Exile's Gamble_The Chronicles of Shadow_Book II

by Lee Dunning

  For perhaps the thousandth time, Kiat Icewind wished he could flee down a hall and lose himself in the gloomy recesses of Castle Teres. In some ways, the possibility of advancing demons provided him relief. After a month of dealing with petty squabbles and endless lines of courtiers, he had an excuse to put a stop to all that stressful nonsense and turn his skills to something he actually excelled at—magically fortifying the castle and city immediately around it. Lady Swiftbrook even contacted him to apologize for leaving him alone for so long and to assure him she would arrive within a few days with Lord W’rath in tow.

  A few days wasn’t today, though, which meant Kiat had to attempt diplomacy with yet another human who felt some word attached to his name entitled him to courtesies beyond those afforded others. King Harry. No matter how many times Kiat rolled the words around his brain, he couldn’t find anything noble sounding about them. The man’s grimy clothing and rotting teeth did nothing to improve the elf’s opinion of the man. Queen Cherish gave off a much more refined aura than the great bearded beast hammering at the gates. That the two shared kinship boggled Kiat’s mind.

  “You may raise the portcullis, Lieutenant,” Kiat said to the female First Born prowling the inner bailey.

  The elfess pursed her lips in doubt. “Are you certain, Councilor? He may not carry any demon taint but he’s still a brute.”

  Kiat cocked his head toward the priest to his right. “Chalice Renoir assures me the man is who he claims to be and has no reason to wish Queen Cherish harm.”

  “What about us?” the lieutenant said.

  “He’s a scruffy human with mundane weapons,” Kiat said. “As fierce as he looks, Lieutenant, our greenest soldier could snap his neck before he did more than spew a few invectives.”

  “Even so, we’ll relieve them of any weapons they carry,” she said. Kiat nodded and the soldier bellowed for a few strong backs to raise the gates so King Harry’s party could enter.

  Behind Harry’s greeting party more people poured out from the castle. The two church heads, Matron DuBoi and Master Favre, led the way with a group of lesser clerics and guards at their back. The faces of the two elder priests twisted up with displeasure as the gates groaned open. Queen Cherish trailed behind the clerics, skin waxy and shoulders stooped after long days debating with her husband’s former advisors. A small flock of ladies hovered about her like agitated hummingbirds.

  As far as Kiat knew, they had yet to finalize a proposal to send off to King Luccan of Renlin. Since Humans lived such precarious lives, he didn’t understand the delay. They claimed they wished to avoid starvation, yet their slow approach to anything involving a decision suggested they worried more about decorum than feeding themselves.

  To Kiat’s left, Lady Winterdawn turned back from her own scrutiny of the gathering clerics and nobility. “Queen Cherish doesn’t look happy about the arrival of her uncle,” she said. Her cool breath tickled at Kiat’s ear, and a pleasant flush warmed him.

  “Perhaps she’s just frustrated over the lack of progress made toward uniting Teresland with Renlin,” he murmured.

  Renoir, apparently in possession of better hearing than most humans, shook his yellow-maned head. “The queen and her uncle don’t get along,” he said. “He forced her into the marriage with King Oblund after her first husband died. Harry has three daughters, all who captain ships in his fleet, yet he treats the daughter of his brother like chattel.”

  Kiat pondered Renoir’s words, his eyebrows rising as the significance of King Harry’s disparate treatment of his daughters over his niece sunk in. “King Harry doesn’t follow the Duality,” he said. He turned his gaze fully on Chalice Renoir. “He’s come to stand in the way of the marriage you wish to arrange.”

  “Very astute, Councilor,” Renoir said.

  “That makes no sense,” Lady Winterdawn interjected. “If he forced her marriage to Oblund, why would he object to binding to Luccan?”

  Before anyone could answer, the clatter of horse hooves and the jingle of harness echoed through the barbican. In an explosion of dust, cursing and steaming beasts, King Harry and his crew spilled through the gates into the open area of the bailey.

