Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  She nodded, a grim smile at her lips. “You certainly look the part all of a sudden.”

  “You always knew I would. Why else did you set me on this path?”

  “You know why. This was your only path. Keeping you on the plains would have allowed him to make a mockery of me, of you, of our people. We’ve made him pay for his ignorance and for his cruelty.”

  Loethar sighed. He’d heard it all before—all his life, in fact. “Valya is western. Any sons I sire on her will look like they belong. It’s my intention that if we rule well, we will be accepted in time. Who’s to say a fresh era is not beginning? Gradually as I get to know the families in the other realms we will allow them some say in the running of their realms. Actually—they are to be known as provinces now. There are no more kingdoms in the Set.

  “Penraven remains one,” Negev contradicted.

  He ignored her vindictiveness. “Not for long. The killing has begun. We shall have our Leonel very soon.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Utterly,” he said, standing. “The boy is on foot with no food, no money, no weapons from what Valya could see—if indeed she saw him and I have to assume she did. That means he’s still in Penraven and although I’m happily threatening all the sons of the Set, I believe he’s still very close. And soon no one will want to help him. If he wants his crown, he’s going to have to come and get it. Until I’m satisfied—until his head is dropped at my feet—I shall keep killing the boys of his age. Each year I’ll kill more either side of his age. Trust me, the people will not stand for it. He will be given up by his own.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.”

  “When is the wedding ceremony?”

  Loethar immediately felt disgruntled. “Valya is organizing it now. Soon. Perhaps you should help her. Try and be friendly. It’s in your best interest, mother dear, if you want to see your son and your son’s sons rule.”

  Negev opened her mouth but was interrupted by the young Red, Barc, who, breathing heavily, arrived in the gardens.

  “My lord,” he said, bowing.

  “What is it?”

  “We have news, my lord, from a town called Berch. The messenger refuses to give it to anyone but you. He carries it from General Stracker.”

  “Excuse me, mother. This is important.”

  “Go…go,” she urged. “Perhaps your Valisar runt is already found.”

  He left running with the young Red trotting behind and the old woman limping in their wake.

  No one remembered Piven.

  “You’d better be sure about this, Freath!”

  “General Stracker,” the aide said, careful now to always give the man his title, “I think I know the Valisar heir when I see him. It’s only been a matter of days since I was last waiting on him.”

  The head of Tomas Dole had been put into a separate sack in the cart, which would carry all the heads of the twenty-nine boys slaughtered in Stracker’s killing spree. Upon arriving in the town of Berch, Freath had known the ruse was on when Kirin gave a grave, surreptitious nod the moment Freath had alighted from his horse on arrival. He had immediately gone to Stracker, explaining that his plan to use magic ahead of the soldiers had worked and that he believed his Vested had hunted down a potential impostor.

  He had outlined to Stracker that the boy had tried to blend in with the Dole family. They’d taken him in, not knowing he was anything but a stray child who had wandered into their lives only the previous day from the forest. It had helped immeasurably that a quivering Mistress Dole had hesitantly explained this just minutes earlier, through sobs to both Freath and Stracker.

  Stracker had mercifully not been interested in her or the rest of her family and she’d been pushed aside as he had stomped toward the boy in question. Fair haired, grimy-looking and scrawny, the child had been glassy-eyed.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Stracker had demanded.

  Freath had shrugged. “I have no idea. He’s terrified, I should imagine. Think about what he’s been through since you took rule. Both his parents are dead and he’s been living in the forest with no food.”

  “What about De Vis?”

  Again Freath had shrugged. It was right now that the whole ruse could come crashing down around them. If he couldn’t convince Stracker, there was a good chance he wouldn’t even leave this town alive, let alone bring the ploy to Loethar. “That is Leonel,” he had pressed.

  “Why doesn’t he recognize you?”

  “I don’t think the child can recognize anyone. Look at him. He’s lost his wits.”

  Stracker had given orders to send a message to the palace.

  “I think you should behead him now,” Freath had urged. He certainly hadn’t wanted Tomas Dole being taken back to the palace whole.

  Stracker frowned. “Loethar should know we may have found him.”

  “May have?” Freath queried, aghast. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you should beat the messengers back to Brighthelm in order to present that boy’s head to your brother. You have succeeded far more quickly than he could have imagined. I anticipate much celebration on his part.”

  Stracker had advanced on him. “Why are you so eager for more blood? You’re a coward most of the time, lurking behind closed doors.”

  Freath had forced himself to hold his nerve. “I never claimed to have the constitution of one of your warriors, general. I admit, apart from that moment of blood rage against the queen, I am weak of belly for this sort of thing. I am not so much eager for more blood as for the ending of it. We can return to Penraven triumphant. Your efforts mean your brother can sit his emperor’s throne without any further threat from the Valisar line, which ends with this child.”

  He had watched Stracker think this through. He had carefully chosen his words in order to preen Stracker’s feathers more than his brother’s. Pressing, he added, “How soon before the messenger reaches the palace?”

  “We use the chain,” Stracker had said cryptically.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Stracker had sneered. “Do you remember my leaving my men along the way at strategic points?”

