Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “I felt his darkness. The man is evil, angry, cruel. I couldn’t dwell in his mind—as I say, it was dangerous. But then when Freath got me to look into the minds of the others, it pushed me over the edge.”

  “It made you sick.”

  Kirin pushed away from the wall, frustrated. “It’s not just my health, Clovis. If that’s all it was I’d risk it. To pry properly and to make it yield meaningful information I must have quiet. I need to be sitting still in a dim, peaceful situation with no interruptions. It’s usually best if I have a bed nearby and pail at the side!” he said, giving a mirthless smile, “because I need both immediately after even the shortest pry.”

  “And for long ones?”

  Kirin shrugged. “I’ve not tried since childhood. I have no idea of the extent of the injuries should I attempt it. The only reason I did it today was because I was frightened for all of us. I can’t be completely sure because I haven’t done it for so long, but I think the person I’m prying into can feel my presence.”

  Clovis was taken aback. “Truly?”

  Kirin shrugged. “If I had the courage to feel sick again I’d test it on you but I seem to recall that someone who is well attuned to the spiritual is more likely to feel me prying.”

  “You’re losing me.”

  “The act of prying connects two people. It leaves a trackable trace for a short time for anyone Vested, unless I can snap the link fast enough. I haven’t had enough practice to know what that time span is or whether it differs from person to person. That’s why I pried into Stracker for only a moment or two.”

  “But we still don’t know what he wanted!” Clovis said, not disguising his own frustration.

  “No. But I do know he wasn’t being honest. We were picked for different reasons. The first group was useful to Stracker and he’s sent them somewhere, who knows where or why. The third group was destroyed for being pretenders or generally useless. Us in the middle? Well, he is using us for subtle purposes but I don’t know what. It has something to do with Freath but I…” He trailed off, feeling angry, dejected.

  “It’s all right, Kirin. We’re alive,” Clovis calmed.

  “Coming from you that’s meaningful. I thought you wanted to die.”

  Clovis closed his eyes for a moment, before wandering across the small chamber to try and catch a gust of air from the small space serving as a window. “I thought so too,” he said, breathing out loudly. “Until death beckoned. Then I realized how frightened I was. And someone who welcomes death isn’t scared of it. I heard those people screaming and I knew I wanted my life to go on.”

  “Who could blame you?” Kirin said softly. “If we’re going to remain alive we have to fight. We can’t just become barbarian puppets or we make a mockery of your family, of the royals who’ve lost their lives right around the Set, and of all the innocents whose lives have been snatched.”

  Clovis was nodding. “I agree. I’ll fight with you in the subtle way you suggest.”

  For the first time it seemed that Kirin had something to smile about.

  Gavriel had followed Leo for a long way in silence. Now he gave a low whistle and the king turned in query.

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “No, I’m just mindlessly strolling, Gav.”

  Gavriel’s expression turned droll. “I’m much bigger than you, Leo. King or not, I can punch you senseless, and no one will ever know.”

  “Except you won’t. You and Corb were always an empty threat.”

  Gavriel ignored the taunt. “So we’re close, are we?”

  “Mother’s suite is just up ahead—that small flight of stairs will bring us behind it.”

  “I can’t believe your father allowed you here.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “But you know it so well.”

  Leo smiled sadly. “I always wanted more time with her. Once I was Piven’s age, father felt it was time for me to ‘leave my mother’s skirts’ as he put it. I followed his wishes with gusto but sometimes I’ve looked at Piven playing five sticks or ‘stalk the donkey’ with mother and…” He shrugged.

  “What?” Gavriel asked gently.

  “I felt jealous,” Leo confided. “And the really silly part is they’re not even playing the games properly. Piven just moves the pieces around randomly but I see how mother loves to watch him playing and how much pleasure he brings her, even though he’s so unreachable. I imagine she would have felt like that about me when I was younger. My best days with mother took place when I wasn’t really aware of it. I can’t imagine how she’s coping.”

