echoed sadly from the stained walls.

He rubbed his hands over his face, the action reminding him he needed to shave. Just one more thing, like enjoying food, that seemed so unimportant. Most days he had to remind himself to keep going, to try to live as normal a life as he was able so that he was ready when they came home. Though when even bathing and washing his clothes were chores all but beyond him, it was a difficult reminder to fulfil.

Out in his back yard he could feel the heat from the kiln that he fired every night. Scattered about its base was the wreckage of too many cracked pots and vases. He unhooked the kiln door and opened it, feeling the wash of hot air over his face and arms.

He picked the two sets of tongs up from their rack and dragged the stone tray towards him, hooking its iron handles and laying it on the ground to cool. He cast his eyes briefly over the assortment of plates and mugs he had been asked to make, sighing at the breakages that told of the lack of attention to his clay mix and the variation in the thickness of the work he was trying to fire. He could see bubbles in the clay too. Nothing seemed to work any more, not how it should.

Han worked the same routine into the early hours of every morning, knowing he had to be exhausted to stop the voices keeping him from sleep. Take out last night's work; refire the kiln; sit at the wheel to make new orders; and decorate the fired work, what was left of it.

It was that last that drew tears from him more often than not. Kari had been the artist, he the potter. Without her, the vases, plates, jugs and mugs that were his stock in trade were plain and clumsy-looking. He couldn't be proud of anything he made now and he was dimly aware that the orders he was getting had more to do with the desire of Gull's Ford to look after its own than for any thought of selling on for profit in Haroq.

But as God-around-them-all was his witness, he could do nothing else. He hoped they understood that. He fell asleep at the paints and glaze that night. He'd eaten nothing all day, drunk a little too much wine and the heat eventually took its toll.

He awoke with a start, unsure what had awakened him. The night was warm and humid. He looked up at the stars, guessing it was a couple of hours before dawn. He had a slight headache and a thirst but neither of these was sufficient to have brought him round. It had been a dead, deep sleep, sprawled across the table. His paint brush was still in his hands, its tip red in the bright light from the lanterns set at the back corners.

He sat up and stretched his back. There was a glow in the sky to the north, a fire of some sort. Then the screams repeated and he knew why he had woken and the reason for the fire. He had heard that sort of fear before and remembered it like it was yesterday.

Dread crushed his gut and chest, left him fighting for breath. He was frozen to his chair while the sound of feet and hoofs gained in volume, matching that of the panicked voices and the wails of terror.

It couldn't be happening again. They'd already taken everything in Gull's Ford once. Not again, he whispered, God have mercy, please not again.

Han fought himself to a standing position. His body was shaking and his mind was blank, numb. His breathing shallow and very quick. He tried to calm himself, leaning hard on the back of the chair. He swallowed on a dry throat and blinked away the tears that had welled up. He had no idea what to do. Nothing suggested itself.

From out in the road, he heard the clatter of horses and the harsh shouts of the Tsardon. The yells and cries of the citizens of Gull's Ford grew louder still, more and more of them on the streets outside. The glow in the northern sky grew brighter and in a moment's lull, he heard the crackle of flames and a ragged cheer.

Han turned from the painting table. There was quiet in the street outside his front door and he moved towards it gingerly. There was something very different in the tenor of this raid. Before, in the glare of daylight, the Tsardon had attacked at random. Whole areas of the town had been totally ignored that time, while some houses in other streets had been destroyed, others passed by and others, like his own, damaged only enough to take the prize of his wife and son before attention went elsewhere.

He stopped and pressed his ear to the shutters, confused at what he was hearing. There was still a hubbub but it was passing away towards the north, leaving something surrounding him that he couldn't place. He cracked the shutters as quietly as he could to see out. He looked first to his left and his breath caught in the back of his throat. He switched sides and looked right and south. The same. He closed and hooked the shutters, backing away.

Tsardon. Approaching from both directions and riding down the centre of the street with swordsmen to either side, kicking in every door. Jesson shrank away, vision blurring. His lanterns were a welcome for his enemies. His door would burst in like it had before and they'd drag him away like they had his wife and child. He couldn't let that happen. He had to be here when she returned.

