The Watchers in Exile

by Barbara V. Evers

  * * * * *

  Chapter 23

  For two days, Leera sat in her room staring out the window, watching the comings and goings of people unknown to her. Her chamber door opened three times each day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The maid, Hanna, had startled in fright this morning, almost dropping the tray, when Leera rushed toward her as she entered the room. She welcomed anyone, a maid even, to this enforced sentence of solitude.

  It was mid-afternoon, now, and Leera paced back and forth, muttering to herself, aware it would be a few more hours before dinner arrived. With a sigh, she flopped down on the sumptuous cushions of her bed. The small baby cloth lay on a table just in sight when she looked to her left. Yesterday, out of boredom, she had tried to wash out the spot. It persisted on the edges of the cloth, taunting her with her mother’s words: “Even then you failed me. Look at the stains you left behind. Maybe you should spend your time getting that stain out.”

  The shock of her mother’s anger still made Leera gasp in pain. Last night, she had lain in bed, crying into her pillow. When her tears dried, a memory of gleefully watching her brothers squirm under the queen’s anger disturbed her rest further. When she finally slept, she dreamed of Kiffen and Serrin standing by, satisfied grins on their faces, while her mother screamed at her, veins bulging in her forehead.

  A knock on the door startled Leera back to the present. Forcing her thoughts from the offending dream, she sat up, shaking her head.

  Hanna entered the room, a tiny smile on her face. “Your Highness, you have visitors.”

  Jumping from the bed, Leera peered into the glass above her bureau. “Do I look presentable?”

  “Of course.” Hanna walked around her, straightening her skirts and tucking her curls back in place. Ever since Leera had asked her name, the maid had become a bit more relaxed in her presence, and Leera had begun to realize how much she had ignored the young woman.

  “Who is it?”

  “Your mother.” Hanna paused as she straightened a bow on Leera’s skirt.

  Leera plopped back on the bed. “Then why do I care how I look?”

  “Because the young lord, Taren, is with her.”

  Taren? Leera jumped up again and surveyed herself in the mirror. Young men didn’t usually visit a young lady’s chambers. The idea of him just outside her door sent tantalizing thoughts to her mind. If others knew of his admittance to her chamber, what scandalous talk might they spread? Excitement trilled along her limbs at the opportunity of seeing him again. He might be part of her mother’s schemes, but, at least, he treated her with respect and was unbelievably handsome.

  After a few more moments of primping, Leera bade Hanna to grant her mother and Taren entrance. Her mother would enter without permission, but Leera felt the need to exercise some pretense of control. She stood very still and waited.

  Queen Quilla breezed into the room, her dress of green and yellow swishing as she moved toward her daughter, arms held out. “My darling child, we hoped we might find you feeling a bit better, today.”

  She grasped Leera’s shoulders and studied her face. The gesture reminded Leera of the many times her mother had joined her in her rooms for one last inspection before a royal event. With a glance back at Taren, who stood in the doorway, the queen said, “I’ve told Taren how ill you’ve been for the last two days, but he insisted on seeing you.”

  While she registered her mother’s lie, Leera studied the change in the queen’s eyes. They shifted from concerned when she turned toward Taren to a threat of warning when facing Leera.

  The chill of her mother’s gaze forced Leera to step back from the embrace.

  Taren bowed, and, as he straightened, said, “It is true, Your Highness. I feared your illness might be serious, and I have asked to see you all day. I’m glad to see you looking well.”

  “It is kind of you to show concern, Taren,” Leera said. “I am much better today.”

  “See?” The queen clapped her hands together in delight. “Taren, we mustn’t exhaust the princess, and it’s impertinent for you to even be here. I’ve shown great restraint and trust to allow you this moment. Please close the door as you leave.”

  “But?” Leera stared at her mother. Yes, it was true Taren shouldn’t be in her rooms, but she had seen no one for two days.

  “The queen is correct, my lady. I look forward to you rejoining us soon.” Taren bowed and backed out of the room.

