Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

“Why am I supposed to care? I hope you starve, although I suspect the blubber you carry will sustain you. Unless the wolves get you. Now get out of my sight.”

  “Don’t think we’ll forget you, boy,” Alfric snarled, hauling up a grimacing Jok.

  “Well just remember this boy kicked your fat arses,” Gavriel taunted. “Now sod off.”

  They moved down the slight incline awkwardly, Jok limping badly and Alfric muttering beneath his breath. Gavriel swiftly picked up all the tackle associated with their weapons.

  Leo approached him. “What makes you think they won’t come back?”

  “They won’t, they know I’m a better fighter now, although that’s not such a good thing.”

  “Why?”

  “It marks us. I wanted to travel unnoticed and now someone already knows about the two of us. We’ve barely been on the move for a day.”

  “They’re idiots, Gav,” Leo said, picking up the sacks of food. “I’ll take these.”

  “Idiots or not, they’re dangerous. Their tongues will wag.”

  “I doubt it. Do you think they’re going to admit to being soundly beaten by someone more than half their age?”

  “I hope you’re right,” Gavriel mumbled. “Come on. At least we’ve got food for the night and a weapon for you.”

  “What about your arm? That looks like it needs stitching.”

  Gavriel nodded. Leo was right but there was little they could do about it right now. “Hopefully we can find an abandoned crofter’s cottage, or—”

  “Or one of the gamekeepers’ huts. There has to be one somewhere in this vicinity,” Leo said, his eyes shining with his own inspiration.

  “Good thought.” Gavriel glanced at the sky. “The light’s going so someone may light a candle or lamp soon enough. We’ll see it if we’re near.”

  “And if not?”

  “Don’t think about it. I promise you I’m not going to bleed to death. We’ll think of some other way. For now use a belt to tie off my arm. You’ll have to pull really tight. It will slow the blood down until we find a solution.”

  Leothar had called for Freath to meet him in the library. When the aide arrived, he was perusing the shelves.

  “Sire?”

  “Ah, there you are, Freath,” Loethar said, turning.

  Freath halted, obviously caught off guard.

  “Is something wrong?” Loethar watched the aide struggle to find some composure. “I know I look a bit different but surely it’s not such a shock.”

  “It’s a remarkable change, if you don’t mind my mentioning it,” Freath replied and Loethar knew the aide chose his words with care.

  “So my mother tells me,” Loethar admitted.

  “Surely she minded what could be seen as your turning your back on your heritage?”

  Was that a carefully provocative but well couched question? “Not really,” he said, deliberately offhand. “We always knew that if I were to rule the Set I would achieve acceptance faster if I looked less like a tribal warlord.”

  “Your appearance is certainly less intimidating, sire.”

  “You were right; the De Vis wardrobe is a good fit.”

  Freath nodded. “The legate had exceptional taste, if I may say so.”

  “So I look every inch a Set man, you think?” Loethar tested, moving slightly to show off the cut of the clothes on his frame.

  “Every inch, sire,” Freath agreed. Loethar sensed the man was unnerved, though he couldn’t gauge why. “Forgive me,” the aide continued, “I mean no offense when I say that I hadn’t realized you could not only speak our language but read it also?”

  “I can’t. It’s interesting that all of you believe we don’t share the same language, though.”

  Freath nodded. “You are right. I don’t know why I assumed you’d have a tribal language.”

  “Oh we do, or at least we did. Some of the old folk still know it, and we keep it going with the youngsters so it’s not lost entirely. But Set is what the Steppes people have spoken for centuries. We have no need for writing or reading, though. I need someone to help interpret for me.”

  “Perhaps I can—”

  “No, Freath, I have another job for you. Presumably there was a custodian of some sort, someone who looked after these books?”

  “We had Jynes, but he died in the fighting,” Freath replied.

  “I see. There was no one else?”

  Freath shook his head.

