Sanctuary (15 page)

There was a soft knock on the door. Charsoria glanced at it then back to Aravelle. ‘Well, get the door, girl. That’ll be Nariska with your food.’

Aravelle wiped her face and answered the door.

Nariska entered with a tray.

‘You can eat once you’re clean. Strip,’ Charsoria ordered. ‘Strip your sister and yourself. Those clothes will be returned to the healer. We don’t want her charity. Then scrub yourselves. We don’t want any sisterhood gift residue. See that they do it properly, Hariorta. I have work to do.’ And she went to the desk, leaving them under the middle-aged woman’s malicious care.

‘Bring them, Redravia,’ Hariorta ordered and went through to the bathing chamber and stood over them as Aravelle took off Itania’s clothes, and then her own.

The old woman ran some water in the tub. This bathing chamber was finer than anything they’d had at home. The thought made Aravelle’s chest ache with sorrow. She soaped herself and Itania under Hariorta’s watchful eye, then rinsed them both.

‘Check their hair for lice, Redravia.’

Shame and fury made Aravelle’s cheeks burn as the old woman ran her fingers through Itania’s hair, searching her scalp, then straightened up. ‘I don’t see any –’

‘They’ve been with Mieren.’ Hariorta handed Aravelle a bottle. ‘Use this. Be sure to do a good job. I won’t have filthy lice infecting our people. Redravia, bundle up the healer’s clothes and send it all back.’

Itania howled as Aravelle rubbed the foul-smelling lotion through her hair. She felt like howling herself, but bit her bottom lip until it started bleeding again. She would not cry.

If nothing the Mieren did could break her, then nothing her mother’s half-sister did would break her.

A few moments later, they were dressed and back in the main cabin, sitting in front of the brazier. Aravelle combed Itania’s fine, curly hair as it dried. Combing it was always a chore.

‘There.’Aravelle finished twirling the last long ringlet around her finger and sat back on her heels. ‘Let’s see you.’

Obediently, Itania turned around with one chubby little hand still clutching a piece of bread.

‘There. Pretty as a picture and clean as a whistle.’ It was what her mother always said.

Itania smiled, then stuffed the last piece of bread into her mouth. Aravelle brushed crumbs off her sister’s nightgown. She suspected it was the poorest Hariorta could find, but to her it was luxurious. All she’d ever known was their father’s old shirts cut down and remade into nightgowns.

Leaving Itania to lick her fingers, Aravelle unwound the cloth that held her own wet hair up, and began to run the comb down its length, almost to her knees.

‘What’s this?’ Hariorta demanded. She clutched Aravelle’s arm and spun her around. Itania whimpered and tried to hide, but one of the other women caught her and lifted her off her feet. ‘Look at this, Charsoria!’

Aravelle had no idea what she’d done wrong.

Charsoria came over and inspected Aravelle. She caught Aravelle’s long wet hair, wound it around her hand and tugged sharply. Tears of pain stung Aravelle’s eyes.

‘What’s this?’ Charsoria tugged on her hair again.

‘I’ve done as you said and washed it.’

The back of Charsoria’s free hand cracked across her cheek. ‘Don’t give me cheek, girl!’

Charsoria leaned close, her hard eyes pinning Aravelle. She saw that Aravelle did not understand, and gave a bitter laugh. ‘I knew it. I knew Sasoria thought she was better than us. Look what she’s done.’ And here she gestured to the rest of the women, drawing them over to look.

Another four Malaunje women had come in since Aravelle arrived. Clearly warriors, they’d been divesting themselves of leather arm guards and boots.

‘She’s let her daughters’ hair grow as long as one of the T’En’s!’

All the women muttered their disapproval, clucking their tongues against the roofs of their mouths. It was only now that Aravelle noticed none of them wore their hair longer than their waists.

‘We can’t have a Malaunje with ideas above her station, Charsoria,’ Hariorta said.

‘Exactly.’ Charsoria snapped her fingers. ‘Fetch me the scissors, Nariska.’

The girl ran to obey.

‘Turn around,’ Charsoria ordered with a malicious tug of Aravelle’s long hair. ‘No Malaunje...’
tug
‘...may grow their hair longer...’
tug
‘...than waist length.’ Charsoria pulled with unnecessary vigour as she gathered Aravelle’s hair behind her. ‘Cut it, Hariorta.’

The grate of metal on metal grated in Aravelle’s nerves. She gritted her teeth as they hacked off her hair. That this was her own mother’s half-sister made it even harder to bear.