  Once the door closed behind him, her mother grabbed Leera’s arm and yanked her close enough for Leera to see the tiny blood vessels in her eyes. “If you would behave as I require, you could spend many hours strolling the gardens in his company.” She dropped Leera’s arm only to throw her own in the air. “But you know his presence here isn’t proper. How dare you object when I sent him away? What would people say if they knew?”

  “I’m sure, if I become court gossip, you will be the source, mother.”

  “You impudent little brat.” The slap came with the same vengeance as the queen’s words.

  Leera flinched and covered her cheek with her hand. Her mother had never struck her. No one had ever struck her.

  “Where did you learn to behave like a trollop?”

  Leera stared at her mother, fighting back tears. How had her mother’s odd visitation become her fault? She kept this thought to herself, aware nothing she said would go over well.

  After a moment, the queen said, “There. That’s better. You should learn to be silent more often, or you may find yourself locked up in less suitable chambers.”

  Fear sizzled along Leera’s scalp at that suggestion.

  “I have brought you something,” the queen said. “I’m almost tempted to not give it to you after your behavior.”

  Leera cast her gaze toward the floor in the same stance of obeisance she had seen so many others assume in her mother’s presence. Once, she had known what to anticipate from her mother, but no longer. She waited with apprehension, her heart pounding so loud her mother should hear it.

  “Well? Look up, child. You are a princess, not the chambermaid.”

  The queen held in her hand a gold ring box with the head of a lion engraved in the lid.

  The shock of seeing this particular box caused Leera to sit down on the bed. She shook her head, unable to understand. The box belonged to her father. It held the ring of office for the ruler of Elwar. A quick glance at her mother’s hands proved the queen didn’t wear the ring. Why not? She had taken the throne.

  “For Ballene’s sake, take it.” The queen took Leera’s hand and placed the box in it. It felt warm from the recent contact with her mother.

  The urge to give it back thrummed in her fingers, followed by the awareness that she couldn’t. Not if she wanted her mother to let her out of confinement.

  “Open it.”

  She lifted the lid to reveal a large, gold ring. The engraving of the lion on the box’s lid was molded into the ring. Sapphires in the lion’s eyes flashed in the light, staring back at her in accusation. The ring was too big for her. Too powerful. Her father wore it on his pinky finger, and even then, it only slid halfway down, then stuck on a knuckle. For that reason, he had secured it in the box whenever it wasn’t needed. The ring granted the wearer the rights of rulership in Elwar. With this ring, she could take the throne.

  A thrill ran down her spine as she imagined herself holding audience with supplicants instead of her mother. She would be queen instead.

  It slid onto her finger and hung there like the anchor of a boat. Her father’s fingers might have been too large, but hers were too small. Unbidden, she saw Kiffen’s hands as he handed her an apple or brushed the burrs out of his horse’s mane. It would fit Kiffen. She knew it would.

  It was Kiffen’s ring.

  The queen picked up Leera’s hand and held it in the light, admiring the ring. “You will grow into it, just as you will grow into your monarchy.”

  A cold fear gripped Leera’s stomach. Did her mother truly believe she could tak
e the throne and rule Elwar? She had said so the other day, but Leera had assumed it would never happen. Sariah, Helmyra, and Gerguld would prevent it. They would help Kiffen retake the throne.

  “I can’t wear this, Mother.”

  “You will grow into it.”

  “No, Mother. I can’t wear it. It’s not mine.”

  Laughter trilled from her mother’s lips, harsh and cruel. She turned her back on Leera and sailed toward the door. “You don’t think so, but it is yours. Wear it for a while. You will see.”

  The door clicked behind the queen.

  Hot acid burned in Leera’s throat. She fought to keep her lunch from rebelling and stormed toward the door. “Mother.” She rattled the locked doorknob and kicked the unrelenting wood when it didn’t cooperate.

  The ring glared at her when she stared down at her offending hand.

  She yanked the ring off and flung it across the room. It clattered on the wood flooring and rolled like a top for several moments before clanging to a stop.

