Flight of the Outcasts

by Alister E. McGrath

  THE

  AEDYN

  CHRONICLES

  BOOK TWO

  FLIGHT OF THE OUTCASTS

  Alister McGrath

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  CHAPTER

  1

  The December wind whipped against the cliffs of the English Channel and surged north, rattling windowpanes and beating against doorways as it went. It howled over the moors and valleys until finally it came knocking at the window of the Queen’s Academy for Young Ladies.

  And with the wind came rain. It started slowly: first just a few drops streaking against the glass, then more, and then, all of a sudden, a downpour washing over the view. The branches of the willow bent and scraped against the window, and Julia Grant, sitting at her desk with chin in hand, thought it must be the loneliest sound in the world.

  It was an opinion that was certainly shared by her classmates. Every girl in the room was staring out the window and dreaming of the Christmas holidays, of three whole weeks of parties and cakes and presents. So perhaps Miss Wimpole, who was trying valiantly to fill her students’ heads with a lesson on Sir Francis Drake and the defeat of the Spanish Armada, could be forgiven for snapping so harshly as she called them back to attention.

  Julia’s head snapped up at the sound of Miss Wimpole’s voice. She scribbled a few notes from the blackboard into her workbook, writing in her neat, tiny handwriting, but after only a moment she was back to gazing out the window, watching the twigs making little tracks in the water as the wind pushed them to and fro. She—perhaps alone among all her classmates—was not looking forward to the Christmas holidays. Christmas meant home, and home meant horrid Bertram and horrider Louisa, and worst of all her new stepmother.

  Julia’s mother had died two years before, and Julia and her brother, Peter, had come to expect that their holidays would be spent with their grandparents in Oxford when their father, Captain Grant, was away at sea. But after one such holiday the previous spring he had arrived home unexpectedly and announced his engagement to a widow with two children. They had been married before the month was out.

  His new wife was a tall, angular woman with a tight smile and cold grey eyes. Her children, Bertram and Louisa, were spoiled and mean and liked to torment their pet cat for sport. Peter thought that probably they were all criminals on the run from the law. His ears had been boxed for saying so in front of their father.

  “All right, class. That will be all for today,” Miss Wimpole was saying. Julia came to attention once again, realizing that her notes trailed off during a particularly dry section on the English ships’ cast-iron cannons and never picked back up. She hoped England had won. “Have a marvelous holiday.” Miss Wimpole stood at the blackboard with a strangled smile on her face as a flurry of activity erupted around her: chairs and desks scraping across the floor, papers rustling, books slamming shut, and twenty eager girls fleeing the room. Julia, sitting at the back of the classroom, was last in line, and Miss Wimpole touched the sleeve of her dress before she could leave.

  “Stay and chat a bit, will you?” she asked, and Julia nodded. She clutched her books and papers against her chest while Miss Wimpole sat down on the edge of her big desk.

  “I’m a bit worried about you, Julia,” she said gently. “You seem so distracted since last term. Your thoughts are far away, and your grades—well, we don’t have to talk about your grades, do we?”

  Julia shook her head.

  Miss Wimpole cleared her throat. “I just wanted to see if everything at home is … is as it should be. It can’t have been easy—losing your mother and having the Captain remarry so quickly …” Her voice trailed off, and Julia realized that she was meant to respond.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Ah,” said Miss Wimpole. “I suppose, then …” She stopped. “Have a merry Christmas, dear. I’ll see you back next term, and we’ll start over then, shall we?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Merry Christmas,” said Julia, and out the door she went.

  The December wind followed Julia as she trudged along the empty corridor and up the long flight of stairs to her dormitory. The building was old and its heating just as ancient, and in the winter months the dormitory never lost its frosty chill. Julia pushed open the door, unceremoniously dumped the books she’d been holding onto her trunk, and picked up the blanket folded at the foot of the bed, gathering it around her shoulders.

  “What kept you?” asked a voice behind her. Julia turned around and grinned at the sight of her best friend, Lucy, who was stuffing a random assortment of clothing and books into her trunk.

  “Bit late for packing?”

  “Not at all,” said Lucy with a grunt. “Here, sit on this, will you?” Julia parked herself obligingly on top of the trunk and Lucy snapped the straining catches closed. A white stocking had escaped from the trunk and was hanging limply from the side. Lucy chose to ignore it. “Now: what did Wimpole want?”

  Julia flipped her braids back over her shoulders. “Just wished me a pleasant Christmas, you know,” she said. “Wanted to know about home, and how I was spending the holiday.”

  “How are you spending Christmas?” asked Lucy. “I suppose the three terrors will be in attendance?”

  “Yes, yes, woe is me!” Julia heaved a dramatic sigh. “And Father will be home—he’s not always able to be home at Christmas, you know—and it’s worse when he’s there because he favors them. Peter and Bertram will have a row—they always do—and probably Louisa will try to kill the cat again.” She forced a laugh, but Lucy’s brow furrowed.

