Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Well, sire,” Freath began, pushing once at the bird with his foot as a warning and then ignoring it, “I have walked among the power brokers for more than two decades. I am an aide to the king and queen of the most influential and powerful of all the realms of the Set. I would urge you not to waste this resource. I have knowledge of a like you can’t imagine.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as who might bend easily to your will.”

  “And who might not?”

  Freath smiled. “It seems we understand each other. There will always be rebels. I can help you with them. For starters, the De Vis boys will almost certainly find a way to rise against you.”

  “You bastard son of a whore, Freath,” Gavriel growled. This was followed by a threat as to what he was going to cut off Freath’s body first and where he planned to put that spare bit of flesh. Leo glanced at him, worried.

  Stracker laughed. “That is a jest, of course,” he said to Freath, his words threatening.

  But Freath seemed unimpressed; his expression remained unchanged while Loethar remained motionless.

  “I’ve never been known as a man of comedy, sire. The De Vis family is fiercely loyal to the Valisars. And your somewhat theatrical murder of their father is not something the sons will be easily able to come to terms with, I hazard.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “The boys?”

  Loethar nodded.

  “They’re twins. They look similar but are not identical and they have vastly different personalities. Corbel is the serious one, the younger one, I believe, by just a few minutes, but still waters run extremely deep with that boy. I say ‘boy’ but he is a man and if my instincts serve me right, he is capable of being single-minded and ruthless.”

  Gavriel realized Leo had grabbed his arm. He’d had no idea that his own fists were resting white-knuckled against the stone. He forced himself to relax and felt Leo’s relief beside him.

  Freath continued. “The other boy, Gavriel, is outspoken, has opinions and expresses them. He’s more showy than his brother. They’re both handsome but one tends to notice Gavriel more. He is an excellent swordsman, I believe, skilled with most weapons, in fact.”

  “How old are they?”

  Freath frowned, thinking.

  “A rough estimate will do,” Stracker chimed in.

  “Actually, I can tell you exactly how old they are. They are turning eighteen in leaf-fall.”

  “And you believe these De Vis boys should be of concern to me? Are you suggesting I should be fearful of mere nestlings?”

  “Not afraid, no. Aware perhaps is more appropriate. They will not pay you any homage, sire. They worshipped their father, respected their king and are devoted to each other. Kill one and I suspect you’d kill the other fairly effectively. I doubt very much, considering the way they’ve been raised and by whom, that they would be frightened to die for what they consider their honor.”

  “And what is their particular focus of honor?”

  “Why, the Valisar king of course.”

  “King? Did you not spy Brennus’s corpse, Freath?” Stracker asked in an acid tone. “There is no Valisar king.”

  Freath ignored him. Gavriel couldn’t help but be impressed by the aide’s composure, even as he hated his treachery. “Sire, I do not refer to King Brennus but to his son, King Leonel.”

  This created a tense silence during which Gavriel felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Until now all the people in authority had been talking about Leo as the young prince—keep him safe, he’s the future, perhaps one day…But now, for the first time since the attack on Penraven had turned from threat to reality, Gavriel felt the full weight of responsibility that was resting on his shoulders alone. Leo was no boy prince, a young sapling to be protected simply because he was a Valisar. He was now the sovereign, and while he remained alive, Penraven had its Valisar king.

  Leo whispered into the dark. “That’s scary to hear.”

  Gavriel felt a rush of rage crystalize into something hard and unyielding. They would have to kill him to get to Leo.

  Loethar’s voice broke through the silence. “You call him King Leonel?”

  “I don’t, sire. But everyone other than myself will behind your back. And as long as he breathes, he is the king—sovereign of this realm, and figurehead to the Set. As long as people keep faith with that they will carry a torch that the Set will rise once again and that you will be vanquished.”

  Loethar banged his fist on the table. “I could have you gutted before me, throw your entrails onto a fire before you’re even dead.”