Lifting her chin, Aravelle stared beyond the women’s heads. She would not cry.

But she did.

She cried when Charsoria ordered Hariorta to cut Itania’s hair, cried as those red-gold baby curls drifted to the floor.

When it was over, Charsoria told Aravelle to gather up their hair and throw it in the brazier.

And when the smell of burning hair filled the cabin, she blamed Aravelle then ordered the windows opened.

Aravelle did as she was told, plaited her hair, which was now barely waist length, and then gathered Itania in her lap and sang her to sleep. Charsoria was not going to break them.

Nothing would break them.

S
ORNE HAD SPENT
all evening helping Baron Aingeru’s wife organise tomorrow’s departure. The children had been fed and put to bed, the travelling chests were packed, the carriage was cleaned, and the horses’ traces oiled and repaired. They’d eaten and just about everyone had gone to bed for an early start on the morrow.

He had been partially undressed and about to climb into his bedroll when a thought occurred to him. The road to port was in a bad state, thanks to the rain and the heavy traffic caused by the Wyrd exodus. He was worried Zaria and the children might be delayed. If Eskarnor sent scouts on ahead, they could get caught up with the army. An army was no place for children. Sorne would offer them the alternative of sailing up the coast. One twin was mad for horses, the other was mad for ships. This way both of them would be delighted. So he pulled his robe over his shoulders and returned to the family’s private dining room, hoping to catch Zaria before she went to bed. He’d left her discussing preparations for the winter with the estate manager.

Instead, he heard voices speaking Maygharian, which meant Aingeru’s ex-mercenaries were here. Sorne had spent a year in Maygharia in the king’s service and had become fluent in the tongue.

‘It’s a day for messages,’ Zaria said. ‘First the king’s half-blood advisor, now my husband sends you to –’

‘The king’s half-blood advisor is here?’

‘He arrived this afternoon,’ Zaria said. ‘Prince Cedon has been returned safe and we’re invited to the palace for the festivities. Why?’

‘Where is the half-blood now, and how many men does he have with him?’

‘Just the two. I put them in the guest chamber. What is this about?’

A child’s soft grizzle reached Sorne.

Geruso, the three-year-old boy, came down the passage, rubbing his eyes. Sorne took four steps and picked him up to hush him.

Too late. He turned to find that Zaria had come to the doorway.

Sorne was unarmed. One word from her and he would be dead.

Zaria’s eyes widened.

‘What is it?’ one of the men asked, stepping into the hall behind Zaria. He cursed, drawing his sword.

A second man joined him, shoving her back.

‘Geruso,’ Zaria whispered, eyes fixed pleadingly on Sorne.

He was not Eskarnor. Sorne put the boy down and turned and ran. The ex-mercenaries charged after him.

‘Wait,’ Zaria cried. They ignored her.

Sorne hoped Aingeru had sent no more than two men.

He flung open the door to his room. ‘Grab your weapons. We’re under attack.’

The two youths scrambled out the far side of the bed, fumbling for their swords.

Darting across the chamber, Sorne made for his weapons. By the time he’d snatched up his blade, both ex-mercenaries were through the door. Sorne threw his scabbard aside as Aingeru’s men split up. One of them came for him, the other went around the bed after Vighir and Lazandor. The king’s guards, for all their training, were inexperienced youths, and these were veterans of the Secluded Sea campaign.

The ex-mercenary charging Sorne kicked a chair aside. It was a long time since Sorne had to fight for his life, and his mouth went dry with fear. Then the man swung his sword and Sorne’s training took over. Block, divert, counterstrike.

A shrill cry came from one of the youths.

Sorne glanced that way and felt a blade whistle towards his head.

He lurched back, leaping over a chest as he sought to put more space between him and his assailant. From the hallway came the sounds of men shouting and running. Sorne’s attacker smiled and closed in on him.

But his strike was overconfident. Sorne blocked, let his blade skip over the mercenary’s sword and ran him through.

Sorne pulled his sword free and went to help the youths, but found the second ex-mercenary was dead. One of the youths swayed on his feet while the other cleaned his sword with shaking hands.

Four of the castle’s men-at-arms appeared at the door, weapons ready. Zaria stood behind them with a lantern. They took in the overturned furniture and bloody corpses and were about to charge in when Zaria called them off.

‘Wait.’

‘But they killed –’

‘I know,’ she snapped. ‘I have questions.’

