Exile

by Anne Osterlund

  It worked. She was standing perpendicular from the jagged wall.

  And Robert was there, still firmly holding her hand. Without judgment.

  Though she was appalled at herself for being afraid of something as non-threatening and mundane as height. Then again, there was nothing mundane about this particular trail. And it was plenty threatening with its jagged edges and steep drop.

  Maybe if she thought of the trail as her enemy, she could conquer it.

  She took a step. Robert moved with her, fluidly.

  She took another step, staring at the ground.

  That was two, two steps on the way to conquering this trail.

  Another one—three.

  She fixed her eyes on the surface and set out to make it thirty.

  Aurelia’s terror of heights did lessen, but nothing else about the trail eased. Robert continued to glance back as if their true foe might still come from behind. She knew better. The enemy was present. It ran up and down in a series of deceitful slopes that taxed every muscle in her body. Her thighs and calves ached, and her feet felt as though they had been shredded. By early dusk on the fifth day, she wanted nothing more than to collapse.

  It was then they found the abandoned wagon. Wedged into the cliff, and at an angle. How that was possible on this narrow strip between two slopes, she did not know, but she suspected it had to do with the wheel, somehow rammed into a cleft between the trail and the rock face. And the broken axle. Unsalvageable.

  The vehicle blocked the entire path, the tailgate sticking out over the ravine.

  Robert walked up to the side of the wagon box, untied the canvas near the back, and peered beneath it, then swore. She had never heard him swear. “They left everything in it,” he said, wrestling with another tie. “We’ll have to empty the wagon.”

  “Nooo,” she groaned, her body protesting.

  “I can’t budge it when it’s full. All the weight is coming down on the axle.” He flung back the canvas, swearing again.

  “What about when the people come back for their wagon?”

  “It won’t be here when they come back,” Robert said.

  “But—”

  “Aurelia, it’s blocking the entire path. We can’t take Horizon around it. And no one else will be able to drive another wagon past it. We’re going to have to push it over the edge.”

  She stared at him, horrified.

  “And we should throw the supplies over as well, or someone is bound to wreck upon them.”

  He was so concrete.

  “But, Robert, we can’t. How will the owners of the wagon manage to begin their lives on the frontier if they lose everything?”

  He gave a tight shake of his head. And then she comprehended. That the owners would not manage. They must have known the wagon’s fate when they had been forced to walk away, but had not had the emotional strength to destroy the vehicle themselves.

  Instead, they had left that task for him. And for her.

  Robert hefted a crate and heaved it into the ravine. There was a pause, then a terrible crack! as the contents splintered, no doubt on some jutting rock below.

  Aurelia’s soul cracked as well.

  But Robert gave no sign of remorse. He scrambled up into the wagon and began struggling with a plough. The seven-foot frame with its iron fittings fought against him, as if to argue its merit. Robert shoved it over. There came a thud, then another crack!

  This time she saw his torso shudder.

  And then she understood—that he, also, was appalled by what he was doing but had steeled himself for the task, refusing to leave it for someone else. He had made the harder choice.

  She moved up beside the box and peered into what was left of the canvas bonnet, then lost her heart on a single object. A rocking horse, crude and unstained, its simple head in the shape of a board. But still ...

  For someone to pack such a thing—a toy—when the limited items in the wagon could determine whether a family might survive their first year on the frontier—that said something to her: that this family had thought enough of childhood to include joy. She could not see it destroyed. She scrambled up and reached for the horse.

  “Aurelia.”

  “Just this.” She looked back at Robert, pleading.

  His eyes closed, but he moved to help her undo the toy’s bindings. “We’ll tie it on Horizon and leave it someplace where the trail is a little wider.”

  Nodding, she climbed back out of the wagon, then reached up. And he passed her the precious object, its light frame settling in her hands. The wood felt smooth, well sanded. Carefully she placed the horse behind her. Logic told her the action was futile, that the child in the family would never see the horse again, but somehow the attempt to save something bolstered her strength.

  She moved to help Robert unload the rest of the supplies.

  They worked side by side as the thin evening gray darkened, tightening its grip on the canyon below, hugging the rocks and crevices and amplifying every crack and thud of a vanquished dream. Until nothing remained, other than the rocking horse, a crate Robert had set aside, and the wagon itself.

  Aurelia’s limbs crumpled beneath her.

  But Robert proceeded to the fallen axle.

  “Let it wait until morning,” she said.

  He attempted to shove the crate under the broken beam. For leverage, she realized. The wagon resisted.

  “Robert, it’s late. The people behind us must have already camped. Just leave—”

  “No!” His voice was harsh. “No, Aurelia, I have to finish this. I can’t”—he pounded the frame—“I can’t leave it!”

  She stood up to go to him, but at that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted. Then a rustling. And to Aurelia’s shock, a figure emerged from under the wagon—a man, rough-clad, with wild hair and a hard look in his eyes. His coat had caught on the edge of the wagon box.

  Aurelia hastened to assist him.

  “Sir,” Robert said, “could you please help us?”

  But the man wrenched his coat free, ignoring the rip of the fabric, then brushed past Aurelia and disappeared into the dusk.