  “I know you could, sire. I suspect you won’t, though, because as I mentioned earlier I know everyone there is to know in this realm. I am familiar with most of the nobles and dignatories—certainly the royals, if any survive—in the rest of the Set. The transient pleasure of opening my throat would be a shameful waste of the resource…sire.”

  “Brazen, indeed. You impress me, aide.”

  “Thank you, sire. My previous employers were not so mindful of my use to them…or how I could damage them if I chose to.”

  “I will kill him,” Gavriel hissed.

  “You’ll have to line up behind me,” Leo whispered angrily and Gavriel, in spite of his fury, felt a spark of satisfaction at the youngster’s threat.

  “I shall give you first hack at him,” Gavriel muttered back, “but only because you’re king,” he added before returning his attention to the men they spied on.

  Loethar regarded the servant. “And you want me to guarantee your life if I allow you to…er, how did you say it…share how you can damage the remaining Valisars?”

  “My life at the very least, sire. I am suggesting you take me on as your personal aide.”

  Stracker laughed but there was no mirth in the sound, only menace. Piven chose this moment to reach up from the floor where he had been amusing himself and wipe his hands, sticky from his father’s blood, against his white shirt. Clutching Freath’s robes, he hauled himself to his feet.

  “Ah, Piven, you have been spared, I see,” Freath commented, staring at the boy as though he were an insect. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  “He amuses me,” Loethar said. “I like the idea that once I’ve dealt with the heir the only remaining Valisar left—although not of the blood—is a lost soul. He can be a symbol of the former Penraven, equally lost.”

  “Very good, sire,” Freath said, finding a tight, brief smile that was gone almost as soon as it arrived. “Shall I make myself useful and have this child cleaned up for you?”

  Loethar stretched. Gavriel felt sick. It seemed as though a bargain had somehow been struck during that conversation. He could sense Leo looking at him for explanation but he couldn’t speak.

  “You may take him and bathe him but put that shirt back on him. I want his father’s blood on show for all to see.”

  “Very ghoulish, sire. Appropriate humbling for watching eyes.”

  “But first, the daughter.” Loethar paused.

  Freath filled the pause with a nod. Then added, “Now that you’ve seen the corpse shall I inter it into the family tomb?”

  “No. Burn it. Then scatter the ashes from the castle battlements. Or, rather, I shall. We’ll have her mother present too.”

  “For the final humiliation?”

  “Not quite. I have one left.”

  “Will you be killing queen Iselda, sire?” Freath asked conversationally.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t yet made up my mind.”

  Gavriel closed his eyes. He wished Leo did not have to share this.

  “May I suggest that if you’re keeping Piven as a symbol of the downfall of the Valisars—”

  “He will be my pet.”

  “Indeed, sire. I was going to say that perhaps you should keep the queen as your servant. That would be a most degrading role for her.”

  Gavriel watched Loethar walk around the desk. He could finally see the barbarian’s face and it was
filled with amusement as he considered Freath’s remarkably distasteful idea. The raven was back on his shoulder. If the scene were not so sinister, the pair would look comical.

  “Or as your concubine,” Stracker added.

  Freath said nothing to this, simply blinked in irritation.

  “It’s just a thought, sire,” he said instead to Loethar.

  “I shall consider it,” Loethar said. “But before you go,” he said to Freath, who was bending to take Piven’s hand, “I want to know about the eldest son.”

  “My apologies, of course,” Freath said, all politeness.

  Gavriel bent down to Leo. “At least your mother remains alive another day.”

  “What is a concubine?”

  “Another word for servant. She takes the night shift, cares for his needs when the day servants are asleep,” Gavriel explained carefully, glad it was so dark that Leo could not search his face for the truth he had sidestepped so briskly.

  “…twelve summertides, frail and still very much a child,” Freath was saying. “His head is filled with horses and bladder ball games that he plays badly. Useless with weapons.”

  In the ingress Gavriel felt astonishment at this comment and knew Leo would be feeling the same.

  “But Brennus would surely have been training him for his role.”