The thought cleared his head of the fog which had encased it. There was no time to grab anything. He was dressed and that would have to do. He ran back through the shop, out into the yard, past the kiln and to the wooden shelving attached to the back wall. It used to be filled with works awaiting decoration. Now it stood empty but it might just save his life.

Han scrambled up the racks, feeling the timbers give under his weight, hearing them protest their treatment, the sound awfully loud in his ears. Reaching the top shelf, he jumped with hands outstretched to grasp the lip of the roof terrace above him. Praetor Gorsal's house. She wouldn't begrudge him this chance to escape.

Behind him, his door was beaten in. Shouts ran through his shop and the noise from the street was much louder. Using it as a spur, he pulled and scrabbled, dragging his body onto Gorsal's terrace. He rolled once, gathered his breath and ran to the stairs underneath the sun porch. The quickest of glances behind him told him they had not seen him; there was no one in the yard.

Gorsal's house was dark and empty. His sandals whispered on the stone and his hand brushed the wall to give him balance. Below, a wan light washed the small hallway. He knew he shouldn't but he felt relief that the Tsardon had already been here and taken any they had found inside.

The door had been forced and Gorsal's collection of amphorae and vases from across the Conquord was smashed and scattered across the floor, clubbed from the alcove stands where they had stood so proudly. One of his own was among the debris, the fragments crushing under his feet on his way to the door.

His heart was hammering loud enough for the Tsardon to hear; it was painful in his chest. The quake in his limbs was back. He stopped. Surely he should hide here. The house had been cleared, there was no reason to risk running outside. He'd be safe. New hope flooded through his body.

He backed up a pace. He could hear the drone of noise that indicated where the citizens had been taken. Away north towards the fire and the House of Masks. He turned, thinking to hide up the stairs, perhaps under a bed. Two Tsardon stood at the head of the short stairway, hard eyes boring through him. Han closed his eyes and sagged to the floor. There was no escape.

They didn't kill him. Instead they pushed him into the street and herded him to the north of the town with others who had so nearly slipped the net. The fire resolved itself as the Reader's house, adjacent to the House of Masks. The two-storey building was engulfed. Stone glowed red, the last of the timbers were cracking in the intense heat and the roof tiles had long since collapsed into the body of the house.

In front of the blaze, the Reader stared mute at the destruction. He was flanked by Tsardon who held his arms at his sides though he made no attempt to resist. And assembled on the prayer grass in front of the House of Masks was the entire citizenry of Gull's Ford.

Jesson was pushed into the silent mass. He could feel the anxiety deepening as it swept through them. He caught sight of frightened eyes, wringing hands and quivering lips, ghastly in the light of the fire. People clung to each other for support and searched each other's faces for comfort and comprehension. Quiet sobbing surrounded him. He was sweating; the fire and the night unbearably hot. His mouth was dry and his throat tight. He didn't think he could have spoken even if he had found words. Whatever was going to happen to them, he just wanted it to be over quickly.

Tsardon horsemen with torches surrounded them on three sides. Ahead, the view of the blaze and those before it were unobstructed. The Reader had been moved and now stood adjacent to the offerings table where so recently, gifts of fruit, fish and meat had decorated its surface for the solasrise festival. Now it was cleared, its polished white marble surface, black-veined, reflecting the firelight, garish and mesmerising.

Three Tsardon moved to stand in front of the table. All were tall men, shaven-headed and bearded. Their leather jerkins were studded with steel and each wore a long, curved sword on the right hip. They studied the citizens of Gull's Ford dispassionately.

'You were warned,' said the man in the centre, his voice heavily accented. 'You were told to renounce the Conquord and its false God. You were told to take our words to your Marshal. Either you did not speak or he did not listen and now you must accept the consequences of the choice you have made.'

A shifting in the crowd.

'The Conquord is a blight on our world and its peoples are our enemies. Its faith is weak. It has prosecuted an unjust war against Tsard and we will not fall before its legions. Look at where we stand now. Estorea cannot protect you. Its God cannot protect you.'