The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “You are very tired,” the mystic said as he approached.

  “Keen observation,” Deglan grumbled back.

  Curdle’s wrinkled face tried to smile.

  It was Deglan’s turn to be observant. “You are leaving.”

  “As soon as Muckle joins me, yes.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Go back to Toad Holm,” Curdle replied. “Search out the corruption and put an end to it, if we can.”

  “We?” Deglan rolled his eyes. “That fat bastard going to be much use?”

  This time the smile held. “In the Wisemoot, no. But in other tasks, our Jester is unequivocal.”

  Deglan raised his eyebrows in dubious acceptance.

  “And you?” Curdle asked.

  “You already know.”

  The seer said nothing for a long while.

  “The coburn need me to…preserve the body,” Deglan finally said. “They wish to see the boy cremated at their stronghold, in their fashion. And it has been a long while since I’ve been to Albain.”

  “I think the child is in the best hands,” Curdle told him.

  “And what is this thing going to do?” Deglan said, changing the subject and pointing at Coltrane.

  “Wait,” Coltrane’s deep voice answered. “And watch. Ensure that no more of my brothers awake.”

  “And once you are sure?” Deglan pressed.

  Coltrane continued to face the castle. “I will find another purpose.”

  Deglan turned back to Curdle and regarded him for a long time. The hobgoblin looked back comfortably.

  “Do not give up on them,” Deglan said at last. “Not like I did. Our people are not beyond hope.”

  “Our people?”

  “Stay out of my head!”

  “Pardon me,” Curdle said. “It slipped out.”

  Deglan stuck out his hand. Curdle took it, and they nodded their farewells.

  Padric had not slept. Torcan was dead. Rosheen was alive, and he was finally free. None of it brought his mind peace. He had passed the night in solitude, pacing the edge of the camp, trying not to look at the castle. It stood empty and condemning, and he fought the insane urge to return to it, to be swallowed by its walls. He wanted to walk within without fear, see the failure of the goblins and somehow convince himself that the place and the events he survived no longer ruled him. Grimly, he imagined Slouch Hat’s lifeless shell still lying below the keep, nothing now but tattered clothes and straw to be slowly separated by rats and wind. He wanted to see that and not be afraid.

  He had gone back for Svala. And Kederic. Led them out of their mutual prison, but Padric still felt confined, trapped by the things he knew and the lie he had used to survive.

  Dawn was slow in coming, but when the first servant stirred in the camp, Padric went searching. He found Kederic Winetongue at the camp paddock, watching the horses with eyes that, like his, had not closed during the night. Padric stood next to him, looking at him, waiting. The man did not acknowledge him.

  “Beladore,” Padric said through clenched teeth. “Your wife, Kederic, where is she?”

  He saw the man swallow hard, the hatred in his eyes wet and brimming.

  “It wore my face,” Kederic choked out. “The…thing that lay with her. She said she never knew. How could…how could she have not? The creature that came out of her,” he gave a snarl of bitter disgust, “it was unnatural, covered in fur. Hideous.”

  The man finally turned and looked at him, and Padric saw the pain of the memory flood his mouth as he spoke. “It changed. The skin would split, grow scales and then…turn back into the son that should have been mine. I wanted it dead, but Bel…but she ran. She knew I would follow. I caught her. Caught her giving the changeling monster to that coburn. I fought him and should have died, but she begged for my life and begged him to take her child. She called it her child. And he took it away, leaving us alone.”

  “And you killed her,” Padric accused.

  Kederic shook his head. “Worse. I exiled her. Put her on a boat. To the Isle of Mad Women.”

  Padric wanted to strike the man. He saw in Kederic’s face no regret for what he had done, only a festering remorse for the life he felt was stolen from him. But Padric knew he could not judge him. His own village had sentenced women to that same isle, and more than once he had voiced his approval of such acts. In truth, he was fortunate his own mother had not been sent there. The enmity of the village was directed at him, and, for the first time, he was grateful for it.

