Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “I know what you’re saying, Freath, but you seem to think that I care about diplomacy—about the way that you perhaps might ingratiate me into Set life. I don’t share your vision. I don’t care if people don’t like me at the outset. I care only that we do integrate at some stage. For now I have but one request to keep me happy—that all Valisars be destroyed.”

  “Then may I make an equally simple suggestion?”

  “Go ahead.” He drained the goblet as he listened.

  “As soon as the boy is found, stop the killing. The people from the Set will hate you for taking their sons, but I think we can achieve some measure of unspoken respect if you do halt the killing the moment you find your prey. Though General Stracker, I fear, may not approve of this plan.”

  Loethar studied Freath. “You have us well measured, Freath. No, he will not stop unless I insist. But your suggestion is a good one. When the child is found—and we know he can’t be that far away yet—the slaughter ends.”

  Freath schooled his expression to look unimpressed. He didn’t want Loethar to think he cared one way or the other. “Very good, my lord. What would you like me to arrange for Crown Princess Valya?”

  “In what way?”

  “For the wedding, my lord.”

  “In our culture we leave that to the women, Freath. I just turn up.”

  “So we’ll be following a Steppes ceremony, my lord?”

  Loethar looked irritated. Freath could tell he didn’t enjoy administrative life. And being imprisoned in the palace must be hard on him, too. “What do you think?”

  “Well, your bride is Drostean, after all. I think some western influence is important to show good faith to her family. Perhaps we run concurrent rituals.”

  Loethar nodded wearily. “Fine. Whatever she wants.”

  “Very well. Now, I’ve heard you wish to bring servants back into the palace. We’ve certainly been operating on the slightest number of staff—I know help would be appreciated, help in the kitchens and Genrie definitely needs more help in housekeeping. The gardens and orchards—”

  “Freath, stop! Are you doing this deliberately?”

  “What, my lord?”

  “Boring me senseless with your tedium.”

  “In order to run the palace for you, I need your orders. Forgive me, sire. Perhaps I should discuss this with the crown princess?”

  “How did Brennus operate?”

  Freath gave a soft shrug. “The former king left us all mostly to our own devices. We had our duties, and we knew how to run the palace, sire. Iselda took charge of the household. Brennus worried about politics and running the realm.”

  “So include Valya. It will give her something to do.”

  “And perhaps Dara Negev also—unless that will cause disruptions between them?”

  “Oh, you are certainly sharp, Freath,” Loethar said, as much admiration as weariness in his voice.

  “I have to ask, sire. We’re bound to have problems if the two senior women in the palace are vying for position, especially if your servants don’t fully understand the hierarchy. How would it work in Steppes society?”

  “My mother would be in charge.”

  “Shall we keep it that way, then?”

  “Yes, yes, whatever you think is best.” He held out the goblet to be replenished.

  “I’m sorry to test your patience, sire.”

  “Just find me the boy and all will be well.”

  Freath feigned a smile. “And there’s one more thing, my lord. I would like to hire you a taster. I could have poisoned you just now.” Freath registered the sound of the goblet clattering across the floor before he realized the barbarian had him by the throat.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Freath couldn’t answer. He gasped for air but couldn’t seem to take a breath. Loethar pushed him and the older man stumbled back against the wall, banging his head. “See what happens when I’m angered, Freath? Next time I’ll choke the last breath out of you.”

  Freath was seeing stars. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had manhandled him in this way. It must have been back in my childhood, he thought idiotically, his head swimming. Suddenly he felt himself being hauled to his feet, Loethar’s fist at his shirtfront. “Are you all right?” the barbarian asked.

  “I’m not sure, my lord. I can’t focus properly.”

  “Take a drink.”

  “No, I’ll just lean against the wall a moment. Er, forgive me my indiscretion. I meant only…” He had to think for a moment about what it was that he had intended to say. “I had meant only to warn you against assassins. If you are to bring in new servants, you may care to take some precautions with yourself, my lord.”

