Sanctuary (8 page)

‘I know.’ Frayvia shuddered. ‘He’s promised not to seek any more visions.’

‘I’m glad.’ Imoshen hugged Frayvia and returned the torc. ‘I think you should wear this with pride.’

Frayvia smiled and fastened the torc around her neck.

Imoshen was glad Sorne no longer risked his life to gain visions, but with the T’Enatuath sailing into exile, her people could have used the guidance of a seer. There had not been one born for hundreds of years.

They did have a scryer, who was able to search for possible future paths, but their scryer had been injured the day All-mother Reoden’s daughter was murdered. The scryer could not forgive herself for failing to foresee the attack, and her gift had been blocked ever since.

One of the children moaned in their sleep, woke up and vomited. This disturbed the others and set them off. Imoshen hoped, for all their sakes, they would find their sea-legs soon.

Chapter Six

J
ARAILE HAD NEVER
seen the Wyrd city. She’d heard it described as a cesspit, and also as one of the wonders of the world. Approaching it that afternoon, after three days’ muddy ride from port, it certainly lived up to its reputation for beauty. It stood on an island in the lake. A ribbon of white causeway stretched out to the city. The walls and buildings were a brilliant white. There were gardens on the roofs, mostly barren now, except for the occasional pencil pine.

‘The closest end, the low end, is where the brotherhood palaces are. They were given to the barons as a reward for their loyalty. Apparently they drew lots when the Wyrds left,’ Eskarnor told her. He adjusted her buttocks across his lap and she could feel him pressed into her flesh. She knew what he would do once they were alone in the palace. ‘Beyond the next wall are the shops, theatres, eateries and a park. Behind the last wall, on the peak of the island, are the sisterhood palaces. Charald had declared them his, but by tomorrow morning, I’ll be claiming them.’

‘The Chalcedonian barons won’t swear loyalty to you.’

‘I think you underestimate how much they hate your husband. There is not one baron amongst us who hasn’t felt the force of his irrational rage. Fear is all very well for keeping men in line, but when a man does not know if his king is going to turn on him in a rage, then fear becomes a goad to action.’

Jaraile suspected he was right. The king had always had a temper and bullied his way through life, but these last few years, she’d seen even Charald’s trusted advisors recoil in horror.

They rode down the causeway towards the gates.

‘Your men-at-arms were sent –’

‘– to my estate, which lies far to the north. It’s huge, but that’s because it’s so barren. Frankly, it’s an insult, considering my service to King Charald.’ Then he laughed. ‘Sorne had men watching the port for signs of my warriors gathering, but he didn’t bother to watch the army besieging the Wyrd city. And he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, if he had, because I was entitled to a contingent of men to claim my palace. The rest have slipped back and been secreted throughout the tents of my loyal barons.’

Jaraile’s mind raced. If Eskarnor had been allowed to retain a contingent of men here, then Nitzane must have men here, too. If she could just work out which palace was his and escape, she could claim sanctuary with them.

By the time they rode through the gate, one of the baron’s men was waiting to escort Eskarnor to his palace.

‘Captain Pataxo,’ Eskarnor greeted him with a laugh. The baron was so different from Charald – ruthless, yes, but also ready to laugh, especially now that his plans had finally come to fruition. ‘Where’s my palace?’

‘It’s the last one on the north side of the city.’

‘Good. I want all the barons and their honour guards invited to tonight’s feast,’ Eskarnor said.

Pataxo’s gaze skipped over Jaraile, but it was clear he knew who she was. ‘It will be done. We’re lucky we didn’t get the ruined palace. Nitzane’s man drew the short straw.’

‘Which palace is that?’ Jaraile said.

Eskarnor pinched her. ‘Don’t even think it.’

She looked up at him, startled.

‘I’m no fool, Raila.’ Eskarnor grinned. ‘Besides, if you took refuge with Nitzane’s men, I would have to kill the lot of them. You don’t want to be responsible for their deaths, do you?’

She sank down. He had outsmarted Sorne, who was the smartest man she’d ever met. Perhaps there was no hope. Perhaps she was destined to be the prize of cruel bullies.

No. She had her son to think of. She must not give up hope. But she could let Eskarnor think she had. She slumped in his arms, as if dejected.

That evening Jaraile dressed in looted finery. Eskarnor decked her in silks and brocades. Above her, on the rooftop garden, she could hear the feast getting underway, with much singing and drinking.