  “Oh, yes, but only in a mild way, sire. Leo is still just a boy. He hardly knows his head from his arse, if you’ll pardon my language.”

  “You don’t have to worry over my sensitivities, Freath,” Loethar reassured.

  The aide nodded. “What I mean is that he’s extremely immature—still something of a mummy’s boy. We’re talking about an indulged brat more than capable of throwing tantrums while incapable of maneuvering a horse or his weapons with any dexterity.”

  Leo turned and glared at Gavriel. “Lying bastard!” he hissed.

  “It seems Freath is out to impress the barbarian. Don’t worry about it, Leo. We’ll kill him with our bare hands if we must, as soon as we get the chance.” Gavriel knew his words were an empty threat but he felt better for having said them.

  “So while the De Vis twins are a threat, you are saying the heir to the throne is not.”

  “No, sire, that’s not what I’m saying. The De Vis family is your enemy, and they would have been without your splitting the legate’s head in half,” Freath warned. “The heir is not a physical threat to you. He wouldn’t know how to attack, how to rally a force, how to even plan beyond where to play on a given day. He’s still in that childish mindset of the world revolving around his selfish needs, especially his belly.”

  Loethar looked amused but Gavriel bristled. Freath knew Leo well and he could have been describing a stranger for all his words resembled the prince. “He struggles to make his verbs work, so he is hardly ready to make a realm work for him,” Freath continued with utter disdain. “Brennus never expected to lose his throne. The threat from the Steppes was always that—just a threat. It hadn’t sunken past the shallowest of consciousness that you might succeed in your desire for empire and that the prince might need to be fully readied in all aspects of sovereignty.”

  Again Gavriel caught a glance of bewilderment from his new king.

  “Your point?” Loethar asked.

  “My point, sire, is that you have nothing to fear from Leonel in person. It’s what he represents that should trouble you. No one will let go of the fact that the heir exists—if they believe that to be true—because that means the Valisar dynasty is alive.”

  “I want to know where he is.”

  “And I believe I can help you. But I do require guarantees, sire.”

  “So you say. Give me your terms.”

  “I have heard a rumor that you are gathering all the empowered people from the conquered nations.”

  For the first time since Freath had arrived Gavriel noticed the barbarian lose his casual stance. Loethar stiffened. “And what’s that to you?”

  Freath gave a sly shrug. “Well, I can’t imagine you’d go to all that trouble and not make use of that collected power.”

  “And?”

  “I want some of it.”

  Stracker grabbed Freath by his shirtfront, pulling him close to his pockmarked face. “You don’t demand anything. You’re lucky to have lived this long.”

  Freath remained undaunted. “Phew, we eat the leaf of the cherrel to keep our breath fresh, Stracker.”

  Loethar ignored their barbs. “Explain what you mean, Freath, before I allow Stracker to gut you as he so desperately wants.”

  Freath straightened his clothes, amazing Gavriel with his audacity. He watched the aide take a breath and paste another cunning smile on his face. “Two sorcerers, witches, whatever you care to call them, of my choice and at my behest.”

  Gavriel watched Loethar’s mouth twitch. “What makes you think they exist?”

  “Oh, they exist all right, but they are cunning. They will go to extraordinary lengths to disguise their skills but that they exist in the Set…” he smiled as he paused, “…of this there is no doubt.”

  Loethar’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who these people are?”

  “I may have suspicions, sire, but no, I don’t know anyone specifically practicing magic outwardly. There is the usual band of hedgewitches and herbalists, conjurers and magicians. But what I’m talking about are the thaumaturges, the genuine weavers of miracles—phenomena that can’t be explained. I’m certain you’ve already discovered a few. I want a pair.”

  “And what do you plan to do with them?” Loethar inquired, sitting against the king’s desk. His arms were crossed in a deliberately casual pose but Gavriel was sure the barbarian was anything but relaxed.

  “They will offer me protection.”

  “From me, I presume.”