  Loethar looked contrite but Freath didn’t expect him to back down or apologize. “I’ll leave that to you to organize if you’re so keen on looking out for my health.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Freath said. The man was suspicious of everyone, everything. He would have to keep working at gaining his trust. “Er, your raven is noticeably absent,” he added.

  “Vyk, yes. I have no idea where he has gone. But he is contrary like this.”

  “How did you come by him?” Freath asked, massaging his throat.

  Loethar had turned away to pour himself a fresh goblet of wine. “That’s an interesting tale. I found him as a baby in the very old forests in the far north where the plains end and mountains threaten. He’d fallen out of his nest and although I could hear his parents calling to him from the pines they refused to come to the ground. I raised him on the plains, and he adapted well enough, though he’s never forgotten the forest. That’s probably where he’s flown off to now. I was a young warrior then, so Vyk has to be three hundred moons old now.”

  “Three decades! That’s a wise old raven, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Loethar actually smiled. “No. He and I are more like brothers than Stracker and I could ever be. Vyk understands me.” Freath was surprised that Loethar was being so candid. It was unnerving but he didn’t want to stop the barbarian talking. “Of course, he agrees with everything I do,” he went on, before pausing and adding, “because he never answers back.” Freath wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to chortle at what he presumed was a jest. He smiled benignly instead.

  “The odd thing is,” Loethar continued, sipping his wine and moving to the window as though expecting to see the raven in the distance approaching, “our people are suspicious of any bird associated with crows. They consider the crow a creature who straddles the worlds of the living and the dead. A shaman once warned me against him. Said he was dangerous.”

  “Why? He’s just a bird.”

  “Well, shamans see more than the ordinary man, Freath. You and I are ordinary men. But the shaman never did explain his caution, if that’s what you meant.”

  “But still you keep him.”

  “If Vyk is my enemy—and I have no reason to doubt him after all these years together—well, I still believe in keeping my enemies close.”

  “Is that why you allow your half-brother to remain next to you, sire?”

  Loethar turned and Freath believed for one heartbeat that his life was forfeit, that he’d overstepped Loethar’s tolerance for his sharp observances. But the barbarian simply stared at him coldly. “You are like my raven, Freath. I am unconvinced whether you are friend or foe. Though I am usually a reasonable judge of character, I cannot quite take your measure. You show incredible insight and everything you say appears to be for my benefit, but somehow I just cannot decide whether to trust you.”

  “Then I shall have to continue proving myself until I have earned your trust, my lord. I have told you that I have no loyalties to the Valisars. The truth is, I have no loyalty to anyone. But I might as well take my chances now with the new regime. I am your man, Emperor Loethar. As long as you continue to reward me, I will work tirelessly for your benefit alone.”

  “So allowing you to live is not simply enough any more?” It was a f
acetious comment.

  “There’s no point in living if you can’t enjoy it, my lord. I want money, I want status, I want respect. I am prepared to earn those things, to prove my value to you.”

  “You’ve done well so far, Freath. You’ll have to ignore my previous indiscretion.”

  They both glanced at the wine spilled on the floor. It looked like blood to Freath and he thanked Lo that his life had been spared…this time.

  “It’s already forgotten, my lord. Let me organize someone to clean up that mess. In the meantime may I suggest Genrie as your taster? I trust her and I think she’ll do a fine job until you find someone more appropriate.”

  Loethar waved a hand. “Whatever you think best, Freath, as long as she doesn’t start her haranguing again. You are dismissed to prepare for your journey. I shall see you on your return, hopefully triumphantly bringing me the head of Leonel of the Valisars.”

  This was their third morning and they’d fallen into a companionable silence. Food was scarce but no one had a particularly large appetite. Every step north seemed tinged with either sorrow at what they were leaving behind, or tension for what was ahead. Temperatures had cooled noticeably and although it was late summertide—nearly the onset of leaf-fall—Lily explained the drop in warmth was mainly due to the thickening canopy of dense trees, at first hawthorn, then beeches, birches, ash and oak, and finally, fir. There was no more dappled sunlight, no more joyful birdsong; suddenly the surrounds felt a lot more threatening even in the middle of the day.

