Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles
The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles
The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles
Ebook527 pages8 hours

The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

The Zashran invaders are at the gates of Cardanon. As the city falls the Dragon Mothers take the Silver House and the city’s children into hiding away from the mortal world.

The future of the House, the threads of Power and the land itself are in the hands of a ragbag of escapees. Aric, the new Duke of Cardanon; Agbani, a beggar girl; Marka, a House Sister; Bertran, a merchant’s son; and a group of rescued children are led by Genya, a stranded Dragon Mother. Used to the safety of city life they must evade the pursuing Zashran and find their way through a strange and exciting countryside with only their courage and resourcefulness to rely on.

It is up to these few to face the dangers of the road and find their way to the heroes who can help them save the House and their world.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 30, 2011
ISBN9781452420035
The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles
Author

Janet French

I live in beautiful Shropshire in the UK and keep a craft shop. Authors like David Gemmell and Anne McCaffrey have always been on the top of my reading pile and are my inspiration to write. I have no interest in stories of the mundanities of everyday life but give me a dragon and a magic sword and I am good to go.

Related to The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles

Titles in the series (1)

View More

Related ebooks

Fantasy For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    The Silver House; Book One of The Cardanon Chronicles - Janet French

    Contents

    Copyright Page

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 25

    Chapter 28

    About the Author

    The Silver House

    Book One of

    The Cardanon Chronicles

    by

    Janet French

    All rights reserved

    Copyright © August, 2011, Janet French

    Cover Art Copyright © 2011, Charlotte Holley

    Gypsy Shadow Publishing

    Lockhart, TX

    www.gypsyshadow.com

    Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

    No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing.

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    ISBN: 9781452420035

    Published in the United States of America

    First eBook Edition: August 30, 2011

    Chapter 1

    Duke Coric leaned back into the shifting shadows against the stained and broken wall that used to be a part of Cardanon’s finest inn. Across the broad street, the Great North Gates shuddered under the pounding of the Zashran rams and the noise filled the sooty air.

    Coric was tall and well made, of middle years, with an air of inherited stature and grace but the slight stoop to his shoulders and the weakness of his blue eyes betrayed a man used to seeing the world in close up, in books and histories. Three months of siege had not made his armour comfortable nor his sword fit his hand. This was the end of his city. One thousand years of history was coming to a crashing finale under his rule and the last of his dynasty would fall with it.

    The ugly glare from buildings left to burn in the night lit the scene with a hellish light. Coric slid sideways toward the deeper shadows and wondered if he could be out of sight.

    Even now the Duke was not left unattended, a millennium of protocol was not lost so easily, but the humour of seeing his Steward, Eoc, picking his way through ruin to offer him water had been exhausted many weeks ago. Coric scrubbed at his gritty eyes with the back of his leather gauntlet and heaved himself away from the wall.

    He addressed the man, There are plenty of men who need that more than I do. Give it to someone who can still help this city. Coric was thankful he could still hear some authority in his voice.

    Eoc stiffened, affronted, as much as he was able against a ragged crutch and stood his ground.

    My apologies, Eoc, but I am resolute in this if in nothing else. If there is water left, give it to fighting men. I am of no use to my city now.

    Don’t say that, Sir! Eoc pleaded. There is only you and the House holding us together.

    Coric followed Eoc’s gaze up to where the tower of the Silver House, high behind them, was hidden in the night.

    I still pray Power for help but how can any of us hope to see the morning? Coric’s voice betrayed him with a tremble.

    We will defend the House, Sir, even if the gates fall.

    Coric shook his head and looked around in the guttering light at the muster of men waiting to meet the Zashran invaders. He could not see more than a handful without signs of injury and those were exhausted and half-starved. The wounded that could bear any weapon at all had been brought from the surgeons’ care and were lining up before the gates. Coric’s eyes misted as he watched the men propped against buildings, their swords strapped to their hands. Women were moving out from the shadows carrying whatever weapons the fallen fighting men had left behind. The Zashran took no prisoners and gave no quarter. Cardanon’s remnants were choosing death in the open rather than waiting to be butchered.