  She seethed. “How ... horrible!”

  But Robert just lowered his forehead in his hands, then sank back against the cliff face. “Something happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To that man. He’s going the wrong way. And traveling late.”

  “Maybe he intended to go south.”

  “No, not without a horse.” Robert lifted his head from his hands. “Help me?”

  She moved to his side, and together they propped up the axle. Then turned. And shoved the wagon over the edge.

  The wagon, and hope. The crash reverberated between the cliffs and within her very bones. She thought of the families she had met on her way here. Their stories. How they had sold everything for their dreams of a future—a future where a man could plow his own field instead of working another man’s land; where a woman could work at her husband’s side as an equal; and where a child could grow up free, with his or her own dreams. Aurelia stood there, silent, in the dark.

  And then she realized Robert was shaking—that the horrible crash must be inside him too. And she thought of all the times he had comforted her when she had felt like her soul was injured. She could not tell him that things would be all right. To do so would denigrate the family’s loss. But there must be ... something ... she could do. Slowly, Aurelia stepped behind him, gently wrapped her arms around his chest, burying her forehead in his shoulder, and held him. Until neither of them was shaking.

  There was no more discussion that night, Aurelia facing the reality of what she had learned about the Gate and the people who crossed it. And about the young man who had ridden over it twice in the past half year, in order to help her. There was a strength within him, something she had not fathomed when he had returned to the palace. Something that had formed while he was away, confronting all this. What was it that had pulled his family t
his far? And what grit had allowed them to survive?

  On the afternoon of the next day, she found a name etched into the side of the cliff rock—Emily—with dates, the final one from the day before, and the words, Wagon over the side. Somehow Aurelia knew those words had been carved by the man with the hard eyes. She had judged him. And had no right to judge.

  Robert’s hand closed on her shoulder.

  “How much farther?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  One day. She leaned forward and traced the awful etched words with her fingers. How many people had lost their dreams, and their lives, only a day from their destination?

  “They shouldn’t call this the Gate,” she said. “It should be named the Gauntlet.”

  And yet there were so many people determined to cross. She remembered the crowd outside the fence at Transcontina. Thousands every year. More than ten thousand had done so successfully in the past decade.

  And a little over twenty-four hours later, she was one of them.

  Chapter Twelve

  FRONTIER

  RED-ORANGE-VIOLET FIRE DEFINED AURELIA’S FIRST view of the frontier. Not a polite, watered-down shade, but a drastic wildness flaming the upper echelons of the sky—a sky unlike any she had ever seen. No boundaries, or barriers, nothing to slice apart the spectacular curve of the vision. Not even the faintest wisp of a cloud. Only the ferocious brilliance of color over the landscape.

  Raw beauty.

  “Is it always like this?” she whispered.

  “Never,” Robert replied. “You can never know the frontier.”

  She did not fathom what he meant that first day, but by her fourteenth sunset, a cresting swirl of blue-green-indigo, she had begun to comprehend. That the frontier—its land and its people—resembled its skies: abrupt, unpredictable, and glorious. What appeared to be a vast landscape of rolling hills, wild grasses, and sun-ripened wheat also held meandering canyons, muddy creek basins, and even stands of lowland trees. The people—those she met at the trading post beneath the Gate and along the northbound trail—gave a limited first impression with their constant references to weather and the harvest, but she had soon come to see that their discussions were really about survival, the ability to deal with change, and the knowledge that everything on the frontier came at nature’s mercy.

  The more she witnessed, the more she began to understand about the young man riding behind her. Like his half-wild stallion, Robert was not all of one thing. He had the same educational background and court training that she had, but he also had all of this around her.

  He, too, was of the frontier. And headed home.

  Which did not explain his growing silence. She was used to the backward glances, more subtle now than they had been before the Gate. But the darkness today was different. His haunted look during the midday meal had been facing ahead, not behind. And he had spoken less than three words since then. Until now.

  “Are you tired?” he asked. “Would you prefer to camp?”

  Even though he had told her they could reach the Vantauge homestead this evening? “No,” she replied, “unless you think your parents will be upset by our late arrival.”

  She felt him shift in the saddle and, when she looked back, noted his gaze staring blindly past the wild grasses to the sliced yellow stubble beyond. His hand clutched his sword hilt for the millionth time. “I don’t know ... ,” he said, “how my parents—that is, I sent them a letter about the expedition, but ...”

  “You think they might not approve?” she guessed.

  “I don’t know how my father will react,” he said abruptly, “to my cousin’s death.” Oh. This was about guilt. And parental expectation. She wished she could offer him comfort, but her experience with her own father would give her words the lie. “I didn’t leave under the best circumstances,” Robert added. “My father ordered me not to go and ... I ignored him.”

  For her. He had ignored his father for her sake. Aurelia’s heart hammered.

  But she had no time to take in the sudden revelation because Horizon broke into a shrill whistle, then rose on his hind limbs. Aurelia crouched against the stallion’s neck, fearful for the young man behind her, but his chest pressed down, his arms reaching around her back, his fingers gripping the stallion’s mane just below her own. And then they were flying—she, Robert, and the magnificent bay soaring across the landscape. Warm air hurled past her face, and her blood streamed through her body as she tasted the wind.