  The hairy bear of a man threw himself from his lathered steed, and without a glance at Kiat, or any other elf, bore down on Chalice Renoir. “There you are, you fucker!” he roared. “You think you could bend me over without even a kiss first?”

  Renoir seemed to consider and then slowly nodded his head. “Yes, Harry, I did,” he said.

  As Renoir blocked the enraged king’s first punch and countered with a right hook to the jaw, High Matron DuBoi sighed, fished out a small coin purse from her robes and handed it over to High Master Favre. “You win again, Brother,” she said.

  Favre smirked and hefted the coin purse in triumph. “About damn time Renoir brought me more than headaches.”

  Kiat turned from the brawling men to the church elders and back, too shocked to respond with anything other than inarticulate sputters. Lady Winterdawn yanked him out of the way as First Born soldiers stampeded past to toss the bleeding men into heaps on opposite sides of the bailey.

  “Sweet Mother of Wisdom,” Lady Winterdawn said, “what’s going on?”

  Matron DuBoi huffed. “We hoped to complete the merger of Renlin and Teresland before Harry discovered our plans. As far as Harry is concerned, Chalice Renoir stands for the church.”

  “Pity,” Master Favre said with a chuckle. He shook the coin purse and shut his eyes as if savoring the jingle.

  Queen Cherish shook her head and headed back to the castle interior. Her ladies cooed and chased after her, lifting the hems of their skirts to keep up with their hurrying queen.

  Harry’s men cheered as their king rose and brushed at the half-frozen sludge coating him. Renoir settled for glaring at the king and returned to his position next to Kiat. “Apologies, Councilor,” the priest said, not sounding apologetic at all, “but by the Brother and Sister, if that didn’t feel good.”

  The filth-covered priest grinned through mud and blood at Kiat’s aghast visage. By the First, they’re all bloody mad.

  Raven still burned at the thought of W’rath leaving her behind while he and Lady Swiftbrook scampered off to Teresland. She’d briefly allowed his willingness to help with the journals to mollify her but now her right eye twitched with building ire. So, he wanted to treat her like a helpless maid? Fine, she’d act like an adult and deal with the numerous responsibilities he’d managed to ignore thus far. Gods, who was she fooling? She didn’t want to face the two broken Shadow Elf girls any more than he probably did.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be rallying the troops?” Raven asked Lady Culna’mo. When Raven brought up her idea to check on the Shadow Elf girls, the First Born surprised her by volunteering to join her.

  Lady Culna’mo snorted in derision. “You know what the first rule of the military is? Hurry up and wait. My boys and girls are on alert—ready to go. But without a plan? Hells, without an actual enemy? We’re just a herd of cantankerous shield pounders. I left my second in charge so I could escape for a little bit and do something fun.”

  “Fun?” Raven shook her head. “I don’t think your definition of fun matches mine.”

  Lady Culna’mo placed a hand on the small of Raven’s back and gave her an encouraging shove down the hallway of Lady Sera’s home. “Bah. Stop stalling. I’ll protect you from the scary Exile haters,” the First Born said.

  The estate served as the temporary location of House of Laughing Waters until the elves could raise a new structure to replace the one W’rath had destroyed. In addition to hundreds upon hundreds of marble busts and head-high statues, the structure housed the last two surviving Shadow Elf females native to First Home.

  “Very amusing,” Raven said, shooting her companion a sour look. “I’ve already punched one of these girls. They don’t have any reason to like me.”

  Lady Culna’mo chuckled. “I wished I’d seen that. One of the healers tol
d me he wanted to cheer when you dropped the little witch. He said Lady Swiftbrook’s mouth gaped open like a hooked bass. Does the girl have any scary powers?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Shadow Elf girls don’t usually have much psychic talent though the one called Seer apparently has an unusual skill. She can remote view events as they happen—that’s how the lot of them knew what transpired at Second Home and decided to make the trek to the surface.”

  They made a right and passed through an open door leading to a small room set up for receiving visitors. A chain-clad soldier fighting a losing battle with boredom leaned against the far wall next to another door, this one closed. She perked up when the two councilors entered. “They never come out of there,” she said. “Seer cries continuously. T’ara paces day and night. I don’t know how she has the strength to keep at it.”

