Blood of an Exile

by Brian Naslund

  Bershad nodded, pulled off his mask, and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes.

  “Bastard was quick,” she muttered, pulling her blade out of his throat with a wet sound.

  Bershad looked down at the corpse. Then at Vera’s left hand. Every finger was twisted and bent—each one going in a different, unnatural direction.

  “That’s an issue,” Bershad said.

  She looked at it and grimaced, as if she was just now noticing the problem. “Black skies. Shouldn’t have let him get ahold of me.”

  “Let’s go back to the fire. I’ll see what I can do.”

  18

  ASHLYN

  Almira, Castle Malgrave

  Ashlyn sat on a canopied balcony built along the inner wall of Floodhaven. She had spent every morning there for the last two weeks, watching the arrival of the wardens of Almira who’d come for her coronation. Her father had told her once that it was good for a warden to see his liege as he entered the capital. It reminded him who he answered to if he misbehaved.

  Ashlyn was doing it for a different reason. She sat with her leather-bound ledger in her lap taking an inventory of the traffic into the capital. Presently, Crellin Nimbu was riding at the head of fifty wardens. He was a relatively poor small lord who ruled Otter Rock and a few other villages in the Blakmar province. None of his wardens wore the same type of armor or rode the same breed of horse, but all of them wore yellow cloaks and masks carved into the faces of otters to show that they were sworn to Nimbu. Most of the masks looked freshly carved.

  He’d most likely hired the new wardens in anticipation of the profits he’d receive from the dragon that Bershad killed for him at Otter Rock. If the money fell through, or the wardens found better pay elsewhere, they would drop their new otter masks in the mud and make different ones. Among the small lords, a warden’s loyalty was almost as temporary as a mud totem set next to a river’s edge on a rainy day.

  Truth be told, loyalty wasn’t much stronger for the high lords. They just paid better.

  Kira would have liked watching the wardens arrive—she always adored the fanfare of Floodhaven court. During feasts, she would flit from table to table, chatting with different lords and laughing at their jokes. Everyone liked her immediately—it was one of her gifts. Ashlyn felt a pang of sadness when she realized that feasts and royal audiences were pretty much the only time she’d seen her younger sister in the last seven years. They’d never spent much time together as children, but once Ashlyn became the Malgrave heir, they’d become strangers. On the surface, Ashlyn appeared to be the loyal and protective older sister—the queen who was willing to launch a fleet and an army to help her family. But Ashlyn didn’t feel like a good sister. If she had to choose between rescuing Kira and stopping Mercer, she knew what her choice would be. That knowledge made her feel ugly and cold, but it didn’t change her mind.

  Ashlyn faked a smile and waved at Lord Nimbu as he passed below the portcullis. He saluted her with a violent double tap on his chest. Ashlyn rolled her eyes—she’d never shared Kira’s enthusiasm for elaborate displays.

  She ticked off the new wardens in her ledger. One slash at a time, her army was being assembled.

  Ashlyn leafed through the pages and worked out a quick sum of the wardens who had arrived so far. Small lords had been pouring into Floodhaven from the Atlas Coast for weeks. Nearly five thousand strong and more arriving every day. As for the high lords, Linkon Pommol had delivered one thousand wardens—the entirety of his obligation. Lords Brock and Korbon had both managed about half the requested amount, also with more arriving every day. That made a total of nearly thirteen thousand wardens in Floodhaven.

  But the area for Cedar Wallace’s tally sat empty. Not a single wolf-masked warden inside the city.

  He claimed delays from heavy spring rains in the west. That made Ashlyn nervous, but not nearly as nervous as the fact that there had also been no news from Deepdale or Mudwall in weeks. She had no idea how soon Elden Grealor’s host would be ready. She did not even know if Uylnar Went was alive in Mudwall. When messages stopped arriving in her dovecote, Ashlyn had dispatched half a dozen sentinels to both cities. Nothing. Without information, she was blind. More importantly, she couldn’t control the army she’d summoned to the capital without the return of her Malgrave wardens and Elden Grealor’s men from Deepdale. If the lords of the Gorgon didn’t feel outnumbered in Floodhaven, they would get ambitious. Ashlyn couldn’t afford that. Not now.