  “Correct, sire. And from your bad-smelling lackey and your hideous crow.”

  Stracker scowled but Loethar gave a sharp, tight grin. “I see. And in return you will give me the boy.”

  “I will try, that is my promise.”

  “Try?” Loethar’s tone was now fueled by disdain.

  “He has gone to ground, sire. I have already seen your men searching the palace. I presume they are searching the immediate area and nearby woodland as well. He could not have gone far because I saw him quite recently.”

  Loethar stood up. “You saw…!” he began, breaking off angrily to say: “Where was he?”

  “The kitchens.”

  Gavriel took a step closer to Leo, grinding his jaw as he put an arm around the new king. It felt like hollow reassurance but it seemed more meaningful than words right now. His mind was racing. Should they attempt an escape now or hold their nerve a short while longer? Freath couldn’t possibly know where they were…could he?

  Leo echoed his thoughts. “He doesn’t know anything,” he said.

  “They took fright at the sound of your men closing in on the palace and ran off. I tried to follow but I’m an old man by comparison, sire. I couldn’t keep up.”

  “They?”

  “Pardon, sire?”

  Loethar’s expression darkened. “You said they—who were the others?”

  “Just one other. Gavriel De Vis.”

  “Are you telling me they ran back into the palace?”

  Freath shrugged lightly. “They headed in, but, sire, we have many entrances and doors that lead to other courtyards. They could be anywhere. Though they won’t have had time to get far.”

  “Have you a suggestion of where they may go?”

  “I have plenty. But I need a show of good faith, sire.”

  “I see. Something in writing? A mix of our bloods perhaps, palm to palm?”

  “This man knows nothing that I, given a room with a pair of heated pincers, couldn’t find out for you,” Stracker threw at Loethar. Gavriel gave a humorless smile at finding himself momentarily on side with the barbarian’s lackey.

  Freath smiled tightly. “No need for torture or indeed any loss of bloo
d. My request is very simple and easy for you to provide. When you have finished with her, I want the queen.”

  “What?” Loethar roared. His surprise turned into a tumult of laughter. “Iselda?”

  Freath kept his face impassive. “She is beautiful. Why not?”

  Loethar studied the aide carefully. “No, Freath, this doesn’t fit. You’re not that displeasing physically, I’ll grant you, but I see no passion burning in these eyes of yours—other than for your own safe skin. I don’t suspect there is a romantic or even sexual urge in your body. You are lying.”

  Freath remained unfazed, his voice calm. “You are jumping to conclusions, sire. I said nothing about romance or desire. I simply want her.”

  “What for?”

  “Purely for self-satisfaction. I have served queen Iselda since she came to the palace, sire, and King Brennus even longer. They were the usual arrogant inbreds that seem to take the throne…” Leo gasped and Gavriel had to put a hand over the boy’s mouth—a hand that was trembling with anger. “…services were always taken for granted. Although it’s too late to tell Brennus, now it’s time for me to share with her all my rage. I come from a distinguished line, sire. I deserved better.”

  “This is about not being thanked?” Loethar asked, incredulous.

  Freath blinked slowly. “Perhaps put petulantly you could describe it that way, sire. I see it as retribution. I am not a man to be toyed with. I deserved better than I got in my years of service. I kept hoping I would be rewarded for my attentiveness, my loyalty, and, above all, my discretion. But each year passed without so much as a glance of appreciation my way.”

  “You’re a servant, for Lo’s sake!” Stracker chimed in. “What do you want, a manor in the country?”

  “Why not?” Freath demanded, scowling at the man. “The legate was a servant too but De Vis was not only paid handsomely, he was rewarded with horses, land, servants of his own, wealth far more than he’d ever need. And his family line is no finer than mine. He was simply a soldier. I am a man of language, of letters…truly, sire, I was the more versatile if you compare me to De Vis. Yet he dies a hero—a wealthy one. If you slew me now, sire, I would die penniless. Pathetic isn’t it?”