    He rubbed at his eyes again and looked up to the walls, searching in the darkness for his son. Aric’s pale face was looking anxiously down at him but turned away as soon as he saw his father was still standing. Coric finally pushed all weakness away and moved to stand at the front of Cardanon’s defenders. He threw his helmet aside to let the firelight catch his bright hair as he raised his sword in a last gesture of defiance. The gates finally cracked and buckled in front of them.

    High above the city in the Silver House, children in nightgowns sat in warm groups around the nursery fires waiting for their bedtime drinks. Sisters sat with them, smiling and talking softly while they helped to comb the knots out of long hair, damp from the bath. A Mother gathered half a dozen toddlers to sit with her on the hearthrug for a story and reached out to take one of the latest arrivals onto her lap.

    Frieda stood in the doorway for a moment, letting her silver robe blend into the candlelight and hide her from casual eyes. She gazed hungrily at the cosy scene and indulged herself briefly by imagining how the children would snuggle up to her and share their stories if she joined them, but the danger of the night was waiting outside the North Gates. Dark wings were stretching in the blackness beyond the city, yearning to fly. The haunted eyes of the children that had recently come to the House from the city gave her a reminder she did not need. Everything was going to change tonight. She smiled back to the children who noticed her and left them to be soothed by the comfortable winding down of the day.

    The Sisters knew Frieda was watching them but preserved the atmosphere of unhurried calm. There was an appointment to keep in the tower room but the bedtime clock had to be allowed to tick its regular routine for the last time. The House Mothers had placed quietness like a bubble around the room to make a gentle sanctuary but the Sisters’ ears, able to reach beyond the glamour, could still hear the sounds of distant battle. These precious children were the city’s last treasures and Silver House’s dilemma.

    Frieda turned away from the children and closed the door softly behind her. She stood for a while with her hand on the wall beside the door, feeling herself a part of the life and strength that ran through the stone. The deep currents in the Power beat smooth and strong but little smudges of filth intruded where the Zashran worked their dark magic. Close by, she felt the surface eddies of unease set spinning by the Sisters’ fear sending ripples over the rich fullness of the House Mothers. She reached out into the city, avoiding the little dark spots the enemy was sowing, and assessed the strength of the city walls. The Power the House was holding in the stonework was being pushed back by noisome streaks of filth and fire. She sought out the sparks that were her Duke and her son. She found Duke Coric waiting with the last of Cardanon’s men, watching the inside of the North Gates bowing toward them under the rams of the Zashran horde. Aric was on the wall trying to clear defenders from the last ramparts before they fell. Children were still pelting the heads of the ram teams with whatever came to hand. Frieda’s pride and grief fuelled her resolve. She wrenched herself away from the looming dark beyond the city walls and raised her eyes to look about the hallway.

    This House was her; its care was the work of her life. She looked with true love at the grey stone and the bright hangings she had commissioned to warm the corridors and please the children with pictures of animals and flowers. She remembered every set of small feet that had worn the pathways between the doors. All those children had run, hopped and skipped from dining room to schoolroom and bathroom to playroom but always back to the comfortable order of the nursery. How many children had been schooled here in the two hundred years of her rule? How many orphans had been raised with the Sisters’ and Mothers’ own few children? She could name them all. The siege of the city had given her the choice of fighting and perhaps postponing the end of Cardanon or trying to save the children. At the last, there was no choice for her, only the tedious process of going through the motions until the wayward and distracted House Mothers united behind her.

    She left the glowing hallway to walk the narrower passages to the small hall by the kitchens. Here some busyness remained as Sisters came and went through the back door that led through the darkened kitchen gardens to the portress’ gate. The siege of the city had made nonsense of the rhythm of night and day. Away from the fragile peace around the children, domestic duties were done at need, not by the clock, but time was running out and the chores of everyday would soon be put aside for the night’s work. Frieda felt an urge to see all of the House, not to say goodbye but to hold its details fresh in her mind before the city fell. She knew she was trying to put off the hazard of the night’s work. She could never know her House any better.

    The sounds of the siege were suddenly loud as the door opened. A Mother and two Sisters, their arms filled with babies, shepherded a bedraggled group of youngsters into the light. Welcoming hands led Sisters and children to the comfort of the kitchen fireside and reached out to soothe the bleakness in the eyes of those who had seen the spoiled city. Parents were still sending their children to the House, trusting they would be safe. Frieda wondered at such blind faith. If they knew what she planned to do would they still send the children? They probably would. There was nowhere else.

