EXILE'S RETURN

by Kate Jacoby

  Micah turned his gaze to the tree-top above him, ignoring for a moment his uncomfortable predicament. It was all very good wondering how the rest of his family would take his return—but Micah already knew with heartfelt certainty how his father would react. By now it was entirely possible that his father had formally disowned him. His stomach sank at the thought. If it wasn’t for that, he could immerse himself utterly in the joy of returning home.

  Dunlorn interrupted his reverie, “I’m sorry, Micah, but just what are you doing up there?”

  “Getting supper, my lord.”

  “Supper? But it’s still morning.”

  Micah took hold of the trunk once more and turned outwards. Shuffling his feet along the branch a little, he strained his neck trying to see the other side of the tree. “Eggs,” he said.

  “At this time of year?”

  “Aye. The grey-eyed flosson lays its eggs in early autumn.” Micah’s words were punctuated with gasps and grunts as he lowered himself to a sitting position. From there he tried to reach the nearest branch, which was tantalizingly close. “Actually, I was lucky to find them. They don’t normally nest this far south.”

  “Oh. So why are you still playing around up there?”

  At this, Micah paused in his struggles and looked down at his master. “Your assistance would be better served by securing me a way down rather than spending time—”

  “Asking stupid questions?” Dunlorn laughed. Placing his hands on his hips, he added, “I would like to help you, Micah, but as you can see, I don’t seem to have a ladder about me and we’re leagues from the nearest village. Can’t you just come down the way you went up?”

  Micah gritted his teeth, but his patience was wearing as thin as the branch he sat upon. “If I could do that I wouldn’t be stuck.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Dunlorn’s smile faded as he glanced around the forest floor for inspiration.

  Watching this futile gesture, Micah reached a hand into his tunic to check the eggs. “Well, can’t you do something, my lord?”

  “What do you suggest?” Dunlorn looked up again, spreading his arms wide in helplessness, but unable to suppress a chuckle.

  Micah sighed and leaned his head back against the tree trunk. At this rate, he’d be spending the entire day up this tree. “I’m wounded you find so much merriment at my expense, my lord,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “Look,” Dunlorn began, his tone practical, “there’s a branch there, just behind the trunk. You can’t see it but if you put your foot to the left ... no, the other foot ... yes, that’s it. Now let go your hands.”

  Micah did as he was told, his foot searching out the supporting limb—and felt nothing. In a panic he tried to regain his hold on the branch above but missed. With a sickening lurch, he fell like a stone, landing flat on his stomach, pine needles pricking his face. He lay there for a moment, forcing air back into his lungs. As his head cleared he felt a cold, cloying wetness spread through his shirt and across his skin.

  “Are you hurt?” Dunlorn knelt beside him, all humour gone.

  “No.” Opening his eyes, Micah pushed himself up, taking the hand Dunlorn held out to help him to his feet. Gingerly, he reached inside his tunic and brought out a piece of sticky egg-shell. “I’m afraid, however, that supper will have to take some other form.”

  “I didn’t know you knew so much about birds.”

  “Neither did I,” Micah replied, fishing the remains of the eggs out of his tunic. “Not until I’d had salted beef for the sixth day in a row. It’s amazing the things you remember when you have to.”

  With a raised eyebrow, Dunlorn replied, “And the things you forget. Come on. Let’s take a proper look at this forlorn little country of ours.”

  Leaving the horses in the copse, Micah followed his master through the trees to the base of a nearby hill. A fragile breeze drifted through the tree-tops behind him but despite the chill, it felt more like spring than autumn. The slope above them rose steeply to a clear blue sky and Micah grinned as he began climbing the hill. Rocks and pebbles skittered down under his feet but he grabbed tufts of wet grass and made steady progress until, with a last lunge, he gained the top.

  The view was breathtaking. Ancient hills topped with scrawny trees crowned the wide valleys, populated with clusters of farms and villages. It mattered not that the country was gripped by the onset of winter, rather, it gave the land a crisp beauty. From the windswept downs in the west to the smoky shadowed mountains in the east, the country was bathed in a blanket of golden sunshine.