  “I wish you could come home with me. And I wish it weren’t so awful for you.”

  Julia shrugged. “It’s only three weeks. And I’ve survived worse.”

  “Worse than a dead mother and a new family of thugs?” Julia flinched at the mention of her mother, and Lucy scooted closer to her on the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was cruel of me.”

  Julia shrugged again. “It’s hard not to miss her at Christmas. But there have been worse things.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “What things? What else did you survive? I knew something happened to you last spring—I just knew it. You’d changed when we got back from holidays. You’d … well, you’d grown up all of a sudden.”

  “Oh, I was visiting my grandparents that week. You remember—we meant to spend the week together in Kent but I was ordered to Oxford instead. I expect it was being around them that did it.” She gave a small, hollow laugh.

  “No,” said Lucy. “I don’t mean a change in your speech. You seemed stronger. You know — more confident. Womanly. Something happened; I’m quite certain of it.”

  On any other day, with any other person, Julia would have flatly denied it. But on this lonely day, a day in which the wind seemed to carry with it a hundred years of secrets, Julia wanted to confide in someone. And here was her very best friend, begging to know. She gathered the blanket closer around her and leaned in closer to Lucy, her eyes sparkling.

  “You’ve got to promise not to tell a soul—not a soul, you understand?”

  Lucy nodded, her
eyes wide.

  “And you’ve got to promise you’ll believe me, no matter how crazy it all sounds. Because it’s got to be real, and sometimes I still think it might have all been a dream.”

  “I promise.” Lucy made a cross over her heart.

  “All right.” Julia took in a deep breath. “That holiday, when I was in Oxford, Peter and I went to another world.”

  Whatever Lucy had been expecting, it had evidently not been this. She was silent for a long moment, waiting for Julia to say something that was not quite so silly. When Julia didn’t speak, Lucy cleared her throat. “You went to … ahem! … where?”

  “Another world,” repeated Julia. “Like this one, only different. Wilder. It was called Aedyn, and the people who lived there had been enslaved by these three horrible men—beasts, really. Peter and I were called to that world to rescue the people from their slavery. And the three lords and their awful servants almost killed us, but Peter and I led an army against them and we freed the people.”

  “You freed the people,” repeated Lucy.

  “Yes,” said Julia. “And this monk—his name was Gaius—he told us to keep the whole thing a secret.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” said Lucy dryly. Julia ignored her.

  “They called me the Deliverer—the Chosen One! And everyone was looking to me for help, but really it wasn’t me; it was the Lord of Hosts working all the time.”

  There was a very pregnant pause.

  “Julia,” Lucy said slowly, “you didn’t perhaps have an accident over the holiday?”

  “Of course not. You said yourself I seemed grown up.”

  “Then don’t you think perhaps it’s time to stop playing silly games?”

  Julia felt as if she had been slapped in the face. She blinked hard to keep back the tears that were stinging her eyes. “I wouldn’t make up something like this—a world like this. I was there. I saw it. And I know what happened to me.”

  “You were upset because of your father,” said Lucy slowly. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  “I never said it was magic,” Julia insisted. “It was the Lord of Hosts, and he has a different kind of power.”

  Lucy was beginning to become uncomfortable. She nodded and stood up, letting the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders fall back onto the bed. “I won’t tell anyone,” she promised again. “And now don’t you think it’s time we went down to dinner? We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

  Julia was crestfallen. She had been so certain that Lucy would believe her. But at least she could look for ward to being with Peter over the holiday. He would talk about Aedyn with her. And so she stood and followed Lucy out of the room and down the long flights of stairs to the dining hall to join the other students. And all the while the wind and rain pounded in her ears.

  CHAPTER

  2

  The same rain was falling a few miles north at the King George Academy for Young Men, but Peter, his face being pushed into the mud by a boy much bigger and much stronger than he, paid it no mind. He kicked and flailed as he tried to knock the older boy off his balance, rage giving him a strength he didn’t usually possess. With an arm taut with muscle Peter beat back the hand that was holding him down and sprang to his feet. Before his opponent could react Peter had planted a fist hard in his face, and a bright ribbon of blood gushed from his nose.

  The crowd that had been taunting Peter broke into cheers as the older boy stumbled back. Peter stood still, catching his breath and ignoring the shouts, waiting in case another fist should come his way. But a hand came down on his shoulder first: Professor Boldly.

  “You’ll be coming with me, Mr. Grant,” he was saying. “The rest of you, be off!”

  The ring of boys that had surrounded the fight broke up and scattered. The older boy, Mason, was on his knees now, holding both hands to his nose and whimpering. Peter watched as he looked up to see if Boldly was noticing. He wasn’t, and Mason whimpered all the louder.

  “Up to the infirmary with you, Mason,” Boldly said, marching Peter away. His big hand stayed firmly on Peter’s shoulder as they marched back up to the school. The rain had turned the snowy field to mud, and they were both soaked through and covered in splatters by the time they reached the building. This state of affairs did not seem to improve Boldly’s mood.

