She sighed with thanks for the news and the enhanced gift of the potion that helped her understand Am’brosia better.
A tiny voice in her head reminded her the potion also served to strengthen her awareness of the Creator’s wishes, to make her aware of his plans for her in leading Moniah. The ceremony claimed her to be the Creator’s chosen, the person who stood to protect the people. The Creator must be laughing at her for daring to ask for what she wanted, betrothal to Kiffen. Quick to show her failings, the Creator destroyed the only peace of her world. How would the Teachers of the Faith explain that?
Tentatively, she pushed on the link with Am’brosia and pictured a distinct image of Kiffen and Bai’dish. She held her breath. Could she sense his condition through Am’brosia or had her overuse of drunkenberry stunted that ability? If not, would Am’brosia recognize her mistress’ need to know more of how Kiffen fared?
Seconds ticked by.
In a rush, a clear image came to her. Bai’dish stood beside Am’brosia as they watched the horizon. No weakness showed in the animal’s stance.
Tension seeped out of her shoulders. Kiffen was strong and safe. She looked up to find Joannu and Elayne staring at her. She smiled, blinking back tears of relief.
“Am’brosia showed you something,” Joannu said.
She nodded and chuckled at the confused look on Elayne’s face.
“I thought you were having a fit,” Elayne said. “Your body froze. Your eyes…they didn’t roll back but…it looked strange.”
The smile on Joannu’s face was friendly. “Elayne, you have much to learn about our world.” She turned to Adana. “What did you see, my lady?”
“Bai’dish standing strong beside Am’brosia.”
“That is good news.”
Elayne glanced between them, her frown deepening. “Bai’dish? The giraffe? What does that mean?”
Could the woman have missed so many details over the last week? Adana tried to fit this into the puzzle of Elayne, the companion she never wanted, but out of respect, accepted from an old friend.
“Kiffen is bonded to Bai’dish, as I am bonded to Am’brosia. If Kiffen were unwell, Bai’dish would be, too.” She started toward their horses. “We must go. The giraffes are ahead of us and impatient.”
“You learned that from the giraffe, too?” Elayne stared into the distance as if she might spot the giraffes.
“Yes. They are not far, but we still have a ride ahead of us. Both stood alert, watching the horizon. Their location is safe for the moment.”
As they remounted their horses, Elayne turned toward her. “I heard, when Prince Serrin died, Bai’dish should have died too. Because of the bond. But the giraffe lived.”
“That is true.” This news, old for three years, perplexed many. Her first betrothed, Serrin, had died the same day as her mother.
Serrin and Bai’dish had begun the bonding process, but Bai’dish had survived Serrin’s death. Only after Montee received a prophetic vision from the Creator had they begun to understand. Bai’dish held the bond at a distance with Adana’s first betrothed, Prince Serrin of Elwar. Somehow, he had managed to bond with Kiffen, Serrin’s elder brother. And the Creator’s games continued to plague her.
“Then how do you know Kiffen is alive?” Elayne interrupted Adana’s thoughts. “If Bai’dish lived while Serrin died, couldn’t the same be true, now?”
Adana sagged in the saddle, the question frightening her for a moment.
Joannu answered for her. “When Serrin fell ill, Bai’dish did too. We expected Bai’dish to die. There was no reason not to, but somehow, he broke the bond or ignored it. After Serrin’s death, he returned to health.”
Elayne looked thoughtful as their horses plodded up the hill and onto the flatter plains. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
Adana paused her horse and turned to face the woman. “No one did.”
“But the bond should have killed him?”
“Elayne, we can discuss this later.” Adana spoke in a sharp tone. “For now, we must ride.”
As they crossed the creek and continued south, Elayne ventured one more question. “If Am’brosia dies, will you?”
Adana slowed the horse but didn’t stop. Would the woman’s questions never cease?
Elayne drew up beside her, a concerned frown deepening between her eyes.