  “Did you know?” he asked Kederic. “Who she was, did you know?”

  Anger flashed in Kederic’s eyes, clearing them. “What? A witch, a sorceress! How could I?”

  Padric leveled a harsh stare at him. “How could you have not?” he asked, throwing the words back.

  Kederic returned his gaze, quivering with fury.

  “You are still taken in by them!” He pointed up at Castle Gaunt. “Even as they try to destroy us! Had I known what she was I would have slain her, for the good of us all. Do you not see? They used her, these immortals. Through her they created that boy! The power of the warlocks and the Fae! He was the most dangerous thing alive in this world. And the most evil!”

  The seax was suddenly in Padric’s hand, and he had hold of Kederic, pressing him roughly against the paddock beam, the blade at his throat.

  “And if I feel the same of you?” Padric demanded, his breath mixing with that of the struggling Thegn. “Should I deal with you now, for the good of us all? Ask yourself this question, Winetongue. Did Beladore know? Did your wife know what she was? That boy didn’t!”

  He released his hold, pulling the knife away.

  “I am not a warrior,” he said. “I am not a Thegn or a sorcerer or a king. But I know something about your wife and her son. I share something with them. None of us should be blamed for our birth.”

  His words spoken, he turned and walked away.

  Bantam Flyn was tying the last of the loads to the mule’s back.

  A page’s work. And he does it with honor.

  “You are soon away?” Rosheen asked as she approached.

  The squire looked at her and nodded as he continued with the ropes.

  “You will enjoy the gnome’s company,” she told him. “He is easy to rile.”

  “Sounds like merry sport,” Flyn replied, his tone not matching his words.

  I only remind him.

  “Well,” she said. “I will leave you to it.”

  She turned to fly away.

  “My lady,” Flyn’s words stopped her, and she looked back. The squire bowed low. “It was my privilege.”

  She gave him a wink.

  Sir Corc knelt inside the tent, holding his naked sword in front of him.

  Keeping the vigil.

  Rosheen slipped past the closed flap and into the dark space. The body lay covered, wrapped in crimson and silver, the colors of the Valiant Spur. She waited patiently. Sir Corc stood at last and turned to face her.

  “Did you know?” she asked bluntly.

  The knight did not hesitate. “No.”

  Rosheen let out her breath. She had not known she was holding it.

  “All his life, I fought to keep him free of the gruagach,” Sir Corc said. “And eventually they succeeded in penetrating even the Roost. It was no longer safe, so I thought it was best if he stayed close to me. Having the most skilled fighter amongst the squires accompany us only increased his protection. Festus Lambkiller wanted him, of that I was certain. And now I know why.

  “His mother,” the knight said sadly, “was just a woman that needed my help. She asked me to save her babe.”

  He struggled and looked to say more, but remained silent.

  Now for the gamble.

  “Might I have a moment alone with him?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” Sir Corc replied stoutly. “I will help Flyn with the last of the preparations.”

  He bowed and stepped outside.

  Rosheen
flew to the top of the tent where the shadows were darkest. She did not have to wait long. The flap opened and the blond head poked inside, carefully looking before stepping inside. Rosheen did not let her take two steps towards the body.

  “I thought you might come.”

  Svala looked shocked, her big blue eyes wide and demure.

  All harmless innocence.

  The girl held up her hands apologetically, speaking quickly and softly in her foreign tongue. She began to back towards the flap.

  “You are good,” Rosheen told her. “I do not know how I missed it in Hog’s Wallow.” She looked at her sharply. “Jileen.”

  Svala’s meek expression fell and slowly turned into a knowing smile. The straight flaxen locks thickened into dark waves, the long legs giving way to the full hips of the alewife.

  “Sharp-eyed piskie,” Jileen complemented her, still smiling.

  “You killed Brogan.”

