Free Exile by Rowena Cory Daniells Page B

was. If he was here the night of the attack, I suspect he’s dead.’
    ‘Thank you, all-father.’ The words stuck in Imoshen’s throat. ‘The rest of you, go back to your inner circles, see if anyone has a gift that doesn’t require touch and can think of a way to apply it that gives us leverage with King Charald.’
     
     
    Z ABIER STOOD NEAR the king beside the brazier as they talked of camp business. The barons were complaining that there weren’t enough camp followers to go around. Fights had broken out over women. Normally, he’d find this fascinating, but there was a restless beast inside him, pacing back and forth. If he slipped away and dosed himself with a few drops of pains-ease it would soothe the beast for now. But what he really needed was to immerse himself in the golden floating world of dreams.
    All he had to do was swallow a decent dose when he went to bed. He knew his tolerance, knew just how much to take to put him into the blissful state. The things he saw...
    No wonder he’d believed they were visions.
    When King Matxin had declared him the high priest and Father’s-voice, he’d needed visions. Assistant Utzen had claimed True-men saw visions when taking pure pains-ease, then supplied the drug. But Utzen had been King Matxin’s spy and...
    A moment of lucidity told Zabier his gradual addiction to pains-ease had been a deliberate ploy, engineered by King Matxin. It had been typical of Matxin to keep those he needed under his thumb.
    Anger rolled through Zabier. What kind of man takes a thirteen-year-old boy, puts him in a position of power, then supplies him with a drug just to ensure his co-operation? Wasn’t it enough that Zabier would have done anything to keep his mother and little sister safe?
    Raised voices brought him back to this king’s tent. The last of the southern barons had returned with a swag of trophy braids.
    Arms loaded, Eskarnor strode through the gathering.
    When Zabier had accompanied Eskarnor and Hanix to destroy the first Wyrd estate, the two barons hadn’t bothered to hide their contempt for him. Now that Zabier sat beside the king and discussed tactics, they were more discreet. But he knew how they really felt, and resentment burned in him. Men of violence had no respect for men of learning.
    As Eskarnor presented the trophy plaits to King Charald, Zabier glanced to Sorne. His irritating choice-brother did not react. Those braids had to be rich with gift residue, which Sorne should crave. Yet he appeared uninterested, standing in the background. His distance from the tent’s brazier revealed how low he was in the pecking order.
    Zabier listened in to what Eskarnor was telling the king. He didn’t want the baron undermining his position.
    ‘...snow made travel difficult,’ Eskarnor said.
    ‘Doesn’t matter, you’re the last to return. Time for the next step.’ The king sprang to his feet, summoned his manservant to bring all the trophy plaits and went outside where he bellowed for the banner-men to bring the barons’ banners and the pipers to bring their pipes.
    As they trudged down through the snow, past the tents toward the houses of Lakeside, the sun came out from between the clouds, making the snow glisten. The silver trophy braids on the Chalcedonian barons’ banners gleamed, but Zabier’s eye was caught by a rich copper plait, woven into a silver one.
    Valendia had hair like that down to her knees; rippling waves of copper that came alive in sunlight. He missed going to see her every evening, missed her happy chatter, the way she would pull out one of her musical instruments and play her latest piece for him.
    It was not her fault that she had grown so beautiful that men craved her. Sorne was right; she had been completely innocent. That vile Wyrd had taken advantage of her, probably fed her a pack of lies to turn her against him. He should visit her and give her a chance to apologise.
    Charald led everyone down through the houses and shops to the