  “We all cope in our own way, Leo,” Gavriel said. “You are withstanding all this sorrow in the best way you can and her way is to withdraw within herself. Like Piven, in a way.”

  “Yes,” Leo said, “but I would see her once more and say goodbye in my own way…even if she doesn’t know I’m there or that I’m farewelling her.”

  “It doesn’t have to be for keeps.”

  Leo looked up at him, their tiny candle flame casting an eerie glow onto his darkly golden hair and Gavriel saw an old man’s expression in the young king’s face. “I think we both know that it is. I am here to say goodbye to my mother because I know I’m never going to see her again. He’s already forced her to lose herself and I imagine her death at his hand, or by someone close to him, is not long away. I don’t want to be around to watch both my parents die.” Then he looked ashamed. “Gav, I’m sorry. I realize I’m not the only one suffering.”

  “I’ll save my grieving until I’m reunited with Corbel.”

  “When we get out of here, the first thing we must do is find him.”

  Gavriel smiled. “That may not be possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have absolutely no idea where he was sent. Only our two fathers knew and they have died with the secret.”

  “Why a secret?”

  “Ask me that another time, Leo.”

  The king frowned and, as if grasping that the subject was too tender to press Gavriel further on, he simply nodded. “Let’s go,” he murmured and Gavriel gratefully fell into step. “By the way, we can’t hear anything in mother’s room. We can only watch.”

  “Why?”

  Leo stopped. “We’re here,” he whispered. “I don’t know, probably because even old Cormoron must have felt it was vulgar to eavesdrop on the queen. This suite has always been the royal apartments for the king’s women.”

  Gavriel nodded. They found a series of peepholes, but no thin walls so they couldn’t hear anything through the thick stone. Set in the wall was a small old timber box that looked like it had been there a while.

  Gavriel put his face close to the wall, blinked to focus properly through the small openings and immediately saw Queen Iselda standing and staring blankly through her tall open windows. He tried to imagine what her view would be from this part of the palace and decided it would be very beautiful, overlooking the royal private gardens and the northwestern tip of the Deloran—the great forest that stretched south, tapering to a straggly thicket by a town called Minston Woodlet. Between the gardens and the forest Gavriel imagined Iselda could see across to the jagged, ruggedly beautiful coastline.

  “Mother loves the view from that window,” Leo whispered.

  “I was just imagining how lovely the scene that she’s looking out upon must be. Makes me want to see it, too.”

  “Someone’s here,” Leo murmured.

  Gavriel flicked his gaze to the door and felt his breath catch. Freath had just entered the queen’s chambers.

  Thirteen

  Freath knew he had only a minute or two. The queen was standing at the window, her back to him. He hoped she was lucid. Her grief and confusion had plunged her into such a state of silence and loss that most hours he could not reach her.

  “My queen, forgive me, but the crone of the Steppes comes. It was all I could do to keep her outside for but a minute more.” He held his breath, only releasing it w
hen he heard her beautiful, sad voice respond.

  “It is over, loyal Freath. You have done all you can. Let her and her son do what they will. There is no reason for me to take another breath.”

  “But, your majesty, think of Piven and—”

  “Piven is already lost. And from what you say he is a novelty for the barbarian. Perhaps that will save my little boy’s life.” Her voice carried away thinly into the soft wind outside.

  “But there is Leo to live for, highness,” Freath pressed, mindful of the seconds he had left.

  “Are you sure? Give me proof.”

  “I grow weary, Freath,” called an ominous voice from behind the door.

  “Just making her presentable for you, Dara Negev. A moment more,” he begged, quickly turning back to Iselda. “I have no proof, your majesty,” he whispered across the room. “All I can say is that I believe he lives.”

  “Why?”

  “Genrie said that food she left out in the kitchen disappeared.”

  “Is he alone?” she asked fearfully.

  “I feel sure Gavriel De Vis is still with him. Prepare yourself, majesty, she comes. Lose yourself if you must and say nothing. Pretend you hear nothing for I know she will take pleasure in punishing you.”

