by Kate Jacoby
In a land of turmoil, at a time when history meets destiny, an exile and an orphan become caught in a prophecy older than time itself . . .
Robert Douglas, Earl of Dunlorn, returns to Lusara after three years of self-imposed exile to find his beloved country enmeshed in the tyranny of the Guilde. The once peaceful and prosperous land has been crushed by the usurper Selar, and the vanquished people cry out for a saviour.
Now Robert Douglas, possessed of powers of sorcery greater than any before him, must struggle against his conscience, for though he has sworn never to oppose the usurper King, he can no longer watch his homeland being destroyed by the ruthless Guilde and an uncaring monarch. Then he discovers the orphan Jenn—a different kind of sorcerer, whose powers may be as great as his own.
But while Robert and Jenn struggle to understand the magic they command, there is another sorcerer opposing them, one who would destroy all to twist fate to his own dark purposes . . .
Exile's Return is the first Book of Elita, a glorious epic of political intrigue, sorcery and romance.
Kate Jacoby was born in Australia but has lived all over the world. In between travelling, she has performed cabaret, taught singing and made historical costumes. Kate wrote Exile's Return while backpacking through the Middle East.
"There's something voyeuristically compelling about watching other people's lives, whether they're in a conquered kitchen seething with sorcery or in a kitchen in London E20 . . . Jacoby skilfully uses this complicated web of relationships and rivalries to drive the plot and to get readers hooked on the need to know what happens next.
****' SFX
"Plenty of adventure, magic and hints of romance keep things lively."
Locus
"Romping high fantasy of sword fights and sorceries, missing heiresses and previously unused powers, evil tyrants and reluctant heroes. It's all there, but with more style than many of its peers. Kate Jacoby looks set to make a mark for herself in the field."
British Fantasy Newsletter
Also by Kate Jacoby in Gollancz
Voice of the Demon
Black Eagle Rising
Rebel's Cage
Trial of Fire
EXILE'S RETURN
First Book of Elita
KATE JACOBY
VICTOR GOLLANCZ
LONDON
Acknowledgements
My thanks to George Ivanoff, who first encouraged me to write this story. To Muther, Father, Michael, Peter and Rachael. They helped a lot. Leslie Gardner from Artellus and her fine judgement were a great help as well. To Ian, Kerri Valkova, Max, Karen Pender-Gunn and Annie. They helped too. Much help was also blessed in the form of Jo Fletcher of Gollancz. And Karen Mitchell who helped much more than she realized.
In the spring of 1341 a fierce and determined army crossed the border of Lusara intent on taking the country by the end of summer. Lusara, savaged by years of internal bloodshed between the Houses, could do little to halt the invaders as they marched east. Gathering their forces together, the loyal magnates fought a great battle on the fields of Nanmoor and while many died, no clear victory was won by either side. Weeks later, as dawn rose over Seluth Common, the armies faced each other again and this time there was no quarter called. By sunset, Lusara, the oldest of the Seven Nations and never before humbled by an invading army, was conquered.
Of her soldiers, many were killed on the field of battle. Some died from treachery while a few survived only to be executed at the hands of the conqueror. Still fewer lived to see the years that followed, and of those that did survive, most were old men or mere boys. With the king dead, the country taken and the greatest lords shackled by the conqueror, Lusara withdrew in upon herself, yearning only to survive. An uncomfortable peace settled on the country under the crushing rule of the conqueror. He, like all such men before him, believed the people were broken, their will destroyed. With no one left to challenge him, his victory was secure.
However, it was to be another man who would decide the true destiny of Lusara, a man who carried within him a terrible secret. But, as these things go at the hands of fate, Lusara's greatest hero was not to rise until many years after that last battle had been fought—and lost.