    Velia, the newly arrived Mother, left the children at the fireside and shook out her amber cloak. She passed Frieda in the hallway and offered an empathic caress with her mind and a wry smile.

    A group of young Sisters were about to go out but stopped when they saw Frieda.

    Will you bless us, Mother Frieda? they pleaded. We have to hurry.

    They already had all the blessing she could give but she would not deny them any comfort. She held her hands out to them and allowed them to see her House tattoos glowing softly from her fingertips and writhing sumptuously up her forearms. The Sisters touched their foreheads to the backs of Frieda’s hands in awe and reverence.

    You know you will not get back in time? Frieda asked softly. She could see in their faces that their choices were made but she needed to say it. A fair girl, her opalescent cloak glimmering faintly, spoke for them all.

    We think we are still needed in the city more than we are in the House, she said. She hesitated, then spoke in a rush.

    I don’t want to be here while my family is fighting. I need to go back to them.

    There is no safety anywhere tonight. Frieda smiled slightly. You must choose as best you can. Go well, I hope we meet again.

    The girls drew their cloaks about them and fled into the night. Frieda looked over the portress’ lodge to see the reflection of fires against the sky and heard the booming of the rams. The weakness spreading through the North Gates nudged at her mind. Behind it she felt the lust of the Zashran Shamans pushing eagerly toward the Silver House. She could not wait any longer or the House would be lost with its city. It had given its strength to the defenders for as long as Frieda dared. There was no more time.

    Frieda finally locked the door against the night before turning to walk slowly through the House. From the kitchen wing she passed into the great hall then up the wide dim stairs with a silent procession forming behind her. Cloaked Mothers glided from doorways and followed her until nearly fifty of them were gathered in the high room of the tower. They seated themselves with Frieda as the focus of the meeting and opened their senses to the tumult outside.

    The Mothers’ cloaks shimmered in the gloom with translucent colour that took nothing from the fires outside. Those that shone with the nature of stones showed the red of garnet and spinel, amethyst purple, olivine and malachite green with clear quartz and salt reflecting the colours back. Even granite and dolerite, normally so steady and quiet, were gleaming with life. The cloaks of the Mothers who were bound to the nature of metals and their alloys mostly glistened in textures of grey; mercury, lead, tin and pewter all served the House in their own ways.

    The older Sisters who might be able to add strength to the work were spared by the nurseries to gather silently at the back of the room, their colours less distinct than the Mothers. Close around Frieda’s throne bronze, copper, the glint of steel and the warmth of Velia’s amber assembled but only Frieda shone out in the clarity of silver.

    They waited and listened while the silence in the room seemed to thicken and gain a presence of its own. Some Sisters were holding hands in the folds of their skirts but still they sat brave and proud under Frieda’s calm gaze, remembering what they had been taught to do. Suddenly the North Gates, so far below their tower on the hill, gave way. The crashing and shouting seemed to attack the silence in the room but it was the wings of the waiting Shamans, slavering in the dark, that leapt forward for the real battle.

    The Mothers joined together, fusing their minds and purpose to Frieda and reached into the Power around them, calling for help to strengthen them.

    On the walls the defenders felt the Power falter and turned away from the Zashran to look up at the House. They saw the tower glowing and swelling as shapes of light wrapped it about in coloured wings, lifting and twisting into the sky until the House was swallowed in a mighty aurora. When the glow faded the Silver House was gone and the hilltop was bare. The city knew it was deserted.

    The Zashran horde overran the walls.

    Chapter 2

    Marka was a long way from Silver House when she heard Frieda’s cry for help. She did not see the glory in the sky that answered the call but she felt the backwash from the currents of Power; it knocked her to the ground and filled her head with swirling colours and such a yearning to follow that, for a moment, she was left stunned and unable to move. When she shook her head clear and got to her feet again all that was left to see were filthy clouds filling the empty darkness over Tower Hill. She had expected the Power would leave the city now that the House was not there to drive it but it seemed to disregard the commotion in the sky; it bubbled and rushed in to fill the emptiness Silver House had left. She frowned with concentration, trying to read the variations. Some feeling of vibrancy was lost and the black spots seemed closer and stronger than before but more detail was beyond her grasp. The voices of her Sisters used to be a constant background hum but now hearing only a few faint, far away cries just made her feel more cold and alone. She hugged her arms tightly around her for comfort, under the warmth of her Sisterwoven cloak.