  “We heard they still won’t eat,” Lady Culna’mo said. The soldier nodded.

  Raven pinched the bridge of her nose. The boys they’d rescued responded nicely under Kela’s tutelage. Why wouldn’t the girls cooperate? “Go ahead and open the door,” she said. “We might as well get this over with.”

  The guard obediently reached over and flipped the handle. The door swung inward.

  “Exile whore!” A bony shape launched itself at Raven. All broken nails and sharp edges, the girl Raven had punched on their first meeting hurled herself across the threshold with surprising energy. Raven raised her arm to deflect T’ara. Instead of bouncing back, the girl latched onto the Shadow Elf’s arm and dangled there, snarling and spitting like a rabid squirrel.

  “You look like hell and smell worse,” Raven observed, more resigned than horrified by T’ara’s desiccated and feral condition. She gave her arm a shake and the bizarre creature clinging there thrashed and clawed to keep from being dislodged. Raven tried to place an age on the girl. She’s so tiny and wasted—Gods, she could be anything from nine to nineteen.

  Through the open door, an equally pitiful child, presumably Seer, peered from a far corner where she huddled. Completely bald and still gray, she appeared more like a decidedly ugly goblin than an elf. Lady Culna’mo made a clucking noise and passed into the room to squat down in front of the girl.

  Seer covered her face and tried to force herself further into the corner. “Please mistress,” she said, “don’t allow my taint to touch you.” Her voice quavered with the strain of trying to speak after days of nonstop crying.

  “Sweet ancestors,” Lady Culna’mo said. She shook her head and drew back the hand she’d started to extend toward Seer.

  From where she dangled on Raven’s arm, T’ara erupted into a renewed tirade. “She’s already corrupted. See how she accompanies the Exile? We are the last to resist the evil.”

  Lady Culna’mo rose and left Seer to her shaking terror. “I see why you punched her now.” The First Born strode over, plucked T’ara’s thrashing form off Raven and stuffed the girl under a muscular arm. The child continued to claw, bite, and kick to no effect. “We need to separate them,” the First Born said. She waved for the guard to close the door so Seer might suffer in private.

  Raven heard Seer’s sobs start up again. How can she find so many tears to shed?

  T’ara started to screech like a banshee and Lady Culna’mo rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Stop it or I’ll smother you with a pillow,” she said.

  The noise stopped but a low level growling continued just at the edge of Raven’s hearing, setting her teeth on edge. “You think separating them will help?” she asked.

  Lady Culna’mo shrugged. The captured girl rose and fell along with her captor’s shoulders. “It can’t hurt. I think this one would keep just about anyone from wanting to live. Seer’s at least nonviolent. Maybe if she doesn’t have T’ara’s venom spilling into her ears day and night, she’ll respond to kindness. I hate to say it, but Foamy here might be too far gone.”

  As much as Raven feared her friend might be right, the thought of admitting to W’rath she’d given up on one of their own didn’t mesh with the image of competence and maturity she wanted to project. “It’s only been a month,” she said. “Maybe we’re just using the wrong approach. Maybe we need to try something … less nice.”

  “You want to hand her over to Lady Kela?” Lady Culna’mo squeezed her arm down tighter and T’ara’s growls cut off.

  Raven shook her head. “No, I don’t want T’ara anywhere near the boys. Throwing her in with them might undo all the progress they’ve made.”

  Lady Culna’mo bobbed her head in agreement and started for the hallway, her small bundle of fury pinned into stillness. Raven matched her step and the two strode down the long passageway. A gaggle of flustered healers poured from the rooms they passed and trailed along, distressed by the rough treatment of their patient. Lady Sera appeared out of a side passage and blocked the councilors’ way, arms crossed, lips pursed.

  “Are you kidnapping my patient?” Lady Sera asked.

  “Nah,” Lady Culna’mo said, “we just need to find a new room for her. She’s driving poor Seer madder.”