Excerpt from The Secret History of Lusara
Ruel
I know I am
the wanderer of all the ways of all the worlds
to whom the sunshine and the rain are one
and one to stay or hasten because he knows no ending of the way
no home, no goal
CHRISTOPHER BRENNEN
ScienceFiction/Fantasy0-575-07474-4en-us
Prologue
In a tiny cove on the southern coast of Lusara an old man waited by the rocks for a signal. It was a black, bitter night plagued by howling winds which drove the rain on to his back and through his woollen cloak. His hands, wrapped up against the cold, were thrust under his arms while he shifted from one foot to the other to keep his blood moving.
The old man kept watch. His eyes darted from the cliffs opposite to the inky blackness out at sea. But there was nothing there, only the occasional white cap catching a splinter of moonlight as the stormclouds tumbled across the sky.
Though the fishing port of Aaran stood not half a league away, his little cove was hidden by the wall of cliffs which sheltered him from the worst of the wind. But while the cliffs protected him, they could not prevent the coastal patrol from riding this way—even on a night like this. And they had been here once already, not long after dark. They’d not seen the old man then, no—but they would be back. And if they came when ...
“Damn you, Dunlorn! By the gods, I hope you’re out there somewhere!” He hissed in a breath, pulled his hood about his face, then began to chuckle. “Well, Dalzie Kerr, you old fool, now you’re beginning to talk to yourself as well. Things are getting bad indeed!”
Once again he squinted up at the cliffs. There was just enough moonlight to be sure he was completely alone. Not even the gulls were out tonight. There was no sign of the patrol.
His eyes then scanned the ocean. It was like looking into the pits of hell, where only the gods themselves could say what demons dwelt there. But as he watched, the unbroken gloom gave up a single, solitary offering. A bleak yellow lantern, almost invisible in the driving rain.
Without thinking, Dalzie started forward, leaving the shelter of the cliff. He stumbled across the sands to the water’s edge. Gradually, a blacker, more solid form emerged before him. A boat.
As it came aground he reached forward to grab the bow. There were five or six men in the boat, one of whom jumped out and helped him hold it firm. Then a voice called out to him, shouting over the wind.
“Sorry to get you out in this weather! We would have been here hours ago but I think the ship’s captain got lost!”
Dalzie knew that voice. In a moment of panic, he turned again to peer at the ridge. If that patrol were to return now, all would be lost.
Someone landed on the beach beside him and Dalzie caught sight of the young face, the sunny smile. Micah Maclean. He smiled, but Dalzie couldn’t voice a welcome. Instead he turned back to the boat as a second figure jumped down. The man’s face was shrouded by the hood of a raven-coloured cloak which seemed immune to the wind. Dalzie knew he should turn now and lead them up the beach to the cave. The boat was leaving; he heard the splash of oars and felt the bow lurch away from his hands, but still he could not take his eyes from the second man. Hope and expectation tumbled together inside him, leaving his stomach cold and unsettled. Hope was tainted by apprehension.
Then he heard a voice speak low and clear under the storm, a voice both familiar and forbidding at the same time.
“Come, old friend. Let us move.”
At that momen
t, the wind changed direction, lifted the side of the cloak hood. For just a brief second, Dalzie glimpsed a lean and weathered face.
He’d come back. After three years of self-imposed exile, Robert Douglas, Earl of Dunlorn had finally returned to Lusara.
Dalzie led them up the beach to the eastern cliff and the cave he’d used many times over the years. He had food waiting and a brazier lit. Maclean dumped the bags on the floor and warmed his hands by the blaze, but Dunlorn remained outside, his back to the cave, his face towards the heavens.
From the shelter of the cave mouth, Dalzie watched him, not knowing what to do. Then the young Maclean joined him, his curly red hair dripping with rain. As he rubbed his hands and face with a slip of rough linen, Maclean said, “Don’t worry about him. It’s just that ... well, he never thought he’d come back.”