    Her need to reach another Sister overcame thoughts of personal danger, making her push her limited senses outward until she could see the Power falling from the city walls. Dark strands were searching for a grip within the broken stonework but the strength of the Power that welled under Cardanon was holding them back. She shivered when she saw the damage done to the gates, then drew sharply away from the darkness beyond.

    Above Tower Hill light from the fires reflected back from the roiling black clouds still milling about in an aimless manner, hunting blindly for their vanished prey. All at once the clouds shattered as if they had been struck; the black masses were split apart and the fragments were sent zipping and whining over the city streets. Black wings came keening through the night, searching spitefully through the city. Marka suddenly felt dangerously exposed and peered into the shadows around her for a hiding place. She hoped for the best and dove under a pile of charred timber, wriggling wildly, until she fell into a pit that had been a cellar. She curled up as tightly as she could in the shelter of her cloak with her arms wrapped around her head, trying to hide both body and mind from the hunters outside.

    Marka had been following a persistent feeling there was still something to find in these ruins even though other Sisters had already combed the rubble in search of survivors. So far all she had found was a dog, or he had found her, and the two of them had kept company and shared a meagre meal. He fell into the pit with her, whimpering to come under her cloak, until she pulled him close and let herself be comforted by his presence, thankful their pit was empty except for them. How invaders organised themselves to take over a city after it had fallen was beyond her imagining but she hoped they would start with the houses of the rich merchants in the fashionable streets between Tower Hill and the Duke’s palace or the inns and bawdy houses around the Market Square. She needed time to work out what to do next. She lay as small and still as she could and let her cloak colour itself a dingy brown-black to hide her.

    They were in one of the poorest parts of Cardanon. The labourers’ quarter was usually almost deserted through the summer when there was work to be had in the vineyards and on the farms. This year the streets had been packed with families who had fled before the Zashran advance but then the fireballs had started coming over the walls from the great catapults outside. Every night for the last month flaming missiles had rained down even after the wood and daub had been burned away and the fires were exhausted for want of fuel. Greasy soot covered everything and the smell of burnt bodies, rotting where the falling buildings had trapped them, hung in the blackened air.

    They lay there together, Marka and the little dog, listening in the dark to the shouting and crashing as doors were broken down and homes looted. With tears streaming unchecked down her face, Marka tried to stuff her fingers into her ears rather than hear the screams and howls as the Zashran began to make the city their own. She thought of the Sisters who had gone back to help their families and wondered if they made matters worse. The Zashran despised the Sisters, calling them witches; the younger girls in the House had whispered horror stories about the treatment awaiting them if the city fell. The Sisters in the House could hope for a clean death in the Power but Marka had wanted to look her death in the eye. Now she wept while she hid in the cellar.

    Marka and the dog had both been so sure their caved in cellar was theirs alone that they thought the movement in the air was the beginning of a welcome wind, until they heard the sounds of a sleeper waking and realised they had company. When the dog raised his head and sniffed audibly, Marka grabbed his head and pulled him back against her in case someone heard him. Her heart raced as she froze under her cloak. It would be too dark to see much if she did find the courage to look. Then they heard someone yawning and stretching next to them and Marka felt a Sister’s touch in her mind. The newcomer grunted and started to move but Marka, bolder now, hissed sharply, anxious their hiding place should not be given away. The other obediently retreated under her cloak and copied Marka’s camouflage while Marka lay back and kept listening to the Zashran working their way through the city.

    Over the noises from the dying city they heard someone shouting orders as a patrol began searching the quarter. Closer, stumbling feet moved in the street above them. Marka kept hold of the dog’s muzzle while the light, hesitant footsteps slowed down and came closer. These were definitely not a soldier’s booted feet. Then she felt a frantic touch in her mind as another Sister bespoke her.

    ‘Where are you? Sisters? Help me!’

    Marka recognised the touch in her mind. Becca was only thirteen and had been placed with the Silver House as a maid when her mother was widowed at the beginning of the siege, but her talent for using the Power had been recognised straight away and Becca had been given a Sister’s cloak.