  “Whatever you’re doing to treat them doesn’t seem to be helping,” Raven said, unable to hide her frustration at finding the girls in such poor condition.

  Lady Sera frowned at the blunt criticism. “These girls have known nothing other than what Lady Reaper and Lord T’sane chose to share with them. Until we brought them to the surface, they’d never stepped foot out of the bowels of First Home. It takes time to undo that kind of damage. Years not weeks.”

  “If they don’t start eating, they won’t have years,” Raven snapped in reply.

  Lady Sera bristled and then deflated with a resigned huff. “Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “Separating them might enable us to break down their conditioning more quickly.”

  The head healer turned on her heel and led Raven and Lady Culna’mo to another suite. The First Born dumped T’ara onto the room’s bed. When the girl tried to fling herself at Raven again, a hard shove sent her tumbling into the voluminous pillows where she finally lay gasping and spent. A trio of healers set about opening curtains and speaking gently to the girl.

  Raven doubted anything they tried would help restore the girl’s mind. Defeat pressed down on her shoulders again. Shit.

  Lady Sera shooed Raven and Lady Culna’mo back to the hall. “It’s too soon for you to have dealings with them,” the healer said to Raven. “Right now you represent the enemy. You’ll do more harm than good if you interfere now.”

  Raven chewed the inside of her cheek but said nothing. She didn’t dare. She’d either rage, or worse, start sobbing as she had with W’rath. Having yet another person tell her she ought to stand down, be a good girl, and let the grownups deal with the important issues, made something dangerous and reckless curl in her gut.

  An arm draped itself across Raven’s bunched shoulders. “Hey,” Lady Culna’mo said, “easy. Let’s get out of here. I haven’t had a chance to spar with you since you started training.”

  Raven’s vision cleared and she saw Lady Sera staring at her in alarm. So much for hiding my anger. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right, they need time to get used to … well, everything.” Before she did anything else stupid, Raven spun and marched away. She didn’t have a destination in mind she just needed to escape.

  Lady Culna’mo caught up and clapped Raven on the back as if nothing shameful had just happened. “Come on,” she said, “let’s put that temper to work. It’s time we broke in your new sword. It’ll be fun!”

  Fun? Well, W’rath had said she should bond with the weapon. She certainly felt the need to beat on something … someone. Who better than an over exuberant First Born? “Just try not to break any of my ribs this time,” Raven said to her friend.

  Lady Culna’mo grinned. “Ha! With your fancy new training, I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to crawl back to Lady Sera for healing.” Somehow, the huge warrior managed to sound thrilled
at the prospect of sustaining a crippling injury.

  “There’s something wrong with you,” Raven said, impressed and more than a little disturbed.

  Lady Culna’mo simply laughed.

  Chapter 16

  The garden suffused W’rath’s senses. Leaves in the nearby aspens shimmered with silent, golden music. The dew-dampened ground released an earthy tang. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean speaking of autumn’s swift approach.

  First Home moved through him as he took the first steps to make Alassea his home. In the past, he’d meditated only to focus and provide the rest his body needed. He had added purpose now. It would take years dedication to free himself of the taint of the Abyss so he could fill himself with Alassea’s energy and fully draw on his power. He pulled the essence of First Home and the world it occupied into his core, let it swirl within his soul and then released it with some regret. He sensed another had entered the glade where he hovered in his meditative state.

  The scent of pine and thunderstorms alerted W’rath to the identity of the new arrival. He knew her fragrance well so he allowed himself to rise out of his trance in gentle stages. When he at last opened his eyes, Lady Swiftbrook stood before him.

  She’d plaited her silver hair. It draped over one shoulder, almost blinding W’rath as the sun shone off it. Her chain armor twinkled as it shifted along her statuesque body. She carried two straight blades, thin, elegant and deadly.

  “Whatever you heard, madam, I did not do it,” he said, gazing upon her imperious beauty. To think his brutish nephew once basked in the love of this lady. Almost dying seemed a small thing knowing it prompted her to cast K’hul aside. Ah, nephew, you fool.