  “This was a private Valisar library. Brennus was the only one who used it. The queen was not interested in history, nor were her sons.” He glanced at Piven, who was stroking the leather bindings of some of the books on the lower shelves nearby.

  “I can imagine. Other than you, who else reads?”

  “Er…well let me see—”

  “Oh, come now, there must be someone left. Even your Vested helpers…didn’t one of them come from the Academy at Cremond?”

  “Forgive me for thinking so slowly, sire. Of course, there is Master Kirin but I think you may find Father Briar to be of better assistance.”

  “Father Briar? I haven’t met him yet.”

  “He helped with the cremation of the princess; he was the man who delivered the ashes to the rooftop that day.”

  “I can bring him to mind now. I can find him in the chapel?”

  “Or the infirmary. He is a placid, very learned man. May I ask what it is you seek? If it’s something specific I might be able to help.”

  “I want to know all the Valisar secrets hidden in these books, Freath. The dynasty, I gather, was one of the most, if not the most, pedantic hoarders of information. The family didn’t pass down its secrets by word of mouth. I suspect it recorded them, and that I can find most in the pages of vellum right here.”

  “What sort of secrets, my lord?” Freath asked, a quizzical expression creasing his forehead.

  “If I knew I wouldn’t have to search,” Loethar admonished. “I’m not sure, although talk of the Valisar Legacy reached even as far as the Steppes.”

  Freath smiled indulgently. “Yes, the story is bigger than the myth that began it.”

  “So you don’t believe in it?”

  Freath looked back at him, surprised. “Me? No, sire. No one did, not even the king. Believe me, had there been any key that unlocked the magic of coercion, I feel absolutely convinced I would have been privy to the Valisars’ knowledge. I honestly can’t remember King Brennus even searching for it.”

  “The Valisars were always a secretive lot. Perhaps you were not privy because you are not of their blood.”

  Freath nodded. “You could be right but I was very good at spying on the royals, my lord. I’m sure I would have picked up some snippet if such a magic existed. I’m not even sure I know what it is.”

  “Coercion? Exactly what it sounds like, Freath. The person with this talent can coerce another to do his bidding.”

  “I see. A talent anyone would wish for,” Freath said, chuckling softly.

  His humor seemed patronizing. “So you find me amusing, Freath?”

  The aide’s mirth fled instantly. “No, sire, I beg your deepest pardon. I smile only because the other realms in the Set have been jealous of the supposed power of the Valisars for centuries, when in fact I am firmly of the belief that the Valisars under Cormoron likely made up all these magics to keep their rivals on the back foot. Cormoron was extraordinarily cunning. Although he was a great warrior, he also understood that might did not necessarily equal respect. It was Cormoron, as you probably already know, who established the Set, who united all the families but gave each independence to run their own realm.”

  “So long as fealty was paid to Penraven.”

  “Not fealty so much, sire, as simply being allies. Penraven was the largest and most powerful of all the realms, with the longest coastline and plenty of natural wealth. It soon had the highest population and the best trained army. It did lead and the other, smaller realms followed, but each carved out its own style.”
<
br />   “Why was Droste not invited to join the Set?”

  “It is my understanding that Droste refused to recognize Penraven as any sort of leader. Cormoron, all those centuries back, probably believed he’d made the greatest sacrifice in uniting the realms; undoubtedly he didn’t want a rebel in the ranks. But history has shown that equality was in fact achieved. The Valisars have never had to use their might to enforce anything. The Set has been peaceful and each ruling family has run its realm in harmony for centuries. The families have bound themselves through marriages as well to ensure the links remain strong.”

  “Except Brennus, it seemed.”

  Freath looked suitably sheepish. “Well, there you have me, sire. Our own king went looking further afield. I gather his marriage to Iselda was not planned. And to all intents and purposes the linking of Galinsea and Penraven—and thus the whole Set—was a formidable and much envied bond. Iselda brought more than just beauty to her king.”