  “Yes. I thought they were simply on guard.”

  The huge warrior had laughed, his tatua twisting on his face. “For what?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t understand soldiering. I am a palace aide.”

  “We leave these men so that messages can be delivered down the chain far more quickly than if one rider was sent to cover the entire distance. This way men are always fresh, horses never tired. Loethar will know about this before dusk if the riders go hard.”

  “Then let the next message say that you are bringing the head of Leonel Valisar home.”

  Freath had desperately needed Tomas killed first before any of the townsfolk heard of it and could claim he was anything but a Valisar. Fortunately, fear of the barbarians had worked to his advantage. The streets had been deserted when Stracker’s party had thundered into town, on Freath’s advice riding straight up to the cottage.

  “Maybe I don’t want to stop, Freath,” Stracker had said, a sinister note in his tone.

  “That’s up to you, general,” Freath had replied nonchalantly, despite the flare of anxiety that had shot through him. “I was sent along to ensure that the right boys were selected according to the census. When this boy has been dealt with, my job will be done and I will return to the palace and let my superior know everything that I do.”

  “I hope you’re not threatening me, Freath?”

  Freath pasted an expression of dismay on his face. “I wouldn’t dare. Your brother gave me orders to return once this job was done. As far as I’m concerned, it’s done. I’m frightened of both of you. I don’t plan to let either of you down. Shall we get this done before the women start their inevitable wailing?”

  “I rather like it when they carry on. This town’s a bit quiet for me.”

  “These people knew we were coming. I think t
hey’re in shock. Also, she’s got her own brood to think of.” He had made a great show of consulting his paperwork. “Nine, all younger than this one,” he lied.

  Stracker had become tired of the talk. “Get the boy,” he had said to one of his leering men.

  Freath had spoken too soon. A loud keening had issued from the cottage and he had felt his very soul darken at its sound.

  Valya had stepped back with surprise as the door she had knocked at had suddenly been flung wide. “Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, frowning. “Who did you think I was?”

  Loethar paced. “I shouldn’t have imagined it was my half-brother. He couldn’t have got back already and he doesn’t know how to knock on a door anyway,” he said, tightly.

  “Why do you await Stracker so anxiously?” she asked, moving into the salon.

  “Because, Valya, he has hunted down my prey.”

  She had been moving toward the tapestry cord to ring for a servant but turned rapidly. “Truly?”

  “That’s not something I would jest about,” he replied.

  “That was fast.”

  “Yes, much quicker than I’d anticipated. Clearly Penraven has no stomach for fighting or bloodshed. They train and parade armies with such pomp and yet cower into submission when real threat comes along.”

  Valya privately thought that the Set armies had actually put up a good fight. It was just that they were simply no match for the bloodlust of the barbarians, who were bred tough on the Likurian Steppes. She knew the only reason she’d survived as long as she had was because of Loethar’s indulgence and the allowances he made for her. Which was probably another reason Negev hated her so much, come to think of it.

  “Well, you’ve destroyed their armies and their leaders as well as their weapons. They have no means to fight, no line of command to lead.”

  “No barbarian warrior horde would let that stop them.”

  Valya abruptly changed the subject. “Anyway, you’ve had word from Stracker.”

  “I gather one of the Vested was put to good use in teasing out a liar in a nearby town. Once his magic had isolated them, Freath apparently noted a discrepancy in the number of children attached to one particular family and once he saw them he found it very easy to pick out Valisar.”

  “But so soon?”

  “He couldn’t have gone very far without supplies, without help, without a horse.”

  “Where was he found?”

  “A town called Berch. He’d probably flanked the main villages and then found this place to come out of hiding—no doubt for food. He wouldn’t know how to hunt or trap his own,” he said with a sneer.

  “And they’re sure this boy is the Valisar?”

  “I have to assume so, Valya. Do you really think Stracker would get my hopes up if he weren’t certain?”

  “No, but—”

  “Freath recognized the boy instantly.”

  “And they’ve already killed him?”

  “Ah, that I can’t say. Stracker may decide to bring him back so I can gut him myself, but he may have been beheaded when Freath recognized him.”

  “You’re placing a lot of faith in the Valisar aide,” Valya said, brushing aside her golden hair.

  “Not really.”

  She held her tongue. She didn’t want to anger Loethar by being deliberately contrary but she didn’t trust Freath an inch. In fairness, she couldn’t imagine what he had to gain from killing the queen, for instance—and so callously. “I’ve noticed Freath and that maid are quite thick with each other.”

  “Is that important?”

  “They’re both servants of the Valisars.”

  “Former servants,” he corrected. “Both were happy to swap loyalties.”

  “You said that the woman openly defied you.”

  “She did, but she also wants to live. Especially since Freath told me who her family is. She has been told that if she gives us any trouble, they will die. She has given me no cause for concern. Has she done anything that worries you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Fret not, Valya. I am suspicious enough for both of us. The servant woman is running this palace almost single-handedly and doing a good job. We need her in place until others arrive. Now what is it you wanted to see me about?”

