EXILE'S RETURN

by Kate Jacoby

  And why had he been wearing Finnlay’s ring?

  “I’m sorry to make you retell the story, my lady,” Nash murmured, trying to keep his voice under control. “It must have been most upsetting to find the young man like that. Did you know him well?”

  “I’d never met him,” she replied, once again beside her father. “I only knew him from what His Grace told me.”

  “As he brought you from Shan Moss to Elita? Of course. Tell me, was Finnlay wearing his signet ring when you found him?”

  “I... don’t know. I didn’t look. Why?”

  So innocent, so demure, so wounded. He wanted to kiss her! “And you know nothing of the man charged in Kilphedir? Nothing about sorcery?”

  “Sorcery?” She laughed—and he had her! “Why would I know anything about sorcery?”

  Yes! There it was. The perfect lie. As perfect as all the others she’d told him, except that this was one he knew about. She knew all about sorcery, he’d felt her power at Marsay, had felt her resist his pushing and probing. She was lying now, just as immaculately as she’d done before.

  But why? To protect Finnlay? That had to be it. So Finnlay had escaped and she had gone out to meet him, with horses—and his brother.

  Yes, that was it. Desperately he wanted to push her again, try her strength against his, but he didn’t dare. If she sensed it she would know it was him and it was much too early for that little discovery. Still, he couldn’t resist a little Malachi-like mischief.

  “I wonder, my lord, that you allowed your daughter out at such a time of night. And with a man you regard as a traitor.”

  “My feelings for Robert, Alderman, are none of your business. And before you protest, I did not give Jennifer my permission to go. She slipped away, believing she was doing the right thing.”

  “But such behaviour? From a high-born lady?”

  As though to deliberately irritate Nash, Jacob smiled. He reached out and took his daughter’s hand. “You must understand, Alderman. My daughter has had a very . . . unusual childhood. Some habits learned are hard to break. Nevertheless, I am very proud of her.”

  “Yes, of course. You have every reason to be.” Nash smiled genuinely. She was indeed worthy of pride—but not for the reasons Jacob believed in. “I will take my leave of you, my lord, my lady. I have other inquiries I need to make. Thank you for your time.”

  He bowed to them both and left the room with the memory of her face lingering in his eyes. So formidable, so delightful—and so very dangerous. It would have been pointless trying to push her, she could still resist him as she had before. No. He would have to drag the truth from someone else. Someone else who’d been there, in the forest. Someone unable to resist him.

  Robert Douglas.

  As the door closed behind Nash, Jenn tried to pull her hand from Jacob’s strong grasp, but he wouldn’t let go. Instead, he dragged her down until her eyes were level with his.

  “Understand, Daughter! You will never see Dunlorn again! Do you hear me? Never!”

  “But Father, he’s done nothing wrong ...”

  “You cannot be my daughter and give time to that man as well. I don’t care if he did return you to me: that is my debt to repay as I please. But you will do as I say. You will vow never to see or speak to him again. Promise!”

  Jenn struggled to find words, struggled for time, for space to convince him, but ten years had done more damage than she could repair in a few short months. To Jacob, Robert was trouble. A traitor of the worst kind, a man who had forsaken his country for the glory of serving a usurping King. A King who could easily and happily wipe out her entire House, destroy them as he’d destroyed Lusara. Unless she agreed, Robert’s treachery would become hers.

  By the gods, what could she say? Robert had said he’d come back and when he did, Jenn would see him, would speak to him. She had to...

  But it was hopeless. With a heart like lead, Jenn dropped her head and fought back tears. “Yes, Father. I promise.”

  Chapter 19

  Patric paced up and down before the gate, ignoring the chilly evening and the brittle wind sweeping across the mountain. Despite the cold, Ayn and Henry kept watch with him, both waiting for the same thing. The arrival of Robert and Finnlay.

  But what could be keeping them? More than four hours now since the signal that they were on their way up and there was still no sign of them. But nothing could have happened, the sentries would see. They’d send word, go and help.