  An hour later, one of Carlyle’s wardens came onto the balcony, his forehead wet with sweat. He started to speak, but was breathing too hard to understand.

  “It’s all right,” Ashlyn said. “Take a moment to collect yourself.”

  The warden nodded. Took several long, deep breaths.

  “My queen,” he said. “They’re here.”

  * * *

  Ashlyn stood on a high balcony of the King’s Tower, looking through a telescope. Seventy-two Papyrian frigates dotted the horizon of Terra. Each mast was eighty strides tall, cut from ancient Papyrian cedars. It looked to Ashlyn as if a burned-out forest was lurching across the sea toward the castle. The hulls were all dyed deep black by the oil of a Milk Wing Dragon—a breed rarely seen beyond the islands of Papyria. Their sails were down, but their oars were digging hard toward shore. The leading ship of the fleet had strung a massive Papyrian banner to its mast—an orca leaping above a tree-covered island.

  Ashlyn counted one last time to be sure, then closed the telescope and scratched a few quick notes in her journal. Seventy-two ships.

  “Only three missing,” she said to herself. “Three is not bad for a fleet that size moving along the Broken Peninsula. Not bad at all.”

  “How long until they make port?” Hayden asked.

  “At that pace, eight … maybe nine hours,” Ashlyn answered. “But there is a coastal wind moving along our shore they have almost reached. They should open their sails again soon.”

  As if the sailors had heard her, the ships raised their sails—dozens of colors popped across the horizon: reds, blues, striped oranges, and blacks. The burned-out forest transformed into a floating garden of fabric.

  “Two hours,” Ashlyn said. “Maybe less.”

  The arrival of the Papyrian fleet meant that one way or another, she could stop the emperor’s dragon cull. She’d have much rather seen a single ship appear on the eastern horizon that carried Silas, her sister, and news of Mercer’s death. But Ashlyn would have rather had a lot of things happen differently in her life. There was no point in wasting time wishing for an easier reality. This was what she had.

  “Someone find Lord Pommol,” Ashlyn said, rising. “I would like him to ride with me down to the dock. The other high lords can walk.”

  * * *

  Ashlyn and Linkon made the journey to the harbor in a covered palanquin, surrounded by Carlyle and a score of his wardens. Traffic came to a halt along the main avenues as her retinue moved through the city. Men shouted for a clear route through the commotion.

  The trip reminded her how vulnerable kings and queens were. They were like the tallest tree in a grove—easiest to spot, and the most valuable to cut down.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Linkon said after they’d been traveling for a few minutes, “what did I do to deserve the honor of traveling in the queen’s palanquin?”

  “You’re a clever man,” Ashlyn said. “I’m sure you can guess.”

  Linkon tapped his lips a few times. “The others haven’t delivered all of the wardens you requested?”

  “Correct,” Ashlyn said. “Korbon and Brock are coming along, though. Wallace is not.”

  “I see,” Linkon said. “What will you do about it?”

  “Become more persuasive.”

  Three hundred widows standing next to her would help.

  Linkon nodded and leaned back on his cushion. “You’re some thing of a mystery, my queen. I’m still trying to puzzle out why you’re so keen on invading Balaria.”


  “I want my sister back.”

  “That’s a good enough reason to convince the small lords to go to war. And the small-minded high lords. But not you—the diligent student of nature and history. There must be something more you expect to gain from the invasion.”

  “Of course there is,” Ashlyn said, easing into the most convenient explanation. “I expect to gain control over my country. As you say, I am a student of history. And the archives are bursting with warlords and kings who shored up control over armies and countries and even entire continents by establishing an enemy, then starting a fight with them.”

  “I see,” Linkon said. “That’s certainly a tactic that has some merit, although it comes with some considerable collateral damage. Win or lose, many Almirans will be killed in a war with Balaria.”

  “I learned a long time ago that almost everything in this life comes with collateral damage, Lord Linkon.”

  Ashlyn thought of Silas, and the places she’d asked him to go. The things she had convinced him to do.

