Exile of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 0)

by Melissa McShane

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Part One: Winter, Year 908 of the Binding (Y.B.)

  Part Two: Spring, 924 Y.B.

  Part Three: Autumn, 945 Y.B.

  Part Four: Summer, 952 Y.B.

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 Melissa McShane

  Published by Night Harbor Publishing

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Night Harbor Publishing

  340 S. Lemon Avenue #9773

  Walnut, CA 91789

  www.nightharborpublishing.com

  Cover design by Yocla Designs www.yocladesigns.com

  North sign and shield designed by Erin Dinnell Bjorn

  Part One: Winter, Year 908 of the Binding (Y.B.)

  She hadn’t expected the noise. The thumping of the treadles, the clacking of the shuttle, the creaking groan of the batten, echoing off the walls and her skull until it was nearly tangible. She jerked on the picking stick, shifted her feet, repeated the motions. Maybe if she weren’t so damned slow at the thing, it wouldn’t bother her so much. Then again, Mistress Watkins wasn’t deaf, and she’d been a weaver for more than thirty years, so probably Zara was being oversensitive. She gritted her teeth. She refused to let some contraption of metal and wood defeat her. She’d chosen this path, and she wasn’t giving up.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. “That’s enough for now,” Mistress Watkins said, speaking in that carrying voice that wasn’t shouting and yet was easily heard over the noise of the loom. Zara let go the picking stick and sat back, flexing her calves. “Good work.”

  “I’m not fast enough,” Zara said.

  “Patience, Agatha. You’ve already made more progress than I imagined. Guess it wasn’t so stupid taking on an older apprentice. At least I don’t have to worry about you running off to the big city, wasting my time and effort.”

  “I’ve had my fill of the big city. Sterris is about right for me.”

  Mistress Watkins’ eyes twinkled. “Especially when you’ve got so much to keep you here?”

  So it was back to that again. Zara slid off the seat and crossed the room to pick up her cloak. “I’ve nowhere else to be, that’s certain. And I’ve got years of my apprenticeship to go. That’s more than enough.”

  “You’re breaking poor Mister Hobson’s heart, you are. Might as well put him out of his misery.”

  “I’m not inclined to marry. Mister Hobson knows that. It’s not my fault he’s too stubborn to see sense.”

  Mistress Watkins moved around the room, tidying up even though it was Zara’s job as apprentice to do that. “And yet I notice you never give him the kind of send-off I know you’re capable of.”

  Zara put up the hood of her cloak to conceal her blush. “Is prying into my affairs part of the apprenticeship?”

  That had been more acerbic than she’d intended, but Mistress Watkins didn’t take offense. “That’s part of belonging to a small town,” she said. “We live in each other’s pockets. This time of year more than most, as we start thinking about Wintersmeet and how we’re all connected. I don’t like seeing you lonely.”

  “I’m not lonely.”

  “You should be. We’re all made to be joined, Agatha, and Hank Hobson…I’m just saying, don’t go pushing away your happiness just because you’re afraid it might turn on you.”

  “That’s not—” Zara closed her lips on the rest of that sentence. “I just don’t feel that way about him,” she said instead.

  “Don’t you,” Mistress Watkins said in a bland voice. “See you in the morning, Agatha.”

  Zara wrapped her cloak securely about herself and stepped into the wintry evening. Snow had been falling all day. Earlier it had roared around Mistress Watkins’ home, nearly drowning out the sound of the loom. Now it fell in tiny flakes that caught on the dark gray wool of her cloak and quivered there briefly before melting from its warmth. She’d left it on the hearth all afternoon and it was beautifully, if irregularly, hot. She let out a breath that steamed in the frigid air. Mercy Johnson’s pub, for a hand pie to take home with her, then—

  “Well, Miss Weaver, what a coincidence!”

  Zara let out another breath, this one exasperated. “Mister Hobson,” she said. “It’s hardly a coincidence when you’re always here just as I leave for home.”

  Hank Hobson tipped his hat to her, making a small avalanche of snow fall off its brim between them. “I just happen to pass this way most nights,” he said.

  “And you just happen to stand outside this door long enough for the snow to accumulate on your hat.”

  “It’s a comfortable corner. Would you deny me my comforts?” Hobson grinned and winked, and despite her irritation Zara had to control a matching smile. He was annoying, and stubborn, and persistent, and every time she left Mistress Watkins’ house and he wasn’t there she felt hollow inside. It was stupid, she was stupid, and she needed to give him a real push so he’d stop trying to court her, but…

  “As we’re both here, perhaps you’ll let me escort you home?” Hobson offered her his arm.

  “I don’t need help walking, Mister Hobson.”

  “Oh, but I think I do. It’s been a long day in the mines and I’m feeling a bit wobbly.” Hobson’s face, rugged and not quite handsome, creased in a comical expression of sorrow. “You’re too kind a woman to let a man fall on his face if she could help it.”

  This time, she did smile, then cursed herself for being drawn by him, but by heaven, he was attractive. When he wasn’t being ridiculous he looked at her in a way that left her shaken with its intensity. “I’m going to Mercy’s,” she said, then felt stupid at how inane that sounded.