  “You sound impressed, Freath,” Loethar said, replacing a book that he had been leafing absently through back onto its shelf.

  “I hate the Valisars, my lord. But that doesn’t mean I have not admired them or been impressed by their ruthlessness. Marriage is but one area King Brennus made tough decisions.”

  “I appreciate your candor. When exactly did you join the Valisar employ, Freath?”

  “I was appointed the day Princess Iselda arrived in our realm. I am originally from Penraven, although I travelled widely in working for a number of noble families. As fate would have it the duke I was working for was visiting Barronel at the same time as the king was passing through. Brennus called in on the same noble family and he saw something in me, I suppose.”

  “Ambition, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. I cannot say. But I was employed to look after the young princess, to help turn her into a queen.”

  “You did well.”

  Freath simply nodded.

  “So you were not aware of the plight troth made to the king and Queen of Droste for the hand of their daughter?” Loethar spoke casually, feigning interest in another book as he watched the man carefully. His barb hit the mark. Freath blanched.

  “Pardon, my lord?”

  “Brennus offered marriage to the Crown Princess of Droste.”

  Freath’s mouth opened and closed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know about this.”

  “It must have happened before your time. And it seems it was kept quite secret.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I stand here.”

  “How can you know about this?”

  “Because I know the crown princess and I have no reason to doubt her. In fact you two make a fine pair, both with deep grudges against Iselda.”

  Freath blinked furiously, his lips thinning. Loethar could almost see the wheels turning in the man’s mind. “Lady Valya?” he suddenly asked, incredulous.

  “Crown Princess Valya, no less, Freath.”

  “You’ve shocked me, my lord.”

  “So I can see.”

  “Valya is a popular Set name. It never occurred to me that she could be the princess. And we had so little to do with Droste.”

  “And now you know why.”

  “Why have you told me this, sire?” Freath asked.

  “Because I intend to right the Valisar wrong.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I will marry Valya. She will be the Queen of Penraven and indeed Droste, once I make sure her father understands who exactly is in charge in this region. But most importantly she will be Empress of the Set.”

  He watched Freath swallow; he had to assume the man was playing for time and was convinced this was so when he uttered his next question.

  “Are you certain about this, my lord?”

  Loethar wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or amused. He chose the latter, quirking an eyebrow and lifting one corner of his mouth.

  Freath hurried with his assurances. “Forgive me, this is not my place, but I intend to be your ears and eyes as you’ve asked, sire, and both senses tell me that your feelings for the lady…er, Princess Valya, do not stretch to love.”

  Loethar was impressed. This man, however sneaky Negev felt he was, was endowed with acute judgment. He sighed. “In this assumption you are correct, Freath. But should you ever breathe a word of my admission I will first deny it and then kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand?”

  “Implicitly, my lord.”

  “Good. This will be a strategic marriage. Droste comes into the Set and thus allows the Steppes people to move and trade freely.”

  “I see. And does the princess understand your marriage is for this reason?”

  “I suspect Valya is not as dimmed by love as some might think. I believe she is a realist and I know she is a survivor. She is happy to take her advantages wherever she can find them; if she weren’t, she would never have come looking for me in the first place.”

  “She looked for you?”

  “Oh yes. She hunted me down, fearlessly entered the Steppes alone. Dirty, bedraggled, with no weapons, little food, and a half dead mare beneath her, she came to offer her hand in marriage with the promise that the Set could be taken if I worked with her.”

  “Princess Valya masterminded your campaign?” Freath asked, clearly unable to hide his astonishment.

  “Entirely. She understands the west. Your king should never have misjudged or shamed her the way he did. She has taught me plenty. We knew when and where to strike because of her; and it was Valya who advised us to hold Penraven until last. My inclination would have been to take Penraven first, driving the rest of the realms to capitulate once their leader fell. But Valya said Brennus was so arrogant, always so sure of his mighty Valisar reign, that if we struck hard into Cremond and Dregon, effectively cutting off any flight, other than via ship, we would have the Valisars cornered.”