Dalzie nodded slowly. “Then he’s not the only one. What will the King say? And the Guilde? The Proctor still wants your master’s blood. Does Dunlorn think they will welcome him so easily back to court? Does he believe he can return to his favoured position? If he does, then he’s mistaken. The Guilde will hound him to his grave the moment they know of his return. I should warn you too, there is still some talk about the death of his lady wife. By the gods, Micah,” Dalzie turned to the young man beside him, “Dunlorn challenged the Guilde before the King and lost his seat on the council as a result. But there are still some who say that his hasty departure was more to do with the curious manner in which the lady died. Tell me, my friend, is Dunlorn blind?”
Maclean raised his eyebrows at that. With callused hands he smoothed the hair away from his face and replied with a shrug, “My master is many things, Dalzie, but he is not blind. He has determined to have nothing more to do with the court or the Guilde. He believes they will be content to leave him be. As to Lady Berenice? You know my master and you know there’s no truth in those stories.”
The old man knitted his brows together and only grunted. Caution drew his eyes back to the cliffs outside and the man who stood in full view of them. “This is ridiculous,” he hissed, then raised his voice in competition with the storm. “Come inside, my lord! The patrols could return at any minute!”
Dunlorn turned slowly, his face in shadow. Then he was at the cave mouth, pulling the hood back, removing his cloak.
He had changed, Dalzie noted with little surprise. Dunlorn was still a young man, only twenty-eight, but it was sometimes difficult to remember he was not older. His dark hair was shoulder-length now, tousled by the wind. The straight nose, full mouth and firm jaw were animated by the faintest hint of a smile. That smile, however, did not reach to the cool green eyes which studied Dalzie. Dalzie shifted under such scrutiny, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. He remembered that gaze more precisely than anything else about the legendary Earl.
Dalzie jutted out his jaw and tried hard not to be intimidated. “You had to choose a night like this, didn’t you, my lord. You know how bad the autumn storms get. You could have drowned crossing the gulf. Why couldn’t you wait until spring?”
Dunlorn rewarded him with a smile, abruptly changing his whole face. The deep lines which had been there moments ago vanished. In their place was the familiar easy charm, the quiet confidence Dalzie remembered. He moved further into the cave. “Spring was not suitable. We’ll need horses and supplies, Dalzie, if you can help us a bit more. I want to leave tomorrow. We have a long way to go if we’re to cross the mountains before the first snow.”
“Of course,” Dalzie nodded absently. He moved closer to the brazier but didn’t take his eyes from Dunlorn. “You must know they won’t leave you alone. Hatred is a bitter thing for the likes of Vaughn. And things have changed since you left.”
“How?”
“The Guilde has spread its Halls throughout the country. You cannot help but encounter them on your way back to Dunlorn. Every day their grip tightens on Lusara. The people will expect you to ...”
“I know, old friend, I know.” Once again, Dunlorn smiled. “But they’ll have to expect help from somewhere else. I have already done all I can. What little I did do only made things worse. Do not fear, Dalzie, you will hear no more stories about me.”
Dalzie was not comforted at all, but as the wind beat across the cave opening, he turned his mind to hot food and wine and tried to forget the shadow around Dunlorn’s eyes.
Outside, the rain thundered on to the beach. When the patrol passed by moments later, they were weary and wet and harassed by the storm. They travelled along the top of the cliffs with thoughts only of home and warmth and so did not notice the glow from the cave and never discovered who was hidden inside.
Chapter 1
“Your Grace?”
Rosalind gave no sign that she’d heard, even though the voice had startled her. Other words, sinister and secret, still echoed in her mind. A whispered conversation overheard through the door behind her. A conversation she was never supposed to hear.
Numb with shock, Rosalind kept her eyes on the view from the window. The knotted garden below had paid the price of autumn. Servants swept along the rows of lavender, under the peach trees in the north corner and around the old well. Once teeming with a confusion of summer colour, the garden was now grey, its life sapped away into the cold earth. In a few weeks even the grey would be gone, wiped clean with the first snows of winter.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I came to look for you. There are but a few minutes before the reception and you are not yet dressed to meet the ambassador from Mayenne. You must not be late.”