  Damn it, where were they?

  He could go out. Through the gate. Travel along the path down the Goleth. He’d done it before. Once, in daylight. But now it was dusk and without a torch he’d lose his way, probably fall over the bluff, and his crumpled battered body would be found months later, picked over by carrion and rodents, worms slithering out of his eye sockets. No. Best to stay within the gate.

  Patric turned back to the tunnel once again, but this time there was something moving within the gloom. Two figures, followed by weary horses. But something was very wrong. Finnlay came forward, his arm under Robert’s shoulders. As they emerged from the darkness, he stumbled and Robert gasped.

  He was obviously injured, and feverish too. His face was deathly pale and shiny with perspiration. A huge purpling bruise swelled his right temple. Even those sea-green eyes were dull and lustreless, as though the colour had been washed out of them by an icy winter’s rain.

  “What’s happened?” Ayn cried, moving quickly despite her age.

  Patric sprang to support Robert and glanced at Finnlay for an answer.

  “We had some trouble. It’s a very long story.”

  “Trouble?” Ayn said, “what kind of... No. That can wait. Robert needs to be in bed—now! Patric, help me get him inside.”

  Ayn washed her hands in the old wooden bowl she kept by the bed and dried them on a scrap of linen. Then she took the pestle and mortar, gave the pungent mix inside one more turn, then transferred it to the bandage.

  Robert didn’t stir as she redressed the wound on his shoulder. His eyes were closed, his face almost serene, but for the lines of pain etched around his eyes. Pain from riding hard for five days with such injuries. He’d passed out almost as soon as they’d laid him in his bed and he’d not woken since.

  “Will he survive?” Henry asked from the door.

  Ayn finished applying the poultice and straightened up. “Of course he’ll survive. Robert’s too strong to let a few bruises and a fever kill him. He’s much too stubborn.”

  “Then it’s mostly fatigue?”

  “Yes,” Ayn replied more confidently than she felt. There were times when having Healer’s Sight gave her no comfort at all. If only she could be sure she was treating all Robert’s wounds.

  “Ayn,” Henry spoke gently, laying his hand on her shoulder, “the council convenes again in an hour. If Robert does not awaken soon, we may have to make the decision without him.”

  “We will make no decisions until we’ve heard what he has to say, Henry,” Ayn snapped. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  “How much worse can it be? Finnlay was caught, probably identified. This is the greatest catastrophe of the last century.”

  “Is it?” Ayn grunted, gazing down at Robert’s bruised face. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Ayn,” Henry whispered, “the time is approaching when you will have to decide where your loyalties lie.”

  “You don’t understand, Patric. He’s worse. Much worse than he used to be.”

  Patric glanced once at Finnlay then resumed climbing the frail ladder. This part of the library was unused and mostly forgotten, and consequently, extraordinarily dusty. He sneezed three times in quick succession and almost fell.

  “What do you mean, worse?”

  “You should have seen him after Oliver was killed. He hasn’t really been the same since. His moods change from one second to the next. Half the time I don’t know whether to take him seriously or not.”

  “That never worried you before.”


  Finnlay leaned back against a long narrow bench. “But something’s changed. I don’t know what. Even his friend Daniel was worried. He tried to convince me Robert had decided to go to war against Selar.”

  “What?” Patric started. The ladder began to waver against the high shelf and he gripped it with both hands. Steady again, he glanced back down at Finnlay, “Do you agree?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Micah is sure Robert would never break his oath to Selar.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Patric turned his attention to the rows of scrolls laid out on the top shelf of the library. He was sure the book was up here . .. somewhere. In a worn black leather tube. Yes, there it was.

  He leaned forward and coaxed the tube out with his fingertips. He almost lost hold of it, but then it fell into his hand and he began retracing his steps down the ladder. He jumped the last two to the floor and moved around Finnlay to the empty bench. It lay the length of the dark cave, by law, lit only by enclosed oil lamps. Blackened streaks marked the roof and the old double door was grimy with oil smoke. Hardly anyone came to this part of the old library now, partly because it was buried in the deepest part of the caves, and partly because there were few Enclave scholars who could read Saelic, Giffron and the other obscure old languages these books embodied.