    ‘Quickly Becca, hide under here,’ Marka answered silently while she tried to push a beam aside to show the way to her hiding place.

    ‘Too late, take these.’ Becca pushed two small children and a bundle into the pit. Marka grabbed the bundle, fumbling while she tried to catch the children, and found that she had nearly dropped a baby. She ducked down with it under her cloak while the crying children crawled quickly to the other Sister and cuddled close to her. They all froze in silence, trying to hear Becca’s running footsteps, but the sound of soldiers starting up the street was louder.

    Marka supposed the Zashran were talking among themselves but only heard snarls and grunts. The loudest of the voices barked and jeered as he commanded his squad. She heard the sound of metal on brick and the smell of decomposition became worse as the searchers disturbed bodies in the rubble. The snarling became louder, arguing, until blows were struck and the Zashran patrol fell in behind their leader again.

    The dog was so still in Marka’s arms she could believe he understood their danger as they lay and listened to the soldiers moving closer and closer to their hiding place. A splash of torchlight through the broken beams showed her a brief picture of her companion, sitting with her head bowed and her arms around the twins who had hidden their faces against her shoulders. The torchlight was suddenly obscured by a shower of charred daub and ash as a boot kicked at the rubble overhead.

    The loud-mouth above them barked the rest to silence. Marka was sure they must have been seen or heard this time; they were right under the patrol’s feet.

    Witch! Witch! The patrol heard the shout in the distance.

    Hah! The squad started baying at the prospect of a quarry. Marka heard boots jogging away and the jingle of mail fading into the city’s background noise.

    When the street was quiet Marka let go of the dog and sat up to rest the baby in her lap.

    Sweet Power! How do we care for a babe in this? she whispered to herself, shuddering, as the infant started to stir.

    A shaft of moonlight let Marka see the stranger reach out a pale hand to touch the baby’s face. It relaxed into a deep sleep under the caress. Marka could see very little, except that the hand and wrist carried no House tattoo, but she felt the Power used so gently and sweetly she knew this stranger was no novice, however clumsy she had seemed before.

    Who are you, Sister? I don’t recognise your touch.

    Genya. She spoke awkwardly at first. Genya, she said again, more clearly, I am new here.

    How can you be new? The city has been closed for weeks. I never met you in the House.

    Not your House. Journey. After a pause the stranger said carefully, I am a visitor! and seemed pleased, as if this was a major piece of grammatical construction. She settled herself back against the wall and made the two little ones comfortable against her.

    Marka gave up and tried the children.

    Are you hurt?

    Where’s Becca? a small voice answered.

    These three must be Becca’s brothers and sister, Marka thought, a baby boy and twins of four. The baby was only about a week old and Marka supposed their mother was already dead, but thought it would be better not to ask.

    Becca ran away as fast as she could. You can stay with us.

    Is Becca safe? persisted the child. Marka couldn’t see which one in the dark.

    Becca is a good runner. We’ll look for her later.

    Genya crooned gently and soothed the twins into sleep.

    We’ve got to leave the city, Marka whispered. The Garden Gates are nearest to us. Just before dawn maybe, when we can see where we are going? She looked at the slightly deeper shadow that was Genya. Do you understand?

    You say. We go. Sleeping now.

    Marka wasn’t at all sure Genya understood anything she had said but all the same her reply summed the situation up completely.

    The dog curled up in her lap and made himself useful warming the babe. And I don’t know what you are here for, Mutt, she said crossly to herself and realised she had given the scruffy heap of wiry hair a name. She felt Mutt wag his tail and supposed he approved.

    She sat staring into the dark trying to remember the map that hung on the schoolroom wall. Cardanon was home, she knew the city and its farmlands fairly well, but beyond that were the lands of her dreams. Akhara was far to the south in the dark lands where the Power was hot and sultry; in the east were the great Houses in Athelberg, Darnberg and Hartzberg where Brothers as well as Sisters touched the Power and studied the sciences. Cardanon traded with the seaports in the west, fine fabrics and spices bartered for their own wines and the produce from their fertile lands, but Sister Houses were few. The Mother Teachers had not told her of any Houses across the seas. The Zashran horde had come from the north, hungry for land; wherever they settled the Power soured and the fertility leached away.