  Leera flung the gold box after it and went to bed.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 24

  Pultarch rode next to the Lord most days, but today, the Lord rode within a palanquin carried by the four men who always rode by his side. Just before the midday meal, the caravan halted. Pultarch watched as the four bodyguards carrying the chair lowered it to the ground. They stepped back, one of them answering a question from Maligon in his short, guttural tongue. Moments later, Kalara ducked inside the curtains to confer with her father. Were they preparing to force another village into submission?

  Pultarch’s stomach quailed at the methods used to tame the people. Even after overcoming several more villages, he found himself wishing for a simpler way. The results were hard to argue with. He knew their destination was Adana’s View, and he wished more than anything the unit sent to save Adana would return soon. He spent hours in the saddle daydreaming of the day he could ride into the royal fortress with Adana proudly perched on a horse beside him. Sometimes, he imagined her riding in front of him on the same horse. The crowds would roar their approval, and he would be seen as a hero.

  “Your smile gives you away.” Kalara interrupted his thoughts, smug amusement in her eyes. “What wild daydream are you about?”

  Pultarch shook his head. When had she left the Lord’s enclosure? He tried to watch for her since she never failed to antagonize him when given the slightest opportunity. Adana would put her in her proper place once she learned of Kalara’s cruelty. “Have we heard from the men sent to rescue Adana?”

  Kalara frowned. “The numbers guarding her are larger than anticipated. It makes matters difficult.”

  Pultarch scowled. “Why do they prevent her from joining us? Can’t they see we want her on the Seat of Authority as much as they do?”

  “Have you not been listening to the Lord?” Kalara slapped the reins on her horse’s back. “They don’t want her on the Seat. Kiffen is their chosen ruler for both kingdoms.”

  “Let me go to her. I’ll save her.” He blurted the words before he realized it.

  “Exactly what I suggested.” The smirk on Kalara’s face gave him pause. “It seems he has decided you have other uses, as well. We’re assembling a small squad to travel with you.”

  Astonished, Pultarch found himself stammering, “Me? Uh, um, really? I will be the one to save her?” Fear, mingled with the excitement of glory, settled into his chest.

  Kalara sighed and shook her head. “Come with me. The Lord wishes to speak with you.” She guided him toward the clearing where the curtained chair had been lowered to the ground.

  Four hefty soldiers, arms crossed over their chests, stood beside the poles they used to carry the chair. The curtains hung loosely, multiple layers of glimmer cloth in varying shades of purple. Pultarch bent over and entered the small enclosure, gasping at the stuffy air. Why would anyone choose to ride in something so stifling?

  “Ahh, there you are, my son.” The man leaned back on a heap of pillows, each one purple tasseled in gold. His eyes remained half-closed as he turned toward Pultarch. “Has my esteemed daughter filled you in on our predicament?”

  “Yes, but…” He faltered. Maligon looked pale. Sweat thickened the locks of his hair and beaded on his upper lip. “My Lord, are you well?”

  Maligon groaned and pushed himself upright. “Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary. Some days my injuries ache. I find heat improves me.”

  Anger over the atrocities dealt this man flared in Pultarch’s chest. He’d seen horrors along the road, but the more he considered how Micah and Chiora maimed Maligon and sent him to die, the more he accepted the Lord’s form of brutality.

  “Of course. Kalara tells me you wish for me to rescue Adana.” Boyish excitement filled Pultarch’s voice, and he cringed at his inability to stifle it. “How many will I take to fight my way in to save her?”

  “Oh no, my boy.” The Lord laid a well-manicured hand on Pultarch’s; the other, crippled hand stayed hidden behind his voluminous robes. “Stealth is required. They must not know you are there to save her. You’ll take only four men.”

  “H-how can we do that?”

  “Four of my most capable men. Surely, you can find a way to gain access with your nobility and their skills.” He fell back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “Be aware, they’ve brainwashed her into believing they support her claim to the Seat of Authority. She believes she and Kiffen will rule together.”