  The gruagach’s now sultry eyes rolled casually. “He discovered Kederic’s secret. And troublingly, told it to Swinehelm before I was aware. His death was sloppy and a bit too late.”

  “You were keeping the heir from the goblins.”

  “The boy, yes,” Jileen said, enjoying her role. “The mother we care nothing for, but if they found her then she might reveal to whom she entrusted her son. Kederic needed to die before he told where he had dumped her, but the husk and your mortal pet failed.”

  Rosheen bristled. “You used Padric.” It was not a question.

  “The husk did,” Jileen admitted. “And I was using the husk. Neither of them realized it, of course. Once they were captured, I needed a way to get close so…”

  Svala was once again standing in the tent.

  “He cares for her,” Rosheen let the venom flow into her voice.

  “And why should he not?” Svala asked. “The dear girl was every bit the sweet, beautiful creature in life. I merely took her place.”

  “But you failed,” Rosheen said. “Kederic lives. And any words he might speak are useless. Pocket is dead.”

  Something settled on Svala’s face.

  Fear. And not an act.

  “I wanted to see for myself,” Svala said gravely. “My lord will be displeased. If I return to him with this news, I will die. But I have no intention of returning.”

  “Stay here and you suffer the same end,” Rosheen promised. “The knight is just outside.”

  “You won’t summon him,” Svala said, “for two reasons.”

  “Don’t tempt me skinchanger.”

  “First,” Svala went on, “if you slay me, Padric will know the truth and you would spare him that pain. Svala kept him alive, and knowing that the woman he swore to save was already dead…”

  “Damn you.”

  “Second,” the gruagach paused. “You know the truth.”

  “And that is?”

  Svala’s face showed true sorrow. “If the boy had been with us…he would still be alive.”

  Rosheen looked down at the small, covered form lying on the ground. Seeing she had no response, Svala turned to go.

  “Your life has a price,” Rosheen called her back. Svala turned, waited.

  “Answer me this question, and if you lie, I will know.” She took a breath. “Are you carrying a child?”

  Svala’s gaze did not falter, the lips remained steady. “No.”

  Rosheen remained in the tent a long while after she was gone.

  When she emerged she found the coburn making their final preparations. She passed without a word, catching Sir Corc’s eye as she went. The knight gave her the slightest nod.

  Padric was saddling a horse on the edge of camp, the saddlebags resting in the grass, bulging with provisions.

  “Kederic gifted you with a mount?” she asked, flying over to stroke the animal.

  Padric cinched the girth strap tight.

  He has learned so much.

  “No,” he said earnestly. “I just took it. Plenty of them to spare.”

  She laughed. “So, now you’re a horse thief?”

  “Been a good deal worse,” he grunted.

  “Svala not coming?” she asked innocently.

  Padric shot a glance at her then went back to the horse. “She is going home. Back to Middangeard. At least that’s the word I understood.”

  “I see.”

  “For the best,” he said. “I was never going to be anything but the man she was given to as a slave.”

  He straightened and let out a deep breath.

  He is relieved.

  “So what about us?” she asked, giving the horse an appraising look. “Home, too?”

  Padric thought about it, nodding more deeply as he did. “For a time.”

  She smiled, wondering what that would be like and looking forward to finding out. Padric reached down and hefted the saddlebags up onto the horses back, securing them deftly.

  Rosheen heard whistling and looked to see Muckle walking by, the ribbons of his huge club caught on the wind. The goblin saw them, and with an enthusiastic wave, came over to greet them.

  “The road beckons?” he asked cheerfully.

  If it leads away from you.

  “Yes,” Rosheen said simply.

  “Very good, very good,” Muckle said, grinning broadly. He turned to Padric, whose back was turned, extending his task as long as possible. “And you, sire?” Muckle asked. “Will the life of a lowly vagabond, of which I am very personally fond, not seem dim after the trappings of royalty?”

  Padric turned slowly, giving the Jester his darkest glower.