  “Perhaps that’s true,” Linkon said, then glanced out the window before speaking again. “Still, I can’t help but notice the timing of your plans. If I’m not mistaken, we’ll be setting sail for Balaria just as the Great Dragon Migration is reaching its height.”

  “I didn’t choose the time at which the Balarians kidnapped my sister.”

  “No, but seeing as you carry such a fervent interest in the great lizards, it seems like a happy coincidence that you’re able to follow the beasts across Terra on their travels.”

  “There is nothing happy about invading a country,” Ashlyn snapped, letting an extra barb creep into her voice. “And what exactly are you suggesting? I’m invading Balaria so I can get a better look at some dragons? Are you insane? I am the queen of Almira now. I have more important things to worry about.”

  Linkon’s face turned pale. He realized he’d overstepped.

  “Of course, my queen,” he murmured, giving a little head bow and fidgeting in his seat. “I apologize.”

  Ashlyn watched him, but didn’t say anything. Of all the lords on the High Council, Linkon had the sharpest eyes, which meant he was the most likely to uncover her true intentions. But for right now, she believed her lie had convinced him.

  * * *

  They arrived at the docks. Hayden pulled the black lacquered door to the palanquin open. Ashlyn squinted at the bright sun as she stepped down. Shielded her eyes with one hand.

  The high lords of Almira had arrived as well, each one of them standing beneath a different colored silk canopy, some of which were still being tied down by scurrying servants. Cedar Wallace stood beneath a blue bolt of fabric with his hands clasped behind his back—the emerald on the pommel of his sword glinting in the sunlight. Doro Korbon’s eyes shifted between the ships and Ashlyn. Yulnar Brock was lying sideways on a sofa working through a plate of sauce-drenched meatballs.

  “Lords,” Ashlyn said.

  “My queen,” they echoed in unison.

  Ashlyn turned to the sea, and the ships that filled it.

  The closest ship was less than a hundred strides out. The black hull was the length of three buildings strung together, the masts taller than any tree growing within a hundred miles of Floodhaven. A dozen or so bald Papyrian sailors scrambled around the deck and the rigging, calling back and forth to each other in their language as they prepared to dock.

  A single widow emerged from the hold and walked down the gangplank. She had the dark eyes and black hair of a full-blooded Papyrian. There was a forked scar running down her left cheek and over her lips.

  “Queen Ashlyn, my name is Shoshone Kalara Sun,” she said in a thick Papyrian accent that reminded Ashlyn of her mother. The memory tightened the back of Ashlyn’s throat, but she pushed the emotion down. “Empress Okinu asked me to express her condolences regarding your father once more.”

  “I appreciate that,” Ashlyn said. She glanced back onto the ship. “How many are with you?”

  “There are one hundred and seven of the empress’s widows in the ship behind me. Another one hundred and ninety-two are spread between the four other ships at this dock. A precaution in case we were hit by a storm and separated. I’ll admit that some of my sisters are fresh from their training on Roriku Island, but even an inexperienced widow is twice as useful as those metal-covered sweat-machines that you Almirans prefer.”

  Ashlyn smiled. “Good.”

  “I also have this.” Shoshone removed a letter from behind her breastplate and handed it to Ashlyn. It bore the orca seal of Papyria, cast in ocean-blue wax. Ashlyn opened the letter and read:

  Queen Ashlyn,

  You have provided many gifts to Papyria over the years. Now I provide a gift to you. I look forward to the exchange of many more gifts in the future.

  With love,

  Empress Okinu, Eternal Majesty of the Papyrian Empire

  Ashlyn folded the paper in half and tucked it into her gown. She glanced around the dock, seeing the uncertain eyes of the high lords. Ashlyn had never put much stock in the ceremony that seemed to surround soldiers—all the marching wardens with their clinking armor, battle totems, and chest-thumping salutes seemed like wasted effort. But now that she was a young queen surrounded by chauvinist warlords, she understood the value of spectacle.

  “Bring them out,” Ashlyn said.

  “Widows!” Shoshone called.