Unsure whether to trust the woman’s visible worry, Adana considered Elayne. After the announcement of her betrothal to Kiffen, the Earl of Brom’s son, Pultarch, attacked the prince in a jealous rage. Pultarch, among many others, thought he would become her betrothed. Now this young woman, a gift in apology for the nobleman’s rash actions, rode by her side as a companion. One of only two companions still with her. As a spy determined to follow her or just coincidence?
With a sigh of frustration, she said, “No. The bond doesn’t affect me the same way.”
A chill ran through her bones as she recalled the reasons why Maligon had turned on her mother twenty-five years earlier. He had pursued the queen’s hand in marriage, and she had rejected him.
Had Pultarch chosen the same path?
Did Elayne serve Pultarch or Adana?
She spurred her horse forward, not looking at Lady Elayne. She didn’t mention the overwhelming despair she would experience for the rest of her life if Am’brosia did die.
* * * * *
Chapter 2
Pultarch struggled behind a soldier’s horse, his wrists bound and tied to the saddle. The soldier chuckled and yanked on the rope, throwing Pultarch off balance. A long, disorderly line of rough-looking soldiers led the way. Behind them, wagons trundled over the grasslands, threatening to roll over Pultarch if he lost his footing.
The night had been a long and confusing one. He had awoken at the first cries of men in their camp. The soldier watching over him shot a warning look at Pultarch and ordered, “Stay here.” Then he had rushed from the tent.
The cries of men and the clash of battle had drawn closer as Pultarch struggled into his gear. Outside the tent, he heard a grunt and thud, then two Elwarian soldiers jerked open the flap of the tent.
At first, he thought they were Kiffen’s men taking the opportunity to harass him while the prince was away from camp. Most of Elwar’s soldiers despised Pultarch and had witnessed his jealous attack on the prince the day after the announcement of the prince’s betrothal to Adana.
The first soldier grabbed his arm and dragged him through the opening. The second soldier followed. At the sight of a body sprawled on the ground, Pultarch halted. The second soldier shoved him forward, and he fought to keep his balance as he stumbled over the body. The prone soldier’s eyes stared at the sky, unblinking. Blood spilled from his mouth.
Around them, shadows rose and fell in flickering firelight. Men cried out in alarm and pain. Two men fell to the ground in a heated struggle in front of Pultarch.
He jumped back in shock. The reality of what he saw hit him like a blow to the stomach. Elwarian fought Elwarian.
Pultarch struggled against his captors, eager to fight, to join the battle and discover why his countrymen fought each other, but they pulled him away from the fighting.
“What’s happening?” he said, struggling to turn back toward the conflict.
“Justice.” The second soldier shoved him in the other direction with as much force as he used to spit out the word.
“Whose?” Pultarch struggled to turn back. His size was enough to overcome one of these men, but the two combined proved more than his match.
“The queen’s.” The second soldier continued to push him forward. “Now stop your questions before I make you.”
Pultarch bit back the name of the only queen he cared for, Adana. Hope settled in his shoulders, and he submitted to the rough treatment without complaint. If Adana sent the attack on Kiffen’s camp, it meant only one thing. She despised Kiffen and refused his betrothal.
His captors dragged him to the rear of the camp where a few soldier
s stood guard over the horses. Neither the soldiers nor horses had been part of Kiffen’s original unit.
They handed him off to one of the guards. “Tie him up. We found him in the prince’s tent. We will take him back to camp and let him answer to the Lord.”
The sounds of battle died away as a distant glow in the east announced the approach of morning. His two captors returned and took Pultarch’s ropes. They dragged him back through the carnage of battle pausing at different bodies. “Which one is Prince Kiffen?”
Injured and dead soldiers littered the ground amidst the nauseating smell of blood, sweat, and released bowels. Pultarch choked back a surge of vomit burning his throat.
He had scanned the ground for any sign of Kiffen’s body, shying away from one man’s bloody hand groping for help. With Elwarian soldiers as attackers and defenders, he had no way of knowing which of the fallen were Adana’s supporters and which were loyal to Kiffen. Would he feel relief or despair if he spotted Kiffen dead or injured? He never learned the answer to that question. The prince’s body wasn’t there.