  “Fourth time this term,” he was saying, giving Peter’s shoulder a shake with every step he took. “Never have I seen … never, in all my years of teaching …” His heels clicked on the stone floor as he dragged Peter, who was half shuffling and half running to keep up.

  They stopped in front of a closed door. Boldly knocked on it sharply and waited until a low voice murmured, “Enter.”

  The door creaked open. A very fat man with a most impressive mustache sat before him, swathed in voluminous black robes. He folded his hands over his stomach and peered over his spectacles at the man and boy in front of him.

  “Ah, Mr. Grant,” he breathed. “So we find ourselves here once again.” He nodded a dismissal to Boldly, who gave Peter’s shoulder a final, vicious shake and stalked from the room. The clicking of his heels echoed in the corridor for a long, empty moment.

  “And what have you to say for yourself this time?” asked the headmaster once the clicking had faded.

  “It was Mason, sir,” said Peter. “He was talking about the archery tournament next week, and he said I was a weakling and I’d lose it for the house, and he supposed my dead mother taught me to shoot.”

  “Ah,” said the headmaster. “And you found this sufficient reason to hit him? Not very sportsmanlike, Mr. Grant.”

  “He hit me first,” said Peter quickly.

  “I think we both know that’s not the case,” the headmaster replied. He sat back in his chair, which gave a long, protesting creak, and removed his spectacles. He rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger and gave a tired sigh. “As this is the third—no, fourth, is it?—incident this term, we’ll be alerting the Captain to your conduct. This behavior simply will not be tolerated. Is this understood, Mr. Grant?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” The headmaster replaced his spectacles on his nose. “Off with you. Perhaps the Captain will beat some sense into you over the holiday.”

  Peter scurried out of the office and closed the door behind him. Leaning against the wall outside the headmaster’s office he wiped a hand over his face, trying to scratch away some of the mud that was already drying on his cheek. Mason was a bully and a wretch. He’d get away with murder if he wanted, and all because his father was on the board. Wonderful Mason, perfect Mason would never provoke a fight. And now Peter’s father would know.

  Peter took a deep breath, dreading the punishment that he knew was waiting for him at home. In the old days he would have gotten a lecture and that would have been the end of it—in the days before Bertram and Louisa and the Wicked Stepmother. But now it would be worse. Much worse.

  Julia heard the shouting as soon as she opened the door. Her shoulders dropped as she heard Peter’s name from the other room—something about bringing disgrace on the family name. Something about sportsmanship and controlling one’s temper. Something about teaching him a lesson. She wanted to drop her bags there and run for her room—run someplace where she couldn’t hear this frightening man who no longer sounded like her father.

  Before she could flee the scene, however, there were footsteps on the stairs, and Julia looked up to see a girl about her age coming down, her pinched face twisted into a decidedly self-satisfied smirk as she hummed quietly to herself. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled back into two tight braids, and her beady gray eyes were frozen into a squint. Louisa.

  “Look who’s back,” she said, her nasal humming ceasing. “Silly little Julia, the girl nobody ever loved, home in time for Christmas.”

  Julia had a profound desire to pull one of Louisa’s stringy braids.

  “What’s going on in there?” she asked, nodding toward her fat
her’s study door.

  “Oh, didn’t you hear? Peter got in another fight at school. The headmaster sent a letter. Says if it happens again he’ll be expelled.”

  There came the sound of a strike, and then a muffled yell. Julia’s face went white as Louisa’s smirk broadened into a grin. “Mother says he’s totally out of control and ought to be sent to a special school for hopeless cases.”

  “Indeed.” A tall, angular woman appeared on the stairs, and Julia looked up at the sound of her stepmother’s voice. Her dark hair was pulled back tight from her scalp into a tiny bun, and the harsh lines of her dress only emphasized the severity of her face. Her stepmother’s lips forced themselves into a thin smile. “Welcome home, Julia. Let us hope that you’ve been conducting yourself in a more suitable fashion than your brother.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good then. Take your things up to your room and change into something”—her nose wrinkled as she regarded Julia’s wilted traveling clothes—“more appropriate for a young lady. Supper in an hour.” She smiled that thin smile again and Julia went up the stairs to her room, trying not to listen to the hushed sobs coming from her father’s study.

  “I don’t want you spending much time around either of them, darling,” her stepmother was saying in a tone that was not at all hushed—so loud, in fact, that Julia was sure she was meant to hear. “They’re an appalling influence on you and Bertie. Their mother must have been a dreadful woman.”

  There was no supper for Peter that evening, and it wasn’t until after she was sent to bed that Julia was able to sneak into his room to see him. He was sitting up in bed, a book open on his knees. There was a hard, bitter look on his face, but it softened when he saw his sister. She parked herself at the foot of his bed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Father was horrible.”

  Peter shrugged. “I thought it would be different. You know, after Aedyn, after all we went through there—I thought it would be easier to be in school and handle Father and … I just thought it would be different.”