  As the breeze tossed the cloak about his legs, Micah turned to take in the rest of the magnificent view. Facing north, the mountains seemed closer as the range curved west. It would take them two more days to reach the foothills. And before the mountains, beyond the copse below them, was the forest.

  His gaze dropped to the dark living mass of Shan Moss spread out before him. It was the largest and, to his mind, most beautiful forest in the country. Now, in the middle of autumn, Shan Moss was bathed in a furnace of colour and stretched from his far left, across the downs and right up to the foothills of the mountains themselves.

  It didn’t seem like three years. Not now.

  Micah turned to his master. Dunlorn stood beside him, gazing at the view, his expression—as always—entirely unreadable. What thoughts were hiding behind that mask? What questions was he asking himself that he would never voice aloud?

  Was Dunlorn perhaps wondering whether they would leave him alone after all?

  Micah had known this man almost all his life, had served him, worked and fought alongside him and followed him on his self-imposed exile. But even after all this time, Micah could not honestly say that he understood the man, that he really knew what drove him, why he had taken a seat on Selar’s council in the first place—and most especially, why Dunlorn had dropped everything and, in the middle of the night, taken his leave of Marsay, Selar and Lusara.

  Oh, Micah had his theories. Robert was a man of immense intelligence and was a natural—if reluctant—leader. To many, his outward calm, his confidence and charm bespoke a greater inner peace, but Micah knew better. Whatever belief Robert had held in his own abilities had slowly crumbled as he saw himself fail again and again to contain the excesses of the King, to restrain Vaughn and the Guilde. And failure—his own failure—was the one thing Robert could not forgive. Honour and truth were not merely words to him. They were alive, in his very blood. Admitting that failure and accepting the consequences was something that had changed him deeply. His honour alone would demand he remove himself from the field of battle.

  That, at any rate, was what Micah believed. He was fairly certain that if he ever asked the question outright, he would get a straight answer. But Dunlorn had never volunteered the information and Micah believed there was a good reason behind that. Reasons that ran deeper and drew more blood with each telling. Micah knew the facts: the argument with the King, the battle with Vaughn. In fact, Micah probably knew more than anyone else. But the one thing he had never done—and would never do—was to ask why.

  It did nothing to relieve his curiosity—a trait his master often made light-hearted fun of. But Micah didn’t mind—and after all, his curiosity had saved their lives on a couple of occasions.

  “Well, what do you think of it?” Dunlorn asked quietly, turning a gentle smile on him.

  Micah grinned. “It feels good to be back.”

  “You’ve missed it so much?”

  “Yes and no,” Micah shrugged. “I’ll confess there were moments over the last three years when I wished I’d never asked to go with you.”

  “Like that night in Cartha,” Dunlorn added evenly, “when you overturned a cartload of the Emir’s favourite wine and were chased out of town by a brigade of his finest?”

  Micah felt his face colour and he looked away. “As I said—there were moments. But for the most part, no, I’m glad I went along. Missing home was never so bad that I was s
orry I left.”

  “And your father?” Dunlorn queried softly, turning back to the forest. “You know, Micah, you haven’t mentioned him once in three years. You’ve talked about everyone else at great length—but not him. I’m sorry to be the cause of that.”

  “No, my lord!” Micah shook his head vigorously. “It’s not your fault my father will not forgive me. My decision to serve you was mine alone—as was the decision to leave with you. My father chose to forbid it. It was not your doing.”

  “No?” Dunlorn glanced sideways at him, an eyebrow raised in irony. “Even though he believes that I am a traitor? That the moment I befriended Selar, took a seat on his council, your father, along with many others, believed I had betrayed my country? No, Micah, I fear I am very much to blame. In his eyes, my treachery has tainted you. I only hope that with your safe return he will be able to find it in his heart to forgive me and welcome you.”