  The Queen of Penraven turned and gave Freath a heartbreaking smile that arrived and left within a blink of an eye. “She can no longer hurt me. I don’t want to live, Freath. Do whatever you must do to preserve Leo. Don’t let me be used against him.” Then she turned away.

  Freath opened the door to be confronted by a slit-eyed Dara, the line of her mouth equally thin. “I’m sorry, Dara Negev. She is lost to us this hour—as she is most hours—but I have made her presentable for you. Please come in.”

  Negev pushed past, strutting in, looking every bit like the fantailed farla hen with her bright array of colored skirts peculiar to the people of the Steppes.

  “Ah, Iselda, we meet at last,” she said, ignoring the royal title and any protocol. She laughed. “I’m sure Valya is actually looking forward to meeting you more than I but I am pleased to look upon the common slut that this kingdom once called its queen. And from Galinsea, no less. Pah! And they call us barbarians!”

  Although Freath hid the wince he felt at the cruel words, he noticed his queen did not react at all to the baiting. She didn’t even turn from the opening through which she stared out mournfully across the Penravian vista. He moved to stand behind her.

  “As demented as her son!” Negev spat.

  The words of bait seemed to snap Iselda into the present and back into her normally dignified disposition. Finally straightening her shoulders, she turned to focus on the barbarian woman. “Perhaps, but from what I hear there still remains a Valisar heir at large. I believe he will one day return as a man to cut you and your barbarian spawn into pieces and serve you to the palace dogs…for that is all that you are worth, you hag. Go back to your beggared life while you still can.” She glanced at Freath, pointing angrily at him and he realized what she planned to do, what she demanded of him. “I hope you burn in Lo’s pits for your treachery. Do your worst, traitor, for you can no longer hurt us. May King Leonel deliver your death in most hideous fashion,” she said in a dark voice he never thought he’d hear from his beloved Queen Iselda. “I will not be used by the usurper for his cause or for his amusement.” That was his cue. Freath closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, forcing back the sob that wanted to escape his throat, before he grabbed the back of the queen’s garments and, letting out a roar of anger, lifted her easily onto the ledge of the window and flung her out. She screamed lustily as she fell—no doubt for everyone else’s benefit, for her courage was never in question. He leaned against the wall near the opening, pretending to watch her hit the ground, but surreptitiously closing his eyes. Let her die immediately, he beseeched Lo.

  Behind him he heard a gasp and he took a long, steadying breath while he pasted a look of disdain into his expression and turned back to face Negev. He even found the wherewithal to brush his hands as though the job were well done. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, Dara.” He could hardly believe his savagely sardonic tone, nor his composure. It wouldn’t last. He needed to get out of this chamber as quickly as he could. “My apologies if my actions startled you but I’m sure you agree she had outlived her use to any of us? She was turning into a harridan in her lucid moments and your son was right: she was a mere lump of flesh otherwise and absolutely no fun at all.” Before Negev could form a response, he pressed on, in the same uncaring tone, even finding a bitter smile. “I, for one, could not put up with another moment of that bellyaching and cursing. Excuse me, please. I’ll make sure someone cleans up the mess of what’s left of her.”

  Dara Negev still seemed to be catching her breath. “My son will not approve of this!” she hissed as he passed her.

  It took all of his courage to pause and face her again. “Well, with all due respect, Dara, she was mine to do with as I pleased,” he sneered. “That was our arrangement—and I have chosen to end her pathetic life. I think I’d decided as much earlier this morning after I raped her to the sound of her hideous, idiotic babbling. I suppose we should be grateful that at least she made sense just now—it would have been a bit of a letdown to have killed her when she wasn’t aware of what was happening, don’t you think?” He banished the vision that kept swirling through his mind of the queen sprawled on the gravel, her lifeblood leaking beneath her. “Maybe something you said gave her a moment of clarity.” He gave a soft mirthless chuckle.