  Muckle shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He turned to go then snapped his fingers in a show of discovered remembrance and turned back. “Just remember, lad,” he said pointing. “It is not what you are, it is what you would have been if it had not been for what you were.”

  Padric tried to puzzle that out for a moment, then turned to Rosheen for help.

  She threw up her hands.

  Muckle gave them a satisfied grunt and a final stab of his finger, daring them to forget his words before turning away.

  “It is not foolishness,” they could hear him telling his fish as he crossed the fields. “Those are wise words. I should know. I am a member of the Wisemoot. I was not ousted! How dare you! Broke wind? Me? Never! I will have you know…”

  Rosheen found Padric staring at the grass.

  There’s the brood I was waiting on.

  “Shall we go?” she asked.

  His eyes found her. “Why do you stay with me, Rosheen?”

  She wrinkled her face at him. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I never thought to ask,” he said pensively. “Why are you with me? Who am I?”

  “You,” she said slowly, “are the same as you were before we left. A stubborn, brooding, mildly handsome youth…with the worst luck in the known world.”

  She beamed at him.

  He grinned in spite of himself, shaking his head ruefully as he swung himself into the saddle. Rosheen took her place on his shoulder.

  “That still does not answer,” he said, cocking his eyes at her, “why you are with me?”

  Rosheen thought about it a moment, making him wait.

  “You were a cute babe,” she said simply. “And bald. The black head did not come until later, so do not place that at my feet. And,” she added, cutting him off when she saw his mouth open, “do not ask me why they think you are cursed. I have never understood the fears you mortals place upon yourselves. Nonsense!”

  Padric closed his mouth and urged the horse forward, his frown increasing over the first mile.

  They were traveling an hour before his mood finally broke. She saw the crease between his eyes relax and the clouds pass from his countenance. The corner of his mouth turned up just a little.

  “What are you thinking on?” she asked, giggling at him.

  “Cider,” he said lightly.

  She gave a coo of delight. “That sounds lovely.”

  “It wil
l be in season,” he said. “Always is in Airlann. That is the one thing about this isle and Autumn. It never changes. The sun rises, it sets and it is always the same.”

  Rosheen smiled, humoring him. He was wrong of course. She looked up at the sun, just now beginning to shine through the grey clouds. No, it was not the same.

  There is a change in the light.

  EPILOGUE

  There was pain. Floating and dull, rising with the light. Not light, at least not seen. But the absence of dark. There was something else too. Half smells, half sounds. Salt. A knocking. All of it hurt. There was warmth. All around, but heavier in places. It moved, soft pressures approaching. A soft fluttering sound, tickling, pleasant. A nudge. Then another, firmer, insistent. The light grew away from black. Blurred orange. Spots of black, no green. Something pink, sniffing. Whiskers.

  Napper?

  The nose touched him and it was cold. It searched him and the paw came up, almost hesitant, and touched his face, making sure he was real.

  He reached up, his arm feeling heavy, his fingers numb, and felt soft fur, the gentle rhythm of purring. His fingers came awake as he scratched the cat and his vision cleared. He was really there.

  “Napper!”

  Pocket sat up in the bed, ignoring the pain that dropped into his skull and hugged the cat to him, getting a small yowl of complaint, but refusing to let go. He kissed the furry head, again and again, looking around him as he did.

  It was a cottage. Stone walls and a large hearth, sunlight and blue sky showing through the windows. A large figure moved in front of the fire, tending to a pot. She turned, her face glancing at him out of habit and then away before realization struck.

  “Child,” Moragh said softly with a breath of relief. “You are awake.”

  Half of her face lit up, and even the drooping side seemed to smile.

  She hurried over and lowered herself down on the bedside, her weight causing him to slide towards her. He felt her hands on his face, inspecting him lovingly with her thumbs.

  “You gave us such a fright,” she said, her voice breaking, and he pulled himself into her.