  Micah frowned. Could that possibly be the reason why Robert had decided to return to Lusara? Because of that? It was inconceivable!

  Taking a deep breath, Micah began to ask—but before he could, Dunlorn smiled. “There are a number of reasons why I decided to come back, Micah.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Micah shook his head.

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t change the subject, my lord. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Dunlorn shrugged. “Would it be so bad if your father was the reason why we returned? Am I not allowed to give you anything in return for your loyalty? You undervalue yourself, my friend. Oh, I admit there are indeed many reasons why I decided to come back. Of course, things have changed and I might end up regretting the decision completely. Who knows?”

  Micah nodded and took a deep breath. “And do you think, my lord, that perhaps Dalzie Kerr might not be right? He said things had changed for the worse. Perhaps the King will not be willing to leave you in peace.”

  “I think,” he said eventually, “that Dalzie and the rest seriously overestimate my importance to Selar.”

  “But you were once the closest of friends.”

  “Yes, but that was a long time ago. And besides, I’ve been away, completely out of their sight for more than three years. My deeds, my purpose and influence will have long been forgotten. The King, the Guilde and all the others will have more things to occupy them than worrying about me.”

  Micah glanced sideways at him. “And just to make sure, you arrive on the very threshold of winter so they have a good four months of bad roads and terrible weather before they can even approach you at Dunlorn.”

  “Exactly.” Robert nodded and flashed him a smile.

  “And what about the rest?” Micah asked before he could stop himself.

  “The Enclave?” Dunlorn shrugged lightly. “I think they’ll consider themselves well rid of me. That, at any rate, is what I hope.”

  He took one last look at the view, then said, “Let’s move on. We’ll go into the forest from here. If I remember correctly, there’s an old ruin to the north we could shelter in tonight. If the gods are with us, I may even be able to find it.”

  Finnlay was definitely not having a good day. In fact, if he stopped to examine the last week, there would doubtless be some kind of pattern forming. Not that he had time really to stop at all—darkness was little more than an hour away and after travelling for the better part of two days, he now accepted the unpleasant fact that he was quite hopelessly lost.

  The forest around him squeaked and twittered in autumn harmony—and gave absolutely no indication of which way he should turn next. To Finnlay’s tired and frustrated eyes, every tree, every copse, every valley of this damned demesne looked exactly the same—and had done for the last forty-eight hours. He guessed he was heading south—roughly, but even with the autumn fall of leaves, it was difficult to see the sun through the forest canopy, and even harder to guarantee that his course remained southerly. For all he knew, he’d been going around in circles.

  He came to the edge of a gentle drop in the forest floor. Below him was a natural clearing with a narrow stream flowing through the middle. It looked as good a place as any. Turning his horse down the slope, however, it stumbled and, regaining its balance, came up lame.

  “Well, that’s just perfect!” Finnlay snapped, jumping down from the horse. He led it carefully down to the clearing then bent to examine the leg. The grey gelding’s near front hoof was tender to the touch but not badly injured. Finnlay straightened up and looked the horse straight in the eye. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you did that deliberately.”

  He turned to the stream and dug around a bit to find some clay mud and moss. Packing it into his palms, he smeared it over the horse’s hoof and up towards the knee. The compress would reduce the swelling and with any luck, by morning Finnlay could be on his way again. But ... on his way where?

  He looked around the clearing then back up the way he had come. Even from here, he could only just pinpoint where the sun was and soon it would disappear behind the rise and an evening chill would descend. He should have begun building a fire—but he didn’t. Instead, he found the nearest log and sat down to think.

  When he’d left Arlie and Martha yesterday morning, they’d been travelling almost due east towards Solmoss. Now, if Finnlay had turned south at that point and kept in a near straight line, then surely by now he would be close to the southern border of Shan Moss. Of course, if he’d not gone in a straight line he could be just about anywhere! And it was entirely his own fault. Arlie had warned him about the forest but Finnlay had been so sure about that touch—so certain ... of course, he had mentioned nothing to Arlie and Martha about it. It would not do to get them all excited over what could turn out to be nothing. When he’d left them to travel to the Gathering on their own, Finnlay had merely told them he had something he needed to take care of and that he would rejoin them later. In his haste, he had hardly noticed where he was entering the forest, nor which direction the maze of hills and valleys would take him.