  “What did she mean about her son?” Negev demanded, gathering her wits again.

  He had begun approaching the door again and had to get out now. “I can’t imagine, Dara Negev. She probably still believes he’s going to make it to his thirteenth anni. I doubt it, don’t you?” He pulled open the door, praying this was the last parry he’d have to make.

  “My son must be told. Go about your business, Freath, but let my son know what has occurred first.”

  “Yes, Dara, as you wish.” Freath managed to bow and was surprised to find he could still ask, “Shall I escort you—”

  “No!” she growled, as he had hoped she would. “I must let Valya know.”

  Freath fled the chamber, hoping he could continue to mask his grief and wondering if he would ever—could ever—come to terms with his part in Iselda’s death. As he walked, almost trotting with his desire to begone from the queen’s apartments, he made himself appreciate that the Valisars were brave to the last and silently reminded himself that he needed to show the same resilience and courage. Stopping on a flight of lonely stairs, he made himself take some steadying breaths. As he leaned back against the cool stone he felt a welcome composure gradually settling over him. Now only the two sons remained—one mad and useless to their case, while the other was still far too young to have such responsibility heaped upon his small shoulders. He wondered where in the castle Leo and Gavriel were at this moment.

  Genrie had heard the commotion outside, and had looked down out of one of the windows to see with horror the remains of Queen Iselda. She pulled back, filled with despair, almost unable to believe that her queen had jumped to her death. The woman called Valya had already gone for her ride, hurling insults within orders over her shoulder that a bath should be readied for her return. Genrie knew she needed to find Freath and quickly before any sneering member of Loethar’s people told the queen’s aide. She went looking and finally found him leaning against the wall halfway down a stairwell.

  “Master Freath, the queen, she’s—”

  “I know,” he interrupted softly. “I did it.”

  Of all the responses Genrie could have anticipated, this would not have been among them. She stared at the man she admired more than any other. Loved, even. She hadn’t admitted her true feelings to herself until this minute but the fear, the atrocities and intensity of the last couple of days had brought all sorts of things to the surface, making her behave recklessly. The pain at he
r cheek was testimony to that.

  “You…?” She couldn’t finish her sentence. “Why?”

  His beautiful blue eyes wouldn’t look at her. “They would have killed her. She wanted her death to count, to achieve something. She forced my hand.”

  “What was the point?” Genrie asked, horrified that Freath could sound so calm.

  “The point was to protect my disguise. As long as they believe I am a traitor, I have the opportunity to work from the inside to help our new king. Iselda did this for Leonel, no one else.”

  She stared at him, lost for words, using the time instead to gaze at the features she found so strangely handsome. Was it only her who found him charismatic and irresistible? Master Freath was so distant, so measured that most of the other servants found him unapproachable, hard to judge. She didn’t though. To her, Freath was wise, safe.

  Freath pushed away from the wall, rubbing his head wearily, and now she could see how ashen he looked, how suddenly hollow and broken. “Genrie, I think we must get you away from here. It’s going to get even more ugly.”

  “What will they do to you?” She hurried down the stairs to join him, now gravely worried for him.

  He shrugged. It was an unusual gesture; Freath was always so in control, so sure. “If not for Leonel, I’m not sure I’d care. Have you got somewhere to go if I could get you out?”

  How could he know how much those words hurt her, for she had never shown him, never given him any inkling of her feelings? Hesitantly, somewhat frightened by the intensity of the moment, she leaned toward the man and kissed him gently, not lingering, afraid of a rebuff. It would be polite but it would be firm. She pulled away, awaiting his reaction.

  Freath cleared his throat. “Well, that wasn’t the reply I was expecting.” His voice was gruff.

  “I’m sorry, Master Freath, I—”

  He surprised her by pulling her back toward him, looking deeply into her face. “My name is Herric. Just moments ago I had never felt so adrift. You kissed me and I’ve never felt so anchored. Please, Genrie, do that again.”