  Patric laid the leather tube down carefully. Finnlay was watching him, the shadow of exhaustion almost gone from his eyes, although the scar was still healing: a permanent reminder of his personal misfortune.

  “And so Robert has been like this—all the time?”

  “Except for the night they got me out of prison. For a while he was his old happy, cynical self. Before that and on the whole journey here, he’s hardly said a word to me. Hell, I know he was injured—but this? Tell me what’s going on, Patric. He’s my brother and I can’t reach him!”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want to be reached,” Patric murmured. He pulled up a high stool and settled on to it. “It’s as though fate is conspiring against his wish to retire. All these things playing on him, those raiders, the Malachi, McCauly’s arrest, your uncle—everything. All forcing him to act, to do something.”

  “Well, it hasn’t done any good, has it? Besides, Robert can’t be pressured into anything: I know, I’ve spent years trying.”

  “Yes,” Patric frowned, “but tell me, what was so different about the night of your rescue? Was Robert just pleased to get you out, or was there something else? Did you argue at all?”

  There was almost a smile on Finnlay’s face now. “Not me, no. But I tell you, Jenn has his measure. She doesn’t let him get away with anything. And there was something strange going on, an understanding maybe. Like they’d been working together like that for years.”

  Really? Now that was interesting—but it would also have to wait until Robert woke up, which hopefully would be soon. Two days’ sleep should have worked wonders.

  “So,” Patric continued, carefully taking the scroll out of its case, “what are you going to do now?”

  “Now?” Finnlay laughed, but without humour. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I could make a suggestion.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, what?” They both whirled around to find Robert standing in the doorway. The bruises had faded, his colour had returned and there was a familiar light in his eyes. Even in this gloom he looked much better.

  “Well?” Robert added, “I would really like to hear your suggestion.”

  “I...” Patric stammered. “When did you wake up? I looked in on you half an hour ago and you were still out.”

  “And so you came all the way down here so I had to limp down those stairs to find you. Then, of course, I’ll have to get all the way back up. Thank you.” Robert glanced up at the shelves of books lining every wall of the ancient cave, then back at Finnlay. He moved into the room, keeping his eyes on his brother.

  “I didn’t tell anybody, Robert,” Finnlay murmured. “Only ... Patric.”

  “I know, Finn. But wait a moment.” With that, Robert raised his left hand, his voluminous white shirt a blur in the lamp light. Suddenly the huge double doors creaked, then slammed shut with a bang.

  Patric gasped, “How did you do that?”

  But Robert was still looking at Finnlay. Without a word, Finnlay reached inside his doublet and pulled forth a cloth-bound object, crimson and heavy. He placed it in Robert’s hand and turned away.

  “Can I see it?” Patric couldn’t help himself.

  Robert nodded and placed it down on the bench. Instantly Patric tore the cloth away and examined the silver rod.

  “Well? What do you make of it?”

  “It’s hand crafted,” Patric replied, returning to his seat. “Very fine work. It looks like silver, but I suspect there’s some copper in there. It has that colour. I’d say these wires are supposed, to be attached to something but the knobs on the end look like handles to me. At a guess, I’d say that it’s a part of something bigger, like the hilt of a sword. Perhaps it’s part of the Calyx—or maybe part of something that was used for ceremonial purposes. Remember that book I was reading about Bonding? There’s a chapter in there about the ceremonial tools.”

  “Was this mentioned?”

  “I don’t know, but I can check.” Patric put the rod back down and spread the scroll out on the bench. Finnlay held one end and Robert the other. He did a quick scan to start, then began again, his finger moving slowly down the vellum. “No. Nothing. I was certain there would be something here.”