    Marka felt an awful hollowness as the loss of the map and the schoolroom wall struck her. She had always thought she would like to travel but it had been a vague ambition, not a necessity, and she had never thought she would have to find her own way. Distant lands were places of romance and wonder, unsuitable for mere geography lessons, but now the subject seemed much more relevant and urgent and her knowledge woefully incomplete.

    She had visited the nearest Sisters at Cardend last summer as part of Mother Frieda’s retinue for her progress around the noble houses, but she had no knowledge of the roads or rivers beyond. Even Cardend was miles away to the south and they had to escape from the city first.

    The Sisters were used to travelling in style escorted by the Duke’s own guard. It wasn’t that they needed guarding in this complacent countryside but Cardanon’s rulers knew they owed much of their prosperity to the Silver House on Tower Hill and observed the forms of respect. The Mother Teachers schooled the young and the Sisters cared for the sick and the few homeless of the city. Their care for others enriched the Power in the land and focussed it so it could be channelled and used in a cycle of mutual comfort between House and city. Sisters were chosen for their ability to feel the Power and those able to draw and channel Power were trained and elevated as Mothers. Marka had expected to become one of the youngest Mothers in the long memories of the House.

    Instead she dozed fitfully in the ruins, shifting occasionally to ease the stiffness in her legs under the weight of Mutt and the baby. She felt dirty and uncomfortable and lost.

    At last she woke to see a grey light filtering through the black timbers overhead and rubbed her dry eyes. She could see Genya was already awake and regarding Marka thoughtfully.

    Young, she said.

    Marka shrugged. She could hardly acquire more than her eighteen years on demand.

    Genya looked hard into Marka’s eyes, brown gazing into grey, and nodded approvingly. Strong. Good!

    Returning her gaze the few feet across their cellar, in the first light of the dawn, Marka saw a broadly built woman older than herself, looking perhaps twenty-five or thirty. There was no mistaking the strength in Genya; her composure was based in confidence not ignorance. Marka felt a rush of relief and awe that a Mother had chosen to stay behind. On seeing Marka’s reaction, Genya chuckled quietly to herself. They smiled together for the first time, sealing their alliance.

    They became aware of small noises overhead that were not the irregular shifting of the burned out homes. The noises came slowly closer, unmistakably someone trying to creep quietly through the rubble. Genya bent her head to the waking twins and held a finger to her lips while Marka kept her hold on Mutt and the babe. The noises stopped and started as if a person was searching then paused directly overhead.

    Sander? Puli? The searcher whispered.

    The twins started pulling Genya’s sleeve, nodding and pointing up. Mutt’s short tail thrashed in excitement. Marka peered from under her hood and thought she recognised the small silhouette of a girl between the beams.

    Under here, Marka whispered. Is there anyone else?

    Just me, the girl replied.

    Marka stood and reached up, one handed, to help a skinny girl of about twelve climb down to them.

    It’s all quiet round here at the moment. I saw Becca last night so I was looking for Sander and Puli.

    By this time the twins had wriggled away from Genya and were hugging the newcomer.

    Bani! Bani! Look Sisters, it’s Bani! Where’s Becca? Even with some light it was hard to tell which twin was speaking. They seemed to act and speak together even though they didn’t look alike. Sander was stocky and reddish haired, his sister Puli taller with fair curls.

    Hush sillies. You really don’t want the Zashran to find you. The girl looked from Genya to Marka.

    It’s a good thing you were here for Becca last night but you are probably in more danger than anyone else now. They are searching the streets with their Shamans today; they’ll be looking for you, won’t they?

    Marka had seen the girl often enough in her explorations of the city; she was an orphan who scratched a living by telling stories in the market. Some Sisters had shaken their heads sadly at mention of her, not understanding a child who refused their shelter, but some had respected her independent spirit and made sure there was always food at the portress’ lodge for her hungry days.

    Marka hoped Genya would be ready to show an interest in their situation but her silence made it apparent she was content to leave the planning to Marka.

    We’ve been here since the House went. Are you a friend of Becca’s?

    The girl settled between the twins, happy to be the centre of attention.

    I am Agbani. I saw you hide and I saw Becca hide these with you. I saw the soldiers searching. Nobody saw me!

    Well done, Agbani. I am Marka and this is Genya. Marka contained her impatience at the child’s self-importance. I think we need to leave the city before the light gets much better. Have you seen Shamans?