Zaria walked in and the men-at-arms followed, spreading out with weapons drawn. Behind them, servants crowded the doorway.

‘Why did my husband’s men attack you, Sorne?’

‘Because Baron Eskarnor has betrayed the king.’

Zaria’s eyes widened. ‘Why would Eskarnor turn on King Charald?’

‘The king grows weak with age, so Eskarnor no longer fears him. He abducted Queen Jaraile and plans to legitimise his claim to the Chalcedonian throne through her.’

Horrified, Zaria stared at him across the bodies of her husband’s men.

Sorne was sure that if he fell here, the kingdom fell to Eskarnor. He had to convince Zaria to take the opposing side to her husband.

‘You know Eskarnor, Zaria. You know what he’s capable of. Four nights ago I saw him cut the throat of a four-year-old boy because the Wyrds refused to hand over the prince for him to murder.’

She flinched. ‘You forget, I saw what Charald did to Khitan, what he did to all the other kingdoms of the Secluded Sea. The king’s no better.’

‘The king spends his days locked in his bedchamber, raving.’

‘He does? We’d heard rumours...’

Sorne nodded. ‘Queen Jaraile, Baron Nitzane, and three others have been appointed Prince Cedon’s guardians. The choice is not between Eskarnor and Charald, but between –’

‘Leave us,’ Zaria ordered.

The men-at-arms were inclined to argue, but she told them to remove the bodies, then turned to Sorne. ‘Aingeru –’

‘Would change sides if he thought you and the children were hostages in the palace. And quite apart from that, you really would be safer in port. Eskarnor is going to march his army through here. I bet your husband sent word for you to go to the Wyrd city.’ Her expression told him he was right. ‘Aingeru doesn’t trust Eskarnor’s army to keep their hands off you.’

Lazandor moaned softly and Vighir caught him as he passed out.

‘What a mess this is,’ Zaria muttered. ‘Put the lad on the bed.’

Sorne helped carry the youth.

‘Bring the lantern closer.’ Zaria rolled up her sleeves, inspected the wound and applied pressure to slow the bleeding. ‘Vighir, go tell the servants to bring my healing bag.’

After he left, Zaria looked over the wounded youth to Sorne. ‘Eskarnor will kill my husband if he suspects he’s disloyal.’

‘While Eskarnor was a guest in the king’s palace, he raped Jaraile and tried to have Prince Cedon killed. When that failed he abducted the queen. If he wins the throne, he’ll be worse than Charald.’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Once I would have said that was impossible, but...’

Vighir returned with her healing kit and she concentrated on sewing up the wound.

Sorne watched, cautiously optimistic.

Zaria finished binding the wound and mixed a draught. ‘He’ll wake before dawn, in pain and possibly feverish. When he does, give him this,’ she told Vighir. ‘It will soothe him and aid the healing.’

‘Thank you, baroness.’

Zaria packed up her things, then turned to Sorne. ‘We can’t leave him here. Eskarnor will have him killed. He’ll have to come with us.’

Sorne went to speak, but she held up her hand.

‘You lied to me. I understand why, but I don’t like it.’

‘Then you should know I don’t plan to ride to the city. The rain has stopped, but the Wyrds’ wagons turned the port road to a quagmire. I plan to take us south to Nitzane’s stronghold at Shifting-sands Bay, then send you up the coast by ship to Port Mirror-on-Sea. We’ll make better time if we ride and you should tell your people they’re in the path of war.’

‘How long do we have?’

‘I don’t know. It depends on how organised Eskarnor is.’

‘Aingeru...’ She covered her mouth as a sob escaped her. ‘Aingeru has no love for Eskarnor, but he hates Charald after what the king did to Maygharia.’

‘The king is dying. Queen Jaraile will need strong barons around her.’

‘If I send Aingeru a message, he’ll support Jaraile. I’ll tell him we’re going to port and he is to meet you...’ She looked at Sorne. ‘Where will you be gathering your forces?’

He hesitated. If Aingeru did not do what Zaria expected, he could hand his wife’s message over to Eskarnor and...

‘Riverbend Stronghold is in the middle of South Chalcedonia,’ she said. ‘It makes a good gathering point for the barons. That’s where you’re rallying the army, isn’t it?’

Sorne nodded. He was not surprised she’d guessed. Zaria had spent her teens listening to men talk tactics.

She nodded to herself. ‘I’ll tell our men-at-arms to march for Riverbend.’

Sorne wondered if he had just won a powerful baron and weakened Eskarnor, or lost the war.