  “Well,” Finnlay ventured, “perhaps we’re looking in the wrong place. It might not be a ceremonial tool. After all, the Calyx was only mentioned once like that. At all other times, it is referred to as an object of great value and purpose.”

  Patric had to smile. “I don’t recall any index mentioning a chapter of that name.” He glanced back at Robert and began to roll the vellum back up. “I take it you don’t want the council to know about this. Is there any particular reason I should know about?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Robert replied, turning around to take a look at the library again. “I haven’t been down here for years. Not since that night when you tried to convince me there was a connection between the House Marks and sorcery. At the time I thought you were bored stupid and just inventing theories to keep yourself busy.”

  “And now?”

  Robert glanced at him evasively. “I still don’t understand how you came to the conclusion in the first place. The House Marks have been around so long now, most people ignore them completely. There’s never been any proof that there is a link with sorcery. Quite the opposite, in fact. However,” Robert paused, his hand reaching up to lift the tassel from a scroll, “if we assumed from the beginning that the Marklord invented the Marks for a reason, then it might just make sense.”

  “Forgive me, brother,” Finnlay said, “but I don’t follow your logic. How can that make sense?”

  “Well,” Robert turned around with a grin, more like his old self than Patric had dared hope, “perhaps he wanted to identify several families in perpetuity in order to keep track of their offspring. It might have nothing to do with sorcery, but only property.”

  Finnlay shook his head. “By why keep track? Why would you want to?”

  But Patric had an answer. He darted around the bench and brushed his hair from his eyes. “Wait. If we assume for a moment that there is a connection between the Marks and sorcery—then the Marks would be a good means by which to ensure the Bondings.”

  “What?” Robert looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, I do like coming here, Pat! You’ve always got something new for me. It’s such a delight listening to you. You’re the only person I know who can conjure a complete theory of our history out of thin air!”

  Still laughing, Robert bent to examine a shelf of bound books, but Patric wasn’t so easily put off. “Tell me, is Jenn still showing all the signs of enormous power?”

  “Yes. Why?”
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  Patric hardly knew why he’d asked the question. There was something there, nagging at the back of his mind, and he had no choice but to pursue it. “It makes sense to me. Remember, Bonding was a very important part of our history at one time. No marriages were performed unless the couples were Bonded. We know the Marklord worked with the earliest sorcerers, so why shouldn’t he create something like the House Marks? If Bonding was so vital, he’d want to make sure it continued, regardless of what happened. I know we lost a lot of our lore when the Enclave was founded and the rest of this library burned to ashes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Bonding no longer exists. After all, we don’t know what the Marks are for and yet they continue to persist in each generation.”

  “But,” Finnlay objected, “we don’t even know what Bonding is. Who’s to say it wasn’t just a symbolic ceremony like betrothal is today.”

  “There’s nothing symbolic about betrothal, Finnlay,” Patric argued. “In law it’s considered just as binding as marriage. There is a deeper meaning and function than simple ceremony. It was designed to join the incumbents together when they were too young to marry, to bind their families together. A firm promise and contract for the future. Bonding could easily be the arcane equivalent, designed to make sure that two particular people would marry.”

  “Except for one thing,” Robert pointed out. “We’re just assuming there’s a connection between the Marks and sorcery because we’re assuming that Thraxis and the Marklord are the same person—and that Thraxis created the Calyx specifically for sorcerers. We’re completely ignoring the three hundred years between them and basing one assumption on another without proof for any of it. The silver rod we found by accident is no guarantee that we are on the right track to find the Calyx—and we don’t even know that Thraxis put in it that damned cave. But even it if was all true—even if the Marklord did create the Marks to keep track of offspring, there’s no suggestion that he had anything to do with Bonding. That’s an ancient sorcerers’ tradition we know almost nothing about. The Marks still persist today, as does sorcery, but Bonding doesn’t. If you were right, Bonding would have no choice but to exist. Everyone with a House Mark would be a sorcerer and every sorcerer alive would be Bonded.”