It was dark by the time Eskarnor escorted her onto the rooftop garden. From the roar of laughter and voices, the wine had been flowing freely. Lanterns strung from poles gave the event a festive air. Long tables had been carried up and a set for the feast. Musicans played a Dacian air on instruments Jaraile was unfamiliar with. She could hardly hear the music for the rowdy singing.

But as Eskarnor led her between the tables to the high table, the singers faltered and the musicians lowered their instruments. She saw her cousin, Baron Kerminzto, go very still and wished she could get a message to him. She tried to tell him to run with her eyes, but he just looked grim. Did he think she had willingly abandoned King Charald and her son?

Eskarnor led her around behind the table, then climbed onto a chair and drew her up beside him.

‘You will have all heard the rumour concerning King Charald’s mental state,’ Eskarnor said. ‘The king’s mind is going. Why, not so long ago, he held a conversation with Queen Sorna, who has been dead these thirty years.’

Jaraile glanced to Eskarnor, horrified. How had he known? He hadn’t been there that day. Someone must have betrayed Charald.

‘Yes, the secret is out, my queen,’ Eskarnor said, taking her hand as if consoling her. Jaraile had just confirmed his claim.

He tucked her arm through his. ‘For over forty years, Charald has bullied his own kingdom and all those around the Secluded Sea. You know why he hates the Wyrds?’

‘Because the one-eyed half-blood is his son!’ Captain Pataxo yelled.

‘Worse.’ Eskarnor was enjoying himself. ‘Because the rumour about his twin is true. Charald was born with a half-blood twin. Talk of tainted blood!’ Eskarnor shook his head. ‘Charald should never have sat upon the throne. Tonight, I come here with Queen Jaraile to offer an alternative to a cruel, irrational old bully. Unite behind us and we will free Chalcedonia from King Charald the Tyrant. No more handing over your best men to go off and fight his campaigns against subject kingdoms that have revolted. Tonight, choose freedom and a new start for Chalcedonia. All barons who swear loyalty to me will keep their lands and titles.’

‘What of Nitzane?’ Pataxo called.

‘That lap-dog? He’s no warrior. United, we are more than a match for him.’

‘What of Prince Cedon?’

‘The Wyrd wharf was attacked by slum-dwellers. The Wyrds cut the boy’s throat to...’

Jaraile’s head buzzed. This was what she’d feared. The lanterns spun and she toppled. Eskarnor caught her, sweeping her off her feet.

‘Poor thing. The shock’s too much for her in her condition. Charge your glasses. The queen carries my son, heir to the throne.’

Jaraile stiffened in his arms.

Eskarnor laughed and kissed her, holding her tightly.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you pick at your food and force it down?’ he whispered. Then he raised his voice. ‘I vow before you all here tonight, King Charald will be dead by summer so I can marry the queen and make my son legitimate. Step forward now and give your oaths of loyalty.’

In the cage of his arms, Jaraile could only watch as the rooftop crowd erupted. She saw her cousin try to fight his way to the stairs. She saw Eskarnor’s men drive their enemies against the rails and over so that they fell to their deaths, four storeys below.

The struggle surged towards them at the high table.

‘Wait here.’ Eskarnor sat her in the chair, placed one boot on the table and jumped over it to join the fighting.

To her disgust, she saw at least two of the Chalcedonian barons turn on the others, uniting against the very men they’d sworn to support.

But all she could think of was her sweet little Cedon, dead. She’d failed him. He’d died alone and frightened. Had he called for her right at the end?

Could you die of grief?

How could she go on after this? Why go on?

‘Traitor!’ Baron Dekaitz charged the high table, bloody sword raised to strike her.

She threw herself backwards. The chair tipped. She slammed on the tiles, rolled onto her hands and knees, and tried to scramble away, but he caught her from behind.

Dekaitz grabbed her by her hair, pulled her head up and brought his sword to her throat.

She screamed, infuriated by the injustice of it.

Then screamed again as Dekaitz was hauled aside, jerking her head and tearing her hair out by the roots. She crawled away, blood trickling down her forehead into her eyes. Stunned, she pressed up against a raised garden bed and turned in time to see Eskarnor run Dekaitz through.

The man dropped to his knees. Eskarnor grabbed him by his hair and sliced his head clean off. Lifting the severed head by the hair, he turned to display it to the others. ‘This is what happens to those who threaten what’s mine!’