    They can see Sisters even when you don’t want, can’t they? Like children can?

    I have been told that. What about the search?

    I went down to the market square in the night and listened a bit but they don’t talk like we do. They had kept some women but they killed them after. I don’t think they want anyone left in the city.

    Six weeks of siege had hardened them all to mention of horror but Agbani’s matter of fact manner made Genya looked at her in wonder and sadness. She tried to put an arm round her but Agbani leaned out of reach.

    What about the Garden Gates? Marka tried to get her to the point.

    They are open and Zashran are going in and out but not many yet. They are stopping some people and letting others go. Marka understood what she meant by stopping. They make a game of it. I thought I could hide and look after Sander and Puli until things settle down. Can you get past them?

    Marka thought. There were ways, but she didn’t know how to hide all the children.

    Shamans? asked Genya Touch Power?

    Not like we do, Marka said. They sense it but they don’t use it. They seem to have some way of dirtying the Power or draining it away. That was all the Mother Teachers could tell us. I know they chant and shake bells. Maybe we can listen for them but the number of soldiers we have to get past is a big problem.

    Genya smiled and started shaking the edge of her cloak.

    Does the wind blow? she asked Agbani.

    Sure, there is quite a breeze coming up with the dawn, Agbani replied, puzzled. There is all sorts of dust and rubbish blowing about. And soot of course.

    Marka understood and interrupted. Can you hide them all? If they want to come?

    Easy, Genya said matter of factly. Lots of Power here. It was a big House.

    I’ve never done anything like this. Marka was worried by the simplicity of the plan but could think of nothing better. Agbani and the twins looked from one to the other, not understanding.

    I will lead, Genya said serenely to Marka. You will follow and listen for me. This one, she turned to Agbani, can show me the way. Between us no one gets lost.

    Just like that? asked Agbani, sceptically.

    Genya winked at her.

    The twins started getting anxious, We’re coming, we’re coming! The surest thing in their short lives was that children were always safe with Sisters.

    The babe has to come, too, said Marka, and we can take Becca if we find her. All right, Agbani?

    I’ll have to come, won’t I, if you two can’t even find the Garden Gates. Marka was happy to let that go without comment; a little arrogance was a small price to pay for someone as resourceful as Agbani to go with them.

    Good, good, Genya smiled again, Lots of us, as many as we can find.

    Agbani climbed out first, followed by Mutt and Marka. Genya passed the twins up, then the baby, before she scrambled up awkwardly herself. She stretched, looked about excitedly and quickly gathered her long, chestnut hair into a neat coil. She was a handsomely built woman wearing a fine quality woollen dress in shades of brown under her cloak, the embroidery on her girdle and bodice was picked out in yellow and gold. Marka dusted some soot off her clothes but the Sisterwoven fabric was recovering well without help. She wore grey trews and a grey tunic trimmed with black and silver braid over her white linen shirt, all in the same good quality Genya wore. Her fine, dark hair was cut to shoulder length and fell forward, feather like, around her face, framing dark grey eyes and a pale, translucent complexion. In contrast to the Sisters understated opulence and the twins’ homespun, Agbani was so covered in scarves and sequins in shades of red, blue and purple it was hard to see what her actual clothes were. The outfit was finished off with an embroidered red bandanna hung with little silver beads to hold her straight glossy black hair away from her dark little face.

    Genya, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, took the twins by the hands.

    Lead me, little peacock! Like leaves now, we blow and scamper. Stay close together!

    Genya stayed close beside Agbani, skipping and dancing along the alley, pausing at the street corner to look around then blowing on down the hill. They saw folk trying to make their own secret ways out of the city but no one saw enough to know that Sisters had passed them by with the dawn breeze.

    The piles of rubble that disfigured the streets of the artisan’s quarter made it hard to tell what the homes had been like before the bombardment. Marka knew the houses had been decorated and ornamented by the craftsmen who lived here, partly to advertise their craft but mostly for the joy of creation in this affluent city. Genya picked her way with care and looked for Agbani to guide her when their way was blocked but all the time her every gesture mimicked the gusts of the morning breeze.