  “That’s where I’m going!” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his chest in pretended astonishment. “Now you’ve no excuse. You’ll help me there, and I’ll buy you a pint in thanks.”

  He really was too ridiculous for words. “Very well,” Zara said. “Just one pint.”

  “I wouldn’t get a lady drunk,” Hobson said with a wink, and held out his arm again. This time, Zara took it.

  Hobson was a good deal taller and broader than she was, but he matched his steps to hers, and he gave off warmth more steadily than a chimney. Zara had to resist the urge to draw him closer, because heaven only knew what he’d make of that. She regretted, as she often did, that she’d flirted with him in the first place. In those heady early days of freedom, of leaving Zara North in the dust, she’d forgotten—or maybe hadn’t wanted to remember—the cruel reality of her inherent magic, that she was destined to live a long, long life, outliving everyone she cared about. Outliving Hank Hobson by a long way.

  It wasn’t fair to either of them to pretend they could make a normal life together, particularly a childless one—the other curse of her inherent magic. But when she’d finally made herself face the truth, and began distancing herself from him, he didn’t take the hint. He wasn’t rude, or aggressive, just…patient. Patient, kind, and funny, and occasionally serious in a way that made her heart flutter, and always there, just waiting for her to change her mind. She should have been angry about it, but there was a part of her—the weak, sentimental part Zara North kept firmly under
control—that couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving.

  Ahead, warm lantern light turned the falling snowflakes gold, and a quiet rush of voices grew louder as they approached Mercy’s pub. “Will you let me buy you supper?” Hobson said.

  “Do I ever let you buy me supper?”

  “A man can dream, can’t he?” He held the door open for her with a bow and a sweep of his arm. Zara bit back another smile. Don’t encourage him. Eat something, have a drink, then you can be on your way.

  Mercy herself came out from behind the bar to greet them. “Agatha, Hank, you want the usual?”

  “We’re not together,” Zara said. It was what she always said.

  “Sure you’re not,” Mercy said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll send food out directly, and a couple of pints.”

  “You see?” Hobson said. “Is it so bad, sharing a meal with me?”

  “We’re not sharing a meal. We’re two people eating at the same table.”

  “Not much difference, Miss Weaver.” He pulled out a chair for her. “And how goes the apprenticeship?”

  “Well, I think. I’m still so slow, it’s frustrating.”

  “That comes with time. And then you’ll have the skill to match the name.”

  She’d chosen the name to match the skill she intended to learn, but she couldn’t tell him that. “I’m not good at waiting for things.”

  “That, too, comes with time.” He leaned back as one of Mercy’s servers slid a couple of plates of sliced ham in front of them. “I, on the other hand, am excellent at waiting for things.”

  Zara didn’t need to see the amused gleam in his eye to know what he meant. “Not everything comes for the waiting.”

  “But the best things are worth that chance.”

  “Isn’t it worse when you wait for something only to discover it will never happen?”

  “That’s never happened to me.”

  Zara cut a very large piece of meat and stuffed it into her mouth so she wouldn’t respond with something scathing. She needed him to stop pursuing her, but she didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe that’s the only way left, she thought. Hurt him, send him running from you, it’s not as if you don’t know how to find someone’s weakness and exploit it. He’s just like every other man.

  “What are your plans for Wintersmeet?” Hobson said.

  “A nice quiet evening in,” Zara said. “What about you?”

  “Midnight service at the bethel, then the big dance afterward.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious.”

  “I’m not, much, but I’m far from family and I like the feeling of being surrounded by people on the solstice.”

  Zara couldn’t wait to feel her bonds to her family at the solstice. It was all she had left. “Sounds nice,” she said.

  “The dance is the biggest social event of the year. You should come. Lots of friends, lots of food.”

  “I’m not really very sociable.”

  Hobson shrugged and began cutting his meat. “Just think about it.”

  He’d gone from flirtatious to indifferent in a heartbeat, and Zara felt unexpectedly guilty about her coldness. Then she felt angry. Her life was her business and nobody else’s. Hank Hobson needed to keep his nose out of it.

  They ate in silence, but when Zara finished off her pint and stood to go, Hobson stood with her. “I really don’t need an escort, Mister Hobson,” she said. Just as she always did.

  “You’re on my way home, Miss Weaver,” Hobson said, “so why don’t we walk together?” Just as he always did. She suspected he was lying about the way his path home went, but couldn’t call him on it. And she didn’t want to walk alone.

  They walked down the street in silence, this time without their arms linked. It had stopped snowing, but Zara kept the hood of her cloak up to keep the back of her neck warm. Dr. Trevellian had for some reason cut her hair off while she was dead, and it hadn’t grown back much in the last six months. Hobson was a hulking presence next to her; she was tall, but he was taller, and while Zara wasn’t afraid of anything in this town, she still felt comforted to have him by her side.

  “I was hoping to persuade you to meet me at the dance,” Hobson said abruptly. “It’s not good, being all alone at Wintersmeet.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “And I want to dance with you,” he continued, not put off by her sharp tone.