Now, as the sun broke over the horizon, Pultarch trudged behind the soldiers and listened to them mutter about the prince’s cowardice. Kiffen a coward? If only they were right, but he knew the truth. The prince had left camp to ride to Adana’s aid.
If Adana attacked this camp, how had she responded when her betrothed ran to her rescue? Did she embrace him, then drive a knife in his back? Was he bound like Pultarch?
Shame followed the pleasure he felt over the thought. Kiffen was once his best friend, but Adana’s loveliness ended that.
His captor yanked the rope and laughed at Pultarch’s attempts to stay upright, but the young lord smiled. Adana would punish these men later for mistreating her love.
Around midday, the soldiers climbed over a rise, and Pultarch lurched to a halt at the sight before him. Thousands of soldiers milled around tents that reached far into the distance.
How had their troops missed the evidence of such a large force? The answer came faster than he expected. A woman dressed in a Watcher’s uniform approached them. He studied her for a moment before he realized why she looked odd to him. Her long, reddish-brown hair flowed over her shoulders, glinting in the bright sunlight. The only Watcher he had ever seen without the mandatory braided hair was Adana, and only when she wore Elwarian clothes.
Two other Watchers jogged past him, their hair bound in battle braids. The three Watchers conferred, casting glances in his direction. With a nod, the first dismissed them and then sauntered toward Pultarch.
She scrutinized him, her lip curling in displeasure. Then she turned to his captors. “I understand you allowed Kiffen to escape. I told Father he should have sent me.”
The two soldiers stared straight ahead, voices silent. Pultarch grinned at their discomfort under the woman’s scrutiny.
“Nothing? No defense?” She strutted back and forth, glaring down on them like filth. “Imbeciles. That fiercely loyal Rolanna was part of his Watcher detail, and she’s missing, too. Someone probably gave him advance warning.” The woman turned her angry gaze on Pultarch. “Who are you?”
His grin faded.
A Watcher would know him by name if not by his face. Did she act by Adana’s command? Hope swelled in his chest at the idea, but he knew he must proceed with care until he discovered whether this Watcher served Adana or not. Pride straightening his back, he attempted to speak in a strong voice. “I am Pultarch, the son of—”
“Ah, our heir to the Earl of Brom. How interesting to find you in the prince’s bed.” She smirked at him. “Did he abandon you, too?”
The words stung, and he wanted to punch the smugness from her face.
She waited, her head cocked to the side, but Pultarch stared straight ahead, not saying any more. Behind him, Horace and his soldiers chuckled at his discomfort.
“So, you’re not talking? Well, the Lord will see about that, won’t he? Bring him.” She turned and walked toward the center of the camp without looking back.
Horace laughed as he dragged Pultarch along. “Smart to keep your mouth shut, boy. The Lord doesn’t appreciate mistreatment of his daughter, the Lady Kalara.”
“Aww, Lorent,” said the other soldier, “why warn him? We could have had a bit of fun at his mistakes, ya know.”
“Who is the Lord?” Pultarch found himself asking before he thought better of it. Why had they called that Watcher the Lady Kalara? Watchers rejected noble titles once they were accepted into service.
“You’ll see.” They stopped in front of a large tent flying four banners—the lion of Elwar, the giraffe of Moniah, the eagle of Belwyn, and the war horse of Teletia. Pultarch only had a moment to ponder the meaning behind all four flags flying in one place.
Lady Watcher Kalara waited at the tent’s entrance, flanked by two heavily armed guards. “He is most interested in meeting you.” She grabbed Pultarch by the arm and shoved him into the tent.
He stumbled and fell face first into the dirt. As he struggled to regain his footing in the darkened enclosure, he heard a deep grumble of displeasure. A pair of purple velvet slippers appeared just inches in front of his nose. Twisting his face out of the dirt, Pultarch looked up.
A man swathed in a cape made from the same cloth as his slippers peered down at him. Struggling to right himself, Pultarch rolled to his side and met the intrigued gaze of the older man, gray-haired, but still with strength in his posture. With the toe of his slipper, the man poked Pultarch’s shoulder, rocking him onto his back.