    They had nearly reached the broad road that used to take livestock and carts laden with produce from the garden lands to market and were wondering if their luck and Genya’s cunning would take them right out of the city when Marka heard the bells. She hissed and pointed for them to get off the road. They bowled into the paved yard of a deserted chandler’s and dived into a far corner. Genya led them farther from the road between the tumbled packing cases and sheds of this once thriving business. She looked for a way around the stables but they came to a high wall and could go no further. Genya dropped the glamour and they all listened hard to see if the search was coming their way.

    They were trapped in this yard. They would surely be seen if they tried to regain the road and Genya dared not weave the Power around them with a Shaman close, so they looked around for a hiding place. The stables were half ruined, most of the hayloft roof had burned out and the floor had gaping holes but it was the only possibility. They crept through the doorway, helped each other up a rickety ladder and then lay along the planks, out of sight from below. Genya and Marka carefully made sure they had separated themselves from the Power. This was a new and strange feeling for Marka, the Power generated by the Sister House had been a constant all her life, but they could not risk that the Shaman might feel their touch disturbing its flow. The baby stirred out of his enforced sleep and started the little coughing noises that would work up to a full hunger cry, so Marka held him close and put her finger in his mouth. He sucked vigorously, making her nervous that he would not keep quiet when he realised she was duping him. They could hear the search parties getting closer up the Garden Road.

    Over the steady pace of marching feet they heard the Shaman’s song, rhythmic but discordant, and the irregular clonk, clonk of the wooden bells. As the procession moved closer, it stopped and started while soldiers searched side streets. The baby was hungry and was considering making his feelings about dry fingers known. Marka knew she could never bring herself to stifle him even if he whimpered around her finger; she gritted her teeth and feared the worst. She heard the bell at the yard entrance and watched between the beams as the Zashran spread into the yard, turning over empty boxes and loose timber. The Shaman snuffled about the yard holding a short black wand out in front of him, sniffing, hunting for a Mother or a Sister’s touch. The first soldiers were coming to the empty frame that was all that remained of the stable doorway when the baby murmured again.

    The Shaman snarled the soldiers to a frozen silence.

    He cocked his head, his upper body weaving back and forth as he hunted for the source of the sound. Marka could see his squat frame moving slowly into the doorway and saw his broad nostrils flare as if he expected to smell a Sister. Slowly his patrol followed him, watching his every move. Marka was desperate as the hungry babe fretted at her finger.

    The first soldiers were through the stable doorway when Mutt suddenly broke out of hiding at the foot of the ladder, and ran for his life.

    The soldiers jeered at each other and shied stones after the fleeing dog. One or two started laughing harshly at the Shaman for being fooled but the short magus swiftly reached up and struck a soldier hard between the eyes with his black wand, dropping the soldier instantly to the ground. The Shaman swept past his troops with a sneer and a shake of his bell, out of the courtyard and away up the street, leaving the soldier lying still.

    The hidden children kept their silence in the rafters and listened to the Zashran patrol working its way up the street, the clonking of the bell punctuated with occasional shouts or screams as the soldiers cleared out hiding places. The soldier on the ground did not move. When the ghastly noises had turned a corner up the hill Genya climbed down the ladder and cautiously approached the body. She signalled with her hand across her throat that he was dead and beckoned Agbani to help the twins down the ladder.

    Before she moved Agbani touched Marka’s arm and gestured with her head over the wall. They could see part of an ironmonger’s store shed next door. Becca lay impaled on a spike, her clothes torn away. The hand with the House tattoo she had been so proud of was cut off and stuffed between her legs. Marka just nodded and sent Agbani down the ladder. She stayed at the top until the last child was down, blocking their view and swallowing against nausea, before she climbed down herself.

    The sight of Becca’s fate made her slow to realise she had helped more down than she had helped up. They had been joined by two older girls, a boy of eighteen or so and a younger boy and girl. She knew the older boy, Bertran, and was glad to see him safe. Most boys of his age had been on the walls; men had become rare in the last days of the siege. His mother had been a Sister in the House but had chosen to leave and marry; he was a cheerful, kind boy with a head of unruly brown curls and a fast growing reputation as a heart breaker that had reached the Silver House schoolrooms. He winked at her, his eyes twinkling with challenge, so she gave him the baby to carry and made a show of carefully counting how many there were in the party now. It was all right Genya welcoming them all, she

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1