  Oh, she had missed this! Her chest pounded with exhilaration. The grasses beneath her blurred a golden brown, and the sky seemed to welcome her into its vibrant realm. She felt herself rising up over a slope, and then to her amazement the stallion no longer raced alone but against a bronze chestnut filly. Not a yearling, but a two- or three-year-old beauty. The muscles in the filly’s shoulders gathered and flexed with almost the same power as her competitor, and her long neck stretched at Horizon’s side, her coat rippling through a spectrum of reds and browns in cohesion with the movement.

  Then a whole palette of younger horses hurtled toward the racers. The stallion and filly checked their intensity, and Aurelia felt Robert’s grip shift beneath her hands. His chest lifted from her back as he tugged on the reins.

  The stallion cantered to an awkward halt, and the younger horses gathered close, nickering and whinnying, sniffing both the bay and its riders. Robert petted each of the horses, dismounted, and held out his hand in a new direction.

  From across the field of yellow and brown grasses approached a lithe gray mare, fine-boned, with an elegant arched neck and high, delicate steps. For an instant, Aurelia went back in time. To Bianca. Galloping across the meadow on the extended palace grounds; finding comfort in the royal stables, and setting off on the expedition. The gray horse before her now was like a ghost.

  But as the mare approached, other details became clear: the extra height in those steps, threads of white amidst the gray, and thin lines along the horse’s eyes. Not Bianca.

  Fantasia. Bianca’s dam. And Horizon’s mother as well.

  Aurelia’s fingers stretched without permission. The sleek neck edged its way directly under her hand. Soft. Mist blurred her eyes, and her stomach twisted with the painful knowledge that Bianca would never again slip beneath that hand.

  Then suddenly a bronze snout thrust its way forward. Aurelia blinked, her vision clearing as she found herself staring into a mischievous black eye. Smiling, she offered a second hand in order to pet both horses, but the bronze filly pushed the gray mare out of reach.

  “Why you unscrupulous peacock!” Aurelia scolded.

  Robert laughed, moving closer. He reached up to rub the bronze cheek. “No, not a peacock,” he said, then swung up onto the filly’s bare back and winked at Aurelia. “Say hello to Falcon.”

  The chestnut tossed her head in a show of confidence.

  “Oh!” Aurelia’s heart skidded as she again took in those tempestuous black eyes and the shining bronze coat, its surface glistening with the faint remnants of sweat. If he had given this stunning horse her old nickname, it was no insult.

  “She’s a handful,” he said, “but she isn’t vain—just never wants to be left out of the action. And she has her opinions.”

  “How old is she?” Aurelia stroked the filly’s neck.

  “Two.”

  Falcon tossed her mane. “And three months.” Robert laughed.

  But the laughter came to a sudden halt, his eyes flying beyond Aurelia, emotion sweeping his face. She followed his gaze past a field of partially harvested grain, a high arched barn, and a circular paddock, to a simple log cabin, unremarkable in this realm of brilliant sunsets. But just in front of the cabin’s door stood a man and woman. The man remained frozen, his feet planted, with his hand over his face as if blocking out the nonexistent glare of the sun. The woman began to run, her slender figure moving swiftly and her uncovered blond hair flying back from her face.

  Robert did not wait. He urged the chestn
ut forward and within moments swung off the filly’s back and swallowed his mother in his arms. The sobbing woman’s smile would have lit the trail all the way back to the Gate.

  And then Robert untangled himself from his mother’s clasp and turned to face his father.

  Aurelia guided Horizon closer in an attempt to provide support. Not close enough to interfere but enough to see the stiffness in Robert’s shoulders, the hesitation in his steps, and the familiar reach for the sword.

  But for the first time since that dreadful morning in the palace arena, the blade lifted, steel scraping against its sheath, and Robert stepped forward, the bared weapon balanced on open palms. He halted, a mere three feet from the frozen figure before him, then kneeled and lowered the blade at his father’s feet, relinquishing it.

  And stepped back, trembling.

  Aurelia knew then that the blade had become more than an item to Robert. It was blood and guilt and death in his mind. And for some reason, he had felt compelled to carry that burden here. For his father’s judgment.

  But Mr. Vantauge ignored the sword. Instead, he let his hand fall from his forehead and, in one unbroken movement, stepped across the naked blade and engulfed his son in a fierce embrace.

  Was that real love? Aurelia wondered as she tossed under the oppressive heat in the cabin loft that night.

  It had been clear from the first moment, the emotional reunion between mother and son, that Aurelia’s relationship with her own mother could not bear comparison. All those weeks and weeks of struggle—the stilted conversations, the gestures of amity, the revelations of the past—all of them dissipated beneath the brilliant power of that first smile from Mrs. Vantauge.

  Aurelia had known, when she had chosen to leave the Fortress, that the bond between her and her mother would never be whole or transcend acquaintance. Never be love.

  But it was not the smile that kept Aurelia awake.

  It was the embrace from father to son.