  “She believes these lies? I thought her Watcher skills would recognize their deceptions.” Pultarch’s heart ached at her innocence.

  “Exactly why she needs you, Pultarch. You must show her the error in her judgment.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Pultarch found himself closing in on Roshar. He pushed the four men, allowing them to rest at small intervals, traveling day and night. During one of their stops, the man called Cap approached him.

  “The village is just beyond those hills. I believe we should wait until evening.” Cap looked toward the hills, his arms crossed with decision.

  Pultarch considered the advice. At their current pace, they could be in Roshar by midday, but he liked Cap’s suggestion. “Which direction do the refugees come from?”

  “Primarily, just to the west of us.”

  Pultarch nodded and looked over his band of mercenaries. They planned to join the line of refugees streaming into the village. Darkness improved their chances of mixing in unnoticed.

  Earlier scouts had advised them the Watchers pulled all able-bodied men from the refugees to be questioned and outfitted for battle. If no one recognized Pultarch, he might find a way to gain access to Adana and plead his innocence. He was no fool. She would have heard he rode with the Lord’s troops and question his loyalty.

  That night, the four men and Pultarch slipped into a traveling band of refugees while everyone slept. Pultarch grinned at the ease of it. The inept men selected to guard these people snored at their posts. If these refugees represented the soldiers who made up Adana’s guard, his task would be simple.

  Late the next morning, they trudged toward Roshar and the refugee camp surrounding the village. Pultarch stared in amazement at the volume of people. The smell hit him first, unwashed bodies and offal. It stunk worse than traveling with the Lord’s army.

  How could Adana ever believe this was what her people wanted? How could she allow this to happen?

  They reached the huddles of structures and tents first. Watchers and soldiers barred the way, checking each person who entered, pulling a few aside. They pulled Cap from the group, then two more, then Pultarch. One more of his men followed him, and soon the five stood waiting for the Watchers to take them to the barracks.

  Pultarch studied each of the Watchers and guards. None looked familiar, but all Watchers looked the same to him, except Adana. Dark hair, gray hair, varying skin tones—those were the only differences.

  The Watchers marched the men through the refug
ee camp. Small structures butted up against each other, and the sounds of crying children, as well as chickens, horses, and other livestock enveloped him. He shook his head at the gathered hovels wrought by the actions of Donel and Micah. If the two foreigners had stayed out of Maligon’s way twenty years ago, none of this would be here. He pushed back the awareness that without Micah, Adana wouldn’t exist, either.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 25

  Kiffen stood at an east-facing window in the Central Tower, focused on the connection with Bai’dish. The escort Kassa sent to accompany the giraffe and Glume on the last part of their journey appeared as a hazy image along the link. Three Watchers, six Soldiers of the First Sight, and four of his own men encircled the giraffe, their bodies attentive to any threat.

  The party had kept to the Monian side of the border for the largest portion of the trip but hid in the forest, on occasion, to avoid troops moving south to join Maligon.

  He’d experienced the skirmish on the day Samantha’s escort reached Bai’dish. Observing from the giraffe’s height provided a distinct advantage even if the animal had retreated into the trees. When the soldiers and Watchers overcame Maligon’s men, he had sagged with relief. Two Watchers marched south with the prisoners. An odd decision, but he didn’t know Moniah’s terrain as well.

  As he scanned the hazy image of the arrival party, he realized Samantha was not with them. She must have taken charge of the prisoners. Relief filled his chest. Ever since the message from Adana about Samantha, he had striven to avoid the Watcher. Kassa’s decision to send her on this task had been fortuitous under the circumstances. Her absence felt like a gift from the Creator.

  He wandered back over to the map. Giraffe-shaped markers represented Monian troops and Watchers clustered behind the walls of Adana’s View. The Border Keep held a scattering of lion markers for Elwar and four times more giraffe markers. The village of Roshar appeared to be the most vulnerable position. A few lion markers, double as many giraffe markers, but the bulk of their forces were represented by brown markers, refugee volunteers.