  “Why’s that?” She didn’t know why her heart was beating faster.

  “Because I like to see you smile. Because I bet you’re a wonderful dancer.”

  “I don’t dance much.” She never danced at all, and now she couldn’t remember why not. Too intimate, possibly, and the Queen couldn’t afford casual intimacy with anyone without the rumormongers turning a simple dance into a full-on theatrical production.

  “Then dance once with me, and sit the rest out.” He grinned at her in the darkness. “I’d rather it that way, truth be told. I don’t want competition.”

  “You don’t have competition.”

  The grin fell away from his face. “I don’t?” he said in a low voice.

  “No—I mean—” Zara stammered, and he smiled mischievously at her. “Mister Hobson, will you please believe me when I tell you I’m not interested?”

  Hobson stopped, and Zara nearly walked past her own front door. “No,” he said.

  “You’re impertinent. When a woman says ‘no,’ that’s what it means.”

  Hobson took a deep breath, serious once more. “That’s not it,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you you don’t know your own mind. You’re a strong, self-assured, beautiful woman, and I think you know what you want. And maybe friends is all we can ever be. But I’ve seen you step outside Mistress Watkins’ door and look up the street to see if I’m coming. I’ve sat down to supper with you a hundred times since you came to Sterris and every time is a joy to me. So I don’t think you’ve made up your mind for certain. And until you do, I won’t give up hope.” He bowed, then set off down the street, not waiting for a reply.

  Zara stood with her hand on the frozen latch and watched him go. Her face was hot, her fingers burned with cold, and for the briefest second she thought about calling him back. Finally she pushed her door open and removed her cloak in the darkness. It didn’t matter what she wanted. She couldn’t make a life with him and it was wrong to try.

  She stood in the black hall gripping her cloak, staring at nothing, for nearly a minute. Then without turning on the light, she went to her bedroom and lay down, fully clothed, on the bed. She needed to leave Sterris, and to hell with what she’d told Mistress Watkins. For the first time in her life, Zara knew she was too weak to face a challenge. Leave, find a new home, never look back. He’d thank her if he knew the truth.

  ***

  No one worked on Wintersmeet Eve day. Zara spent the hours cleaning her tiny rented house, all three rooms of it. She didn’t like cleaning—couldn’t imagine a sensible person who did—but it was good, hard, mindless work, and when she was finished she had a clean house and a tired but satisfied body. A fresh start to a new year.

  She bathed in front of the fireplace, then set out her simple meal and a bottle of good wine and ate until she was contentedly full. Then she dragged her chair over to the fireplace with the bottle and a glass and stared into the fire, sipping occasionally. Back at the palace they’d be dancing the night away in silver and white. Alison and Anthony always looked so good together, so happy, though their first Wintersmeet Ball together had been disastrous.

  She remembered how Anthony had looked that morning—six years ago, now—how quietly he’d spoken, as if his life were in shattered pieces and the best he could hope for was not to lose any of them. I want to be the man she thought I was, he’d said, and what a man he’d become. What a King he now was. At least she didn’t have any worries on that front.

  She discovered to her surprise that the glass was empty and poured more wine. This would be her last. She couldn’t get drunk—her body co
nverted alcohol too quickly for it to do more than give her a pleasant full-body tingle—but she didn’t like the idea of not being in control, even theoretically. She took a larger swallow, reached out with the poker and jabbed at the fire, drank again. It should be nearly midnight. She hoped.

  Then she felt it, the unmistakable tugging as the magical lines of power shifted their alignment. And there they were, Mother and Alison and Anthony and her nephews, pulses of glowing light that were tangible rather than visible. Zara held her breath for those three seconds, grasping at the feeling even as it slipped away from her, tears running down her face at the aching loneliness it left behind. She never cried. It was painful and pointless and did nothing but leave her headachy and runny. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  Eventually she ran out of tears and drew one last ragged breath, then wiped her face with her hands and wiped her hands on her trousers. Enough of that. She was alone, true, but there was nothing wrong with that. In a sense, she’d been alone her whole life.

  She’d thought to marry, once, just after her father’s death, but that had been disastrous. Had she ever really loved Jonathan, or had she just thought she loved him because marrying without love, doing her duty to the Crown, had felt so cold? It didn’t matter, because he hadn’t loved her: I want someone who needs me. Someone I can take care of. You aren’t that. And she hadn’t met anyone since then she’d even considered sharing her life with.

  Until now.

  Zara slid off her chair to sit closer to the fire, close enough to feel it scorch her skin. It was madness. Hank Hobson would age and die while she stayed young. He would never become a father. And she’d be lying to him every day of their life together because no one could know her true identity. It would be the most selfish thing she’d ever done, selfish and cruel, and if she cared at all about him, she’d spurn him completely. He’d be hurt, but it would pass, and he’d move on, and so would she. Alone.

  She came to her feet, pacing the small room. Alone. The idea of that long, long life stretching out before her, utterly alone, filled her with horror. I don’t care, she thought, then said aloud, “I don’t care. I don’t care!”