  She had been naïve to believe Loethar would suddenly lose his brusque manner with her simply because she had agreed to be his wife. “Well, I thought you might like me to share your bed tonight, my love. Also I’d hoped you might have told your mother about our betrothal.”

  “I have told her. She is going to offer her assistance, I’m sure. As to my bed, by all means. I aim to be celebrating the end of the Valisar line tonight.”

  Why did it always sound as though he was granting her a favor? Smiling graciously, she hid her anger. “I shall look forward to it, my love.”

  “Leave me now, Valya. I need time to myself to think.”

  “This must be the first time in a long time you’ll be alone,” she said tartly as she moved toward the door.

  “Vyk will be back. He’s simply getting used to his surrounds. He finds the forest irresistible.”

  “I wasn’t referring to that bird of yours. I meant the lunatic child you’re so close to.”

  Valya couldn’t imagine what she’d said that so dismayed Loethar but suddenly he pushed past her out of the chamber and, face pinched, actually ran away from her down the corridor.

  Piven had been attracted by a familiar sound. He had been chewing the sweet scented leaves of kellet. The fragrance had penetrated through to his strange world, reminding him of the woman who had lavished him with attention. She had chewed kellet and so now he copied her. It made him smile. Where were the others? They had talked, then left. He didn’t care. It was warm here. He might lie down among the kellet and its companions for a while.

  But a sound had nagged at him. It was the one sound he could concentrate on. Most other sounds were simply noises but this one had resonance, this one seemed to make sense in the chaos of his mind, instantly calming him. And now the sound was calling to him.

  He couldn’t see the voice. Standing, he instinctively moved toward the sound. Soon enough he arrived at the forest edge.

  Piven was pleased by the soft sun rays leaking through the leaves of the trees. The big black bird was perched on the low branch of the beech tree beneath which Piven stood. He smiled at the bird. The raven stopped its curious chuckling and flew down to settle on the shoulder of the man who also waited.

  “And you must be Piven,” the stranger said.

  Piven liked the gentle voice and, more importantly, trusted the bird.

  “Come, Piven. You no longer need that collar,” the man said, undoing the buckle of the collar that the little boy had been wearing since Loethar had put it on him.

  Piven scratched absently at the red mark that the collar had left.

  “And we must find you a fresh shirt,” he said, pointing to the bloodstains on the little boy’s chest. The man opened his palm, offering it to Piven before taking his hand. Piven liked the way his own fitted into that huge, strange hand. Its grip around him felt warm and dry and safe. The sensation prompted another distant memory of another man. A man he had spent much time with, who seemed to love the woman who chewed kellet. That man had hugged him almost as much as she did. He couldn’t even remember the man’s face but he recalled it was bearded and kind. And he could hear the man’s voice in his mind—gruff with most but tender with him. Where was that man now? Where was the woman? There was another one he liked a great deal but that memory was gone, the hole filled by the numbers and patterns and the pictures he saw in his mind. Everything was a distinct shape. He could remember shapes. And here was a new shape that he walked next to. He liked the rough feel of the man’s robe now against his cheek and at Vyk’s encouraging caw he skipped off beside the man, beneath the canopy of the beech trees, the sunlight warm and inviting, creating a halo of light guiding them toward the darkening depths of the fores
t.

  Piven did not see the bird pick up the collar in his beak and fly in the opposite direction.

  Twenty-Four

  Dusk had given way to twilight by the time Stracker’s men thundered beneath the gates of Brighthelm but Loethar was standing on the palace steps grimly awaiting them.

  “Do you need me?” Kirin asked.

  Freath shook his head. “If you see Genrie or Father Briar, let them know. But be very sure not to be seen talking to them. A simple nod will do. They know what we’ve been doing.”

  “Why do I have the feeling the worst is yet to come?”

  “Because it is. Stracker is not stupid but he’s single-minded, driven by more visceral needs. His half-brother’s mind is far more fluid. It flows into the crevices that Stracker’s never could. Be careful, Kirin.”

  “You too,” the Vested said, drifting away from the main group.

  Freath waited, deliberately making himself inconspicuous in the chaos of all the horses and men dismounting. Stracker finally found him. Catching his eye, the barbarian called, “Come on! He’s like a cat with its tail on fire.”

  Somehow Freath was sure Stracker knew what a cat with its tail on fire looked like. He followed the huge man.

  “Is it true?” Loethar said, meeting them at the bottom of the steps. He looked directly at Freath.

  Freath forbade himself to swallow the lump of fear that threatened in his throat. “Yes, my lord,” he said somberly, but not without satisfaction. “We have brought you back the head of Leonel of Penraven.”

  “How many did it take?” Loethar demanded of his half-brother.

  “I wasn’t counting,” Stracker admitted.

  “Er, twenty-nine, my lord,” Freath answered. “I have the record if you—”

  “No, that’s fine. Twenty-nine. Not many.”

  Stracker shrugged. “It wouldn’t have bothered me if it was twenty-nine hundred.”

  Loethar gave a tight, mirthless smile. “Bring them all,” he answered.

  “All, sire?” Freath repeated, hardly able to breathe.