  They poured from the ships like a river of black silk. The whisper of their armor was a gentle wind cascading over everyone on the quay. The widows flowed around Ashlyn and formed a crescent wall of sharkskin leather. Some widows were barely older than Kira, but their faces were all defined by a hardened discipline.

  Yulnar Brock dropped the rib he’d been chewing and watched with an open mouth as the widows moved into formation around Ashlyn. Doro Korbon looked like he might actually run away and hide. But they weren’t the ones Ashlyn was concerned about.

  Cedar Wallace remained still as the widows disembarked. His eyes were fixed on Ashlyn. Unlike every other man on the docks, he did not seem impressed. That, or he was just hiding it better.

  When the widows had formed up behind her, Ashlyn stepped forward.

  “High lords, our fleet has arrived.”

  Doro Korbon’s mouth twitched a few times. “Most impressive, my queen.”

  “Yes, yes, a fine fleet, my queen!” Yulnar Brock said, necks jiggling.

  “Thank you,” Ashlyn said. “I have been keeping track of the wardens coming to Floodhaven. Lord Pommol has delivered in full, showing his wisdom. Lords Korbon and Brock, I’m not dissatisfied with your numbers, but I would imagine all of your wardens will arrive in the next eleven or twelve days, yes?”

  Korbon was staring at Shoshone, who stared right back. “Yes, my queen. Eleven days sounds about right.”

  Ashlyn turned to Cedar Wallace. Back at the first High Council meeting, she’d shamed him into providing a hollow promise of support. If she had more time, Ashlyn would have found an elegant way to convince Wallace to fall in line—there had to be a way to defuse the rivalry her father had spent decades exacerbating. But Ashlyn was out of time.

  She had no choice but to give him an ultimatum.

  “Lord Wallace. Where are your wardens?”

  Wallace stepped forward. Cleared his throat. “The roads have been very difficult, and—”

  “The condition of Almira’s roads is not an excuse for disobeying my orders,” Ashlyn interrupted. “There are no excuses for disobeying your queen. If you fail to bring your wardens into my city by the eve of my coronation, you will no longer enjoy my protection in Floodhaven. Do I make myself clear?”

  Wallace’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to draw his sword and rush her, but instead his eyes flashed across the armed widows standing behind Ashlyn. He knew that while they would certainly protect Ashlyn, they could also be sent out into the night with their blades drawn.

  “Clear, my queen,” he said. “My wardens
will arrive on time. As promised.”

  Ashlyn hesitated. There was something in Wallace’s tone that Ashlyn didn’t like, and most certainly didn’t trust. Still, she’d gotten the answer that she needed—there was nothing more to be gained by pushing him further right now. She gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment.

  Shoshone took a step forward. “What are your orders, my queen?”

  “Your widows will secure the castle. I’d like you to join me in the Queen’s Tower so that we might become better acquainted.”

  “Very good, my queen.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Ashlyn sat in her private chamber with Hayden, Shoshone, ten of the newly arrived widows, and Linkon Pommol. He had his hands pressed flat against his thighs and was sitting very still, like a rabbit who had spotted a predator.

  “Shoshone,” Ashlyn said. “Who were you responsible for protecting in Papyria?”

  “I served the empress’s youngest sister for many years, my queen.”

  “Kasumi?” Ashlyn asked. “Didn’t she die of a fever a decade ago?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What have you been doing since then?”

  Shoshone bowed her head. “The empress has many enemies. Sometimes it is better to seek them out rather than wait for their arrival.”

  “You’re an assassin,” Linkon said.

  “I am flexible with my duties.” Shoshone smiled, the scar on her face turning an unsettling shade of white.

  “I see.” Ashlyn was willing to use the newly arrived widows as assassins, but didn’t want to define her rule with murder. Perhaps the threat of a widow’s blade in the night would be enough to keep Cedar Wallace in line. “Right now, getting the high lords to bring their armies to Floodhaven is the priority.”

  Hayden cleared her throat. “Due respect, my queen, but the priority is keeping you alive. Your coronation draws near.”

  “You suspect a threat?” Shoshone asked.