  Then the touch had gone—and no matter how hard he’d tried, he’d not been able to resurrect it. So now the question was, had he imagined it? Or, despite all logic and sense, had his brother really come back? Was he somewhere in this damned forest, on his way home? Or was he still wandering the lands of the southern continent, determined never to return to Lusara?

  Finnlay glanced up at his horse as it stood silently by the stream edge. “Why don’t you Seek him out, eh? If I told you what he looked like, could you find him?”

  It was, of course, pointless talking to the horse but—suppose he’d been right. Suppose, for one moment, Robert was somewhere in Shan Moss, that he’d come back and was even now, close enough for Finnlay to find him. Would that make it any easier for Finnlay to convince him? There was no certainty at all that Robert would even speak to him.

  With a sigh, Finnlay played idly with the twigs in his hands. Marcus was dead. There was no getting around that. Marcus was dead and the Enclave needed a new leader. Even now they were all gathering together in preparation for Standing the Circle. Arlie and Martha were getting closer by the day—and that was exactly what Finnlay should be doing right now instead of chasing his tail in a cold and friendless forest, looking for a brother who was probably not even there.

  But he’d had to try. With Marcus gone, Finnlay knew the Enclave was in deep trouble. Now more than ever they needed a strong leader—and when he’d felt that touch, the touch of his brother’s presence two nights ago, he’d had no choice but to follow it. If he could just find Robert and convince him to Stand the Circle then perhaps, after all this time, the Enclave would finally be able to fulfil its destiny. It was too much of a coincidence: Marcus dying ten days ago—then Finnlay finding Robert (it seemed) back in Lusara. Surely the gods had intended it—surely it was time for Robert to put aside his objections to the Enclave and join them fully. Surely...

  Surely the last person Robert would ever listen to was his younger brother. N
o, Finnlay sighed again, and came to his feet. This was a hopeless quest. In the morning, when his horse was better, he would climb the nearest rise, get a good bearing on the sun and head north again. Even if Robert was back, Finnlay would never find him in this maze of a forest—and should he do so, Finnlay no longer had the words to convince him of anything, let alone the Enclave. Bitter disappointment welled up inside him and he kicked out at the log, sending clumps of moss flying. If only there wasn’t so much depending on someone like his brother taking the leadership, so much at stake. The Key—the Calyx—all of it.

  No. He would have to find some other way— A noise behind made him stop in his tracks. He whirled around and tried to peer through the trees. At first he could see nothing, then his ears caught the sound of a horse—no, three horses coming towards him. He froze and waited—then blinked in surprise. There, getting closer with every step, was Robert!

  For a moment, Finnlay couldn’t believe his luck and almost laughed. After all that time and effort, his brother comes across him by accident! Perhaps he’d been right after all—perhaps the gods did mean his plan to work. With his heart filled with renewed confidence, Finnlay strode forward as Robert’s horse broached the clearing. “Serin’s blood, Robert, but you’re a hard man to find!”

  His brother was frowning at him in obvious surprise. “Finnlay! What are you doing here?”

  Finnlay grinned. “Looking for you.” He glanced behind his brother and caught sight of a man his own age riding the second horse—a man with glowing red hair and sundrenched freckles. “Micah? Is that you?”

  “Aye, my lord. It’s good to see you again,” Micah replied with a smile.

  Taking Robert’s bridle, Finnlay held the horse as he dismounted. “And it’s damned good to see you, too. How’s life treating you?”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  “And my brother?”

  Robert took the bridle from Finnlay’s hands and led the horse to the stream. “How’s life treating me or how am I treating Micah?”