“For Ballene’s sake, someone help him up.” The man returned to a large chair and dropped into it. “And unbind him.”
Large hands lifted Pultarch and set him on his feet. With a quick slash of a knife, the ropes fell to the floor.
Blood flow prickled back into his hands, and Pultarch rubbed them, encouraging the circulation, while he studied the man.
The purple-robed man stared at him over a pair of templed hands, one disfigured beyond any use.
Pultarch blinked in surprise at the deformity, his mind forming the name of a traitor. Maligon, the man sentenced to death by exile into the deep desert. Could Maligon truly be alive and seated before him, a mere two steps away?
Maligon had destroyed many and created havoc for the kingdoms in his father’s time. He should be alarmed, but for some inexplicable reason, he felt peace under the man’s gaze.
He glanced around for Adana just to be sure she wasn’t there. His hopes of her presence drained from him as fast as the blood rushed into his numb hands. The pain of her absence felt the same.
“You are Pultarch, Sarx’s hope for success?” The man still studied him, but his face held a curious smile.
Sarx’s hope?
A kind laugh burst forth from the man. “Sit down, my boy. Have some wine.”
Dumbfounded, Pultarch dropped into the nearest chair and seized the cup a servant offered him. He gulped the wine, the lush flavors lost in his haste. Wine trickled down his chin.
Maligon offered him a towel. “Slow down. There’s plenty.”
Pultarch wiped his chin, looked up into the smiling brown eyes of the man, and felt a sense of belonging. Was it truly Maligon? “I am sorry, but you have the advantage. I do not know—”
“My name? No, of course you do not. Sarx would not have mentioned me, would he?”
“Why do you keep mentioning Sarx? What does he have to do with…” He paused. With what? Sarx commiserated with him when Adana chose Kiffen over Pultarch. Did Sarx work for Adana? Or was some other plan unfolding before him?
“You will come to understand very soon. But first, introductions must be made. I am known as the Lord.”
“Lord of what?”
“Why everything, of course. I have been gone for many years, but I’m back, and this time, they won’t send me away.” Anger sparked in the man’s eyes for a moment, then he smiled, and the fury faded. He leaned toward Pultarch. “We have much to do, Pultarch. With me, yo
u will gain your dream.”
“My dream?”
“Come now. You haven’t forgotten your heart’s desire so soon have you?”
Pultarch’s heart pounded in his chest. Adana. “But how?”
The man smiled and settled back in the chair. “The how will come soon enough. Just know, Adana will be yours.”
Elation pumped through Pultarch’s veins. He would have her, and Kiffen…
“What about Kiffen?”
The deformed hand waved the concern away. “Just a gnat in the drinking water. He will be dealt with.”
Pultarch smiled. “Will I get to deal with him?”
The Lord laughed. “Yes, I believe Sarx chose correctly in you. By all means, son, if the opportunity presents itself, you may deal with the mighty Kiffen.”
A broad smile stretched across Pultarch’s face. He settled back in the chair and took another glass of wine. After a moment, he said, “Lord, I am pleased to meet you.”
* * * * *
Chapter 3
By late afternoon, Adana and her companions found the secluded valley where Am’brosia and Bai’dish waited. A river flowed southwest through the area, the shallows clear, with silver flashes of fish. A few trees lined the banks, providing shade without blocking the view. The surrounding hills were low and abundant with flowers, their perfumes wafting on the air. Flutterbys danced among the blossoms, their fragile wings redirected by a slight breeze that lifted the hair that had pulled loose from Adana’s braid.
Am’brosia and Bai’dish stood sentry on a mound rising from the center of the small valley, their long necks and keen sight adding to their ability to warn of anyone’s approach.
Adana extended her mind into the link with Am’brosia and saw beyond the valley, empty of pursuers, the grasslands extending to the horizon. The sky remained clear, no churned-up dust from an encampment or army on the move clouding the view.
Joannu took the first watch with the giraffes while Elayne tended to the horses.
The Watchers in Exile Page 2