  “She was right, sire,” Freath replied with just the right amount of admiration to impress Loethar.

  “My mother doesn’t credit Valya with much sense, although I’m sure you’ve already worked that out, Freath. It seems you have the measure of all of us.”

  Freath nodded graciously. “My role has always been one of diplomacy, my lord. And now my role is to protect you as best I can using the same skills in diplomacy, politics and—”

  “Cunning?”

  Freath gave a short, mirthless smile. “I was going to say knowledge, sire, but perhaps knowledge allows one to be forewarned and therefore cunning.”

  Loethar mentally applauded the man. Slippery, indeed. He would be a real asset. “Anyway, I need a wedding organized. I want all the Set involved.”

  “Very good, sire,” Freath replied, although Loethar heard understandable apprehension in the man’s voice.

  “But before the marriage takes place we have something far less palatable for the people to cope with.”

  “Really? Do you think the people of the Set have not already seen enough to turn their stomachs, sire?”

  Loethar laughed at the aide’s dry humor. “I want to be absolutely sure I have their attention, Freath. I actually came in here hoping to find someone who could help me with census records.”

  “Census? Really? Why?”

  “I want to quickly assemble the names of every child born approximately a dozen years ago.”

  Freath frowned and blew out his cheeks but Loethar was not fooled. He knew the man was already leaping to the right conclusion. “It is very important that the people throughout the region understand that I will not tolerate any rebellion. I plan to quash it before it begins.”

  “My lord, fear not. I am utterly convinced the people are still in such shock—their royals are dead, their armies decimated, their realms fully defeated. Many have fled to lands far away. Where do you suppose rebellion will spring from?”

  “From the lad we allowed to slip through our fingers,” Loethar growled, flinging the book he was holding across the room, startling Piven
and making Freath flinch.

  The aide wisely waited until Loethar’s anger had cooled again. “Leonel is too young, too cowardly, and too inexperienced to even think of rebellion.”

  “But people will rally to him, Freath, and you know that. The boy is Valisar. The name is enough. I vowed to destroy all who come from the Valisar seed. I am sparing the halfwit because he is not of the blood but perhaps I should destroy him as well.”

  “No need,” Freath answered calmly. “I still believe his humiliation is worth far more to you. Ask Princess Valya. It will turn everyone’s stomachs to see the Valisars’ act of charity paraded about on a leash.”

  “I do believe you’re right in this.”

  “So you intend to round up all the boys of like age to the prince, am I right?”

  “No. I intend to slaughter them.”

  Freath paused only a heartbeat before starting to clap. “Oh, sire, that is a plan worthy of any king,” he said, his tone filled with admiration. “But surely the threat is enough. The people will yield the boy quickly.”

  Loethar walked over and picked up the book he’d hurled, studied the corner that he’d damaged. Making a soft sound of admonishment, he replied, “I don’t think so. I think they need to see their sons’ blood running through the villages to truly understand how determined I am to have Prince Leonel in my possession or dead at my feet. So take me to Father Briar now, Freath.”

  “I can fetch him for you, sire, if you wish to remain—”

  “No, let us walk. I want to tell you what I’m going to do should the first pass of killings not deliver the prince.”

  Nineteen

  Genrie eyed the approaching unlikely pair. One glided ahead, head held high, the other lumbered behind, head hung.

  “I can’t remember your name,” Valya said to her, “but this is Belush. He is now my servant.”

  Genrie’s gaze slipped from the vile woman to the hulking terror of a man who surely belonged in the barracks. “You wish him to sleep nearby?”

  “The emperor would likely wish him chained to the wall but I am a merciful person. I was raised in the west and we do not chain our servants, do we?”

  All sorts of responses sprang to mind but Genrie gave the answer Valya wanted to hear. “No, of course not. Can I make up the anteroom for Belush?”