  “It’s very silent here,” Leo said.

  “We must be close,” Lily replied. “Except we don’t really know what we’re looking for, do we?”

  “Why don’t we just yell for him?” Gavriel suggested. “You said he’s not going to just show himself to us. We have to lure him out. What have we got to lose?”

  “Other than our lives, you mean?” Lily asked. “What makes you think Kilt Faris is the only one in the forest? Or even that he will welcome us with open arms?”

  “I don’t,” Gavriel admitted. “I agree that this is an enormous risk but it’s one Leo and I decided to take when we were trapped in the palace. You can’t imagine what we witnessed there, Lily. I won’t subject you to even hearing it repeated.”

  “Nor do I want to,” she said quickly.

  “My father would think much less of me if he knew he’d raised his heir to allow others to risk their lives—give their lives, even—while I ran away from the same challenge,” Leo confirmed.

  “Brave words,” Gavriel said understandingly.

  “No! You’re getting this wrong, Leo. Listen to me,” Lily demanded. “Everyone who is taking these risks and giving their lives is doing so to preserve yours. It’s your responsibility to stay alive, no matter what.”

  “Lily, I—”

  Leo never finished what he’d begun to say, as quivering arrow shafts struck the ground all around them.

  Gavriel sounded surprisingly calm as he murmured, “Well, at least we know they don’t want to kill us…not yet, anyway.”

  “Gavriel…” Lily murmured. Leo heard the fear in her voice even as he hated the fact that she turned to his friend first.

  “Be calm, Lily. Leo, you all right?”

  “Not dead yet,” Leo said through gritted teeth.

  “We’re looking for Kilt Faris,” Gavriel called, turning and yelling to the trees. His words were greeted with silence; there was nothing but shadows among the trees.

  Gavriel tried again. “We’ve trekked three days from Brighthelm. The barbarian has proclaimed himself emperor, in case you didn’t know, and we’ve escaped the palace to bring news. I’m sure Kilt Faris would want to hear what we have to tell him.”

  “We’re not buying,” boomed a voice.

  “Fair enough, because we’re not selling.”

  A single man, huge, with thick dark hair swirling about him strode down the incline.

  “It’s Algin,” Leo breathed. Algin was the giant of Set myth. Gavriel seemed to find this funny but Leo was sure his chuckle was nervous laughter.

  The large man arrived before them and, without a word, punched Gavriel so hard in the belly that he didn’t have time to utter a protest. Silently, he crumpled to the ground like one of the paper lanterns Leo’s mother used to make him.

  “What in Lo’s name was that for?” Lily shrieked, bending down to Gavriel. “You could kill him punching him like that, you oaf.”

  “Really?” the giant said. “Then perhaps he shouldn’t laugh at strangers…especially when he’s trespassing.”

  “Trespassing!” Lily hissed. “On whose land?” Below her, Gavriel groaned, then coughed.

  “Mine!” the stranger said.

  “These are crown lands,” she hurled upward. “They belong to the Valisars.”

  “Sounds like they belong to the barbarian now.”

  Leo took immediate offense and used the trick Legate De Vis had taught all the boys in the cohort, taking a flying kick between the man’s legs. Though it came without warning, at least Algin had time to yell his wrath before he joined Gavriel on the forest floor.

  “Good kick, Leo,” Gavriel congratulated, still wincing.

  “Enough of this!” said a new voice as more shadows melted from behind the trees. The speaker was a normal-sized man who descended from the hill, followed by a number of men, presumably the archers. “Get up, Jewd.”

  Jewd was still groaning on the ground. “Little bastard,” he growled. “When this pain stops I’m going to tear him limb from limb.”

  He sounded serious. Leo glanced at Lily, but she ignored his worried look. “Are you Kilt Faris?” she demanded of the new stranger.

  “You’ve got until the count of ten until these men loose their arrows again. And this time they won’t deliberately miss you.”