And he deposited the head on the table. Meanwhile, the screams of the dying and the curses of the fighting men gradually faded.

Satisfied, Eskarnor returned, lifted Jaraile and took his seat at the high table with her in his lap. He inspected her head. ‘A few patches of torn scalp, that’s all. You’ll be fine.’

Through her tears and the blood she saw the two Chalcedonian turncoat barons, Ikor and Unaki, take the heads of Barons Dittor and Rantzo. They strode over and deposited them on the table with Dekaitz’s head. These three unfortunate barons had been Nitzane’s firm supporters.

Ikor and Unaki dropped to their knees to give their oath of loyalty to Eskarnor, buying their place in his ranks with the heads of men they’d sworn to serve alongside.

She would not trust them. Ever.

That only left her cousin, Kerminzto. She hoped he’d escaped, hoped Eskarnor would...

‘Where is Kerminzto’s body? Bring me his head,’ Eskarnor ordered. As his men searched the dead, Eskarnor gestured to the wine. ‘Pour me a glass.’

Amazingly, the bottle had not broken during the fighting. She righted a goblet and poured wine for him.

‘And one for yourself. I’m not like these Chalcedonian men, who treat their women like slaves,’ Eskarnor said. ‘You’ll drink alongside me and you’ll rule alongside me.’ He bared his teeth in a feral grin. ‘As long as you prove loyal.’

Terror made Jaraile’s hand shake.

He steadied the wine bottle and tilted her goblet to her lips. ‘Drink up. You need something for your nerves.’

She gulped a mouthful, not sure if she could keep it down. It was Dacian, stronger than she was used to. It made her cough and her eyes water.

He laughed, drained his goblet and called to the servants. ‘Serve up the meal.’

Meanwhile the heads of three barons sat on the table in front of her. She tried not to look at them.

‘No sign of Baron Kerminzto,’ Captain Pataxo reported.

Jaraile’s heart soured, but she kept her eyes lowered.

‘Double the guard on the causeway gate,’ Eskarnor said. ‘I want his head by dawn tomorrow.’

The meal arrived: rare roast beef, oozing blood.

Jaraile took one look, lurched to the side and threw up.

Eskarnor rubbed her back, then gestured to the table. ‘Clear these heads. We are not barbarians. Fix them to the spikes above the causeway gate.’

‘I don’t think there are spikes above the gate,’ Pataxo said.

‘Then fix some in place. You’d think the Wyrds would have gate spikes.’ Even as he said this, Eskarnor offered her more wine.

Jaraile gulped a mouthful. Heat raced all the way down to her toes and up again. She pushed the goblet aside. ‘My s-son, are you certain the Wyrds killed him?’

Eskarnor wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to distress you. Not when you’re in a delicate condition.’

He adjusted her on his lap and cut off slivers of meat to tempt her.

Meanwhile the puddles of blood where the heads had sat congealed. It felt as if she was fifteen again, at the mercy of King Charald. Eskarnor was every bit as much a monster as the king was.

But she suspected he was smarter.

S
ORNE WOKE WITH
a sword to his throat. Blinking, he made out Baron Kerminzto’s features in the pale light of dawn. He sat up slowly as he tried to work out what was going on. They were less than a day’s ride from the Celestial City and his dozen king’s guard were surrounded by at least forty of the baron’s men.

‘Your sentries need to be more alert,’ Jaraile’s kinsman told Sorne. At Kerminzto’s signal, the two sentries were sent to join the rest of the king’s palace guard and one of Kerminzto’s men built up the fire.

The baron sat opposite Sorne, perching on a fallen tree trunk. The sword tip did not waver. ‘I’m going to ask some questions and I want honest answers, Warrior’s-voice, or whatever you’re calling yourself now.’

‘Sorne will do.’

‘Sorne, then.’

Kerminzto was around forty years of age, and he had come to the barony within the last two years, when Jaraile’s father dropped dead unexpectedly. Sorne didn’t know much about him. During the Wyrd Campaign, Kerminzto had kept quiet, not drinking to excess and not presuming on his relationship to the queen to claim favours. He’d struck Sorne as a sensible man. It was precisely because he did not presume on his relationship with the queen that Sorne had recommended Charald name him one of the five people to guide Prince Cedon in the event of the king’s death or, as appeared more likely now, if the king became incapable of ruling.