Rosalind turned away from the window and folded her hands together. Years of harsh lessons learned at this unforgiving court kept her hands steady, her face calm. But stern-faced Camilla was waiting, Lady Camilla Murray; gentlewoman to the Queen—and spy for the King.
With an obedient nod Rosalind led Camilla down the passage. She didn’t hurry, even though a voice inside her screamed to run before anyone came through that door and found her there. That same voice urged her to warn them, now, before it was too late. Tell someone, do something...
Who? Who could she tell? Who would listen to her?
It was a short walk to her apartments, a walk that gave her too little time to think, to plan. But who was she to trust? Certainly none of her ladies, nor even her Confessor. All those served Selar and her warning would be deemed nothing less than treason.
The fire in her dressing room was built up against the chill wind rattling the window casements. Camilla wasted no time, immediately bringing water for Rosalind to wash, a comb for her hair, the finest clothes for her to wear. She was diligent in the execution of her duties—all of them. If Rosalind gave the slightest sign that something was amiss, she would be lost.
She stood still as Camilla and the other ladies fussed over her. If only she had more time, more help. So much depended on her—and yet she had no one. Of course, Selar had arranged it so. Twelve years as Queen in name only. By the gods, even her friends had deserted her over the years. It didn’t matter that she was born of the great House of MacKenna, was mother of the heir to the throne. She was nothing to this court, nothing more than a symbol of unity between Lusara and the man who had raped her country and stolen the crown. She was a traitor Queen, her son a bastard heir.
“Is my sister still with the children?” The words were out before she thought them through. But no matter, her instincts guided her—perhaps Samah could get word to somebody.
“Lady Samah is in the nursery, Your Grace,” Camilla replied with a frown.
“Will you ask her to join me for supper, after this reception?” Yes, that was it. Samah would not leave for her priory until tomorrow. She would have time to help before then. But could Rosalind endanger her with this?
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Finished with her work, Camilla stood back and held up a polished mirror.
Rosalind barely glanced at the mirror at first—then paused to take another careful look. At twenty-seven she was still
young enough to be seen as an adornment. Her auburn hair shone with glints of gold, her hazel eyes retained the clarity of her father’s gaze. She’d once been pretty, but Rosalind felt those days were long gone. Now, perhaps, she was merely handsome and soon—soon she would be old and plain. But plain or no, she was still Queen and would hold herself with pride, impress upon this loathsome envoy from Mayenne the dignity which still dwelt within the hearts of all true Lusarans.
Even if it seemed the gods had finally deserted them.
Sweet Mineah, help me through this. Help me face that man!
With two of her ladies following, Rosalind descended through the castle until she reached the great hall. It was all but deserted since this first reception was to be a small gathering without the full court as witness. In silence, Rosalind passed under the heraldic banners hanging from the vaulted roof and paused before a carved ebony door. The guards on either side bowed and pushed the door open, then stood aside for her to pass. Respect for the crown she wore and nothing else.
There were a dozen men in the room beyond and all eyes turned to her as she entered. Almost the full council. Chancellor Dai Ingram, a small, mousy man, stood by the window, the Duke of Ayr, Tiege Eachern, at his side. A maternal cousin of Selar’s, Eachern had followed him into the first battles of the conquest, distinguishing himself on the field as a ruthless and bloodthirsty warrior. Eachern’s courtly clothes were of the finest quality, brutally at odds with his stocky neck and bullish head. With hair cropped close for battle, the Duke would never look anything other than what he was—in direct contrast to the man who stood beside him. George, Earl of Kandar, was Eachern’s cousin but, with the exception of his grey eyes, looked nothing like him. Tall, fine and fair-haired, George was every inch the courtier—and the only person at court who treated Rosalind with any respect. But respect or no, Rosalind could never trust him with her secret. His whole career was bound up with Selar, his allegiance devoted.