  Leo noticed how calmly and softly the stranger spoke and yet the words sounded all the more threatening because of it. He had not yet stepped fully out of the shadows so his features were not obvious but he wore a closely shaved beard and from what Leo could tell he was not nearly as intimidating as his giant friend. He was lean, as tall as Gavriel perhaps.

  Both Jewd and Gavriel had dragged themselves to their feet. A worried glance at Gavriel told Leo that De Vis was injured again. His complexion looked pale and clammy. And his arm was bleeding.

  “Come on, Lily,” he said, tugging at her sleeve.

  “Six,” the man counted.

  “We’ve come a long way,” Lily persisted. “We have something of importance to tell Faris. If he’s among you—”

  “Seven,” he continued, unmoved.

  The men stepped back. They’d already retrieved their arrows and now nocked one in each bow.

  “What, you really need all these bowmen to kill us?” Gavriel snarled. “You creep. She’s unarmed, and that’s a boy there, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Eight.”

  “Let’s go, Gav,” Leo said.

  Lily was not easily deterred. “You have to listen to us. I’m begging you. Please tell us where Kilt Faris is. We have a message for him.”

  “Nine,” the man uttered. At his word the bows trained on them were stretched taut in instant unison.

  Leo looked around wildly. The man felt no sympathy for their plight, didn’t even appear vaguely interested in their important message. He was also at home in his surrounds, confident of his place. This had to be Faris. He took the chance even though he knew Gavriel would be furious.

  “Unless you’re prepared to kill your king, I suggest you lower your weapons,” he ordered, surprised by how commanding his newly broken voice sounded.

  The man shifted his gaze. “My information tells me the king is dead—that the whole royal family is dead, in fact.”

  “King Brennus is dead,” Gavriel replied. “As is Queen Iselda. And unless you like the idea of barbarian rule, the whole Set’s only hope right now is his son, Leonel, the new king.”

  Their captor’s attention s
lid once again, this time to Leo. Leo couldn’t see his eyes clearly in the shadows, but he felt their weight resting heavily on him.

  “You are Leonel?”

  “I am,” he said, as defiantly as he could.

  The stranger stared at Leo a moment longer. Then he abruptly uttered a guttural command. The archers lowered their bows.

  “Prove it,” the man demanded.

  Leo looked around, unsure. “How?”

  The man shook his head. “That’s your problem.”

  “Now wait a—”

  “Be quiet, woman, or I’ll have someone shut you up by force.”

  Lily went silent but Leo could feel her seething next to him.

  “Well?” the man said, still calm.

  Leo’s mind raced. “Can you at least get him some help, please?” he said, trying to buy time, motioning toward Gavriel.

  “He’ll be fine. And if not, it’s not our problem. You came here uninvited.”

  “I don’t think so,” Leo countered. “My father, King Brennus, told me to come here. He didn’t say it directly but I think he hoped that you might become an ally. You are Kilt Faris, aren’t you?”

  The man stepped out from the dark that had been shading his face. He was younger than Leo had anticipated, although it was difficult to judge his age. Perhaps thirty anni, no more—and yet this man had been giving his father problems for many years—a decade of trouble at least.

  “I am,” he replied. “But you have still not convinced me of who you claim to be.”

  Faris wore no adornments, Leo noticed. His clothes were simple and practical, although the sword at his side looked to be of exceptional quality. In fact—Leo frowned—he was sure he recognized it.

  “That’s Faeroe,” he blurted, pointing.

  Faris studied him, his hand instinctively moving to touch the hilt of the sword.

  “Gav, he’s got Faeroe!” Leo exclaimed, now angry.

  Gavriel looked at the sword, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

  “No question of it. I love that blade. I’d know it anywhere. I think I even cried the day my father said he had given it to someone special. I’d always hoped it would be mine.”

  For the first time since they’d seen him, Faris looked remotely interested. “Bring them! Blindfold them first,” he ordered and suddenly the three of them found their eyes covered before being bundled up the incline, still deeper into the forest.