Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “All,” Loethar confirmed. “But, Freath, you carry Valisar. And follow me directly.” He turned and marched away.

  Stracker smiled at Freath. “He’s not in a very good mood.”

  Freath said nothing but moved toward the cart to pick out the single bloodied sack that carried the head of Tomas Dole.

  Freath found himself gathered with all of his enemies in the king’s salon. He imagined, with a sour tang forming in his mouth, that Loethar was going to make something of a show of his proud achievement. He stared at the two sacks on the floor, one—the heaviest—still wet with oozing blood. It had taken two men to carry that one in. The other, which Freath had placed on the flagstones, had only a large stain of dried blood on its exterior to show for Tomas’s cruel end.

  He stood quietly in the shadows as Dara Negev, Princess Valya and General Stracker arrived. Finally Masters Kirin and Clovis were ushered in. He had hoped they would be spared this grisly scene but he now had to trust them to be of stout heart. He ignored their downcast looks of anxiety.

  The emperor, Freath noted, was twitchy. He was definitely angry about something. Surely their ruse had not been discovered?

  Loethar offered him a goblet of wine.

  “No, but thank you, my lord. It’s been a day that has set my belly on edge, to tell the truth. I could not eat or drink a thing.”

  “Not up to the life of a barbarian warrior, eh, Freath?” Valya said, arriving by the side of her husband-to-be.

  “No, Princess Valya. I’m afraid I never aspired to either barbarian or warrior. I am a dreadful coward and hideously squeamish.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Stracker joined in. “You’ve killed a queen and you seemed to cope rather well during the death of her son at Berch.”

  “Ah, well, the first was driven by years of rage and I was happy to get my hands dirty. And the second—well, that was one death I did want to witness,” Freath said, grinning falsely. “When the Valisar head rolled, I admit I felt only elation.”

  “We’ll make a barbarian of you yet, then, Freath,” Loethar quipped. “So why don’t you show me young Leonel.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Freath said, approaching the sack once again. He hoped this was the last time he would have to look upon the sad face of Tomas Dole, who mercifully had gone quietly. The drug had worked well, keeping him vacant and oblivious. It wasn’t hard to paste a look of disgust on his face as he reached into the sack and lifted out the head of the child. Surprised by its weight, he held it up by the hair for Loethar to admire.

  “So this is him. My nemesis.”

  “This is Leonel, the former heir to the Crown of Penraven, yes, my lord,” Freath said, appropriately grave though with a hint of triumph.

  “Of course none of us would know if this were not the boy,” Loethar said, looking at the others.

  “I can assure you, my lord,” Freath replied as evenly as he could as a cold trickle of fear ran down his back, “this is Leonel.”

  “We are to take your word alone, Freath?” Valya said.

  “I’ve looked right around the palace. There is no painting of the child or likeness of any sort other than this,” Dara Negev added, reaching behind a chair to pick up Iselda’s cushion, which she threw down at Freath’s feet.

  Loethar cocked his head and in a careful show went through the theatrics of studying the embroidery, then regarding the head that suddenly felt twice as heavy in Freath’s hand. Finally Loethar looked around at everyone with a softly quizzical expression, although Freath believed it to be feigned. “Well, it does resemble him, I suppose.”

  “But that’s about all we could say,” Valya countered. “There is a vague likeness. We have only this former Valisar aide to confirm the match.”

  Dara Negev looked around in a slightly exaggerated fashion. “Surely there are other servants who can confirm who the head belongs to.”

  “Good idea, mother,” Loethar said. “Of course, the two Vested belong to Master Freath and neither of you would know Leonel of Valisar, would you?”

  Kirin and Cloris both looked dismayed to be addressed. They shook their heads as one, but then Kirin spoke up. “I was able to help only in locating what I thought was a lie, my lord. And even that almost eluded me. I’m afraid my powers are weak,” he said, much to Freath’s relief.

  “I have never seen any of the royals,” Clovis admitted, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

  “Why don’t you both stand over there?” Loethar said, pointing to the end of the room.

  They both obliged. Freath felt a fresh thrill of fear. Loethar was up to something.

  “Good. Stracker, why don’t you pick out, oh, let’s say three other heads that resemble Valisar.”

  Freath watched, numb with escalating fear, as the half-brother grinned and went about his grisly business.

  “Shall I take that head for you?” Loethar offered and Freath gladly relinquished it. “And perhaps you’ll want that wine now, Master Freath?”

  “Perhaps I will, my lord,” Freath acknowledged, realizing he had been dismissed. “Do you wish me to stay in the room?”

  “Of course,” Loethar replied. “In fact, I insist. I’ve asked your Vested to be here because one of them was helpful in hunting down Valisar. The other is here mainly to keep your trio complete.”

  Reading between the lines, Freath realized having Kirin and Clovis present was more like keeping them all together as prisoners than granting them the privilege of attending. Freath moved back to one of the windows. The evening air was a welcome blessing for suddenly the room felt unnaturally warm, his hands horribly clammy. Loethar’s test would soon prove him to be the liar he was and he began to imagine what his blood would look like spilling onto the flagstones onto which his king’s blood had spilled just days ago. If he looked hard enough he could still make out where the stain of it had not been fully scrubbed clean.

  “Right, let’s line them up, shall we?” Loethar said, the same flash of brightness to his voice that made Freath hate him all the more. He sent a wish to Lo that wherever Leonel was, Lo grant him the years to evade this barbarian and then one day kill him.

  “I think we’re ready,” Loethar said to those assembled.

  “What is this charade, son?” his mother queried.

  So, Freath thought, he has told no one of his plans. Loethar was certainly an island of a man.

  “Wait, mother, you’ll see.” He walked to the door and spoke to someone who was obviously waiting behind it. “Just a moment or two,” he said to everyone. “Ah, here we are.”

  Genrie was led into the room by one of the warriors of the Greens. To her credit she did not search out Freath, though she looked frightened. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Genrie, we meet again. You won’t be so defiant this time, perhaps?”

  “No, my lord.” Her gaze kept flicking to the heads lined up. Unable to hold her nausea any longer, she began to dry retch.

  “Calm now, Genrie. I need you to do something for me,” Loethar soothed.

  Freath knew they were lost. Poor Genrie. He could see on her face that she too knew their ruse was up.

  Breaking the spell of the moment was a flap of wings as Vyk returned to his perch.

  “At last!” Loethar admonished his pet. “There, you see, I said he’d return,” he said to the group, as though everyone had been fretting over the raven’s disappearance. “Now, Genrie, can you hold down your bile just a moment for us?”

  She nodded, fearful. Freath noted that Valya’s gaze was hard and glittering, clearly lapping up the opportunity to watch the young woman suffer and not at all perturbed by the sagging faces of the decapitated heads. A very hard and cruel heart must beat beneath that golden-haired, pale-skinned beauty, Freath thought. Turning from her, he felt his own heart go out to Genrie as she nodded in answer to Loethar’s question.

  “Good. It’s very simple, Genrie. I want you to point out to me—touch it, in fact, so none of us are left uncertain—which is the head of L
eonel, son of Brennus. They all look very similar so to avoid confusion, we’re asking you to identify him. Very few people are left in the palace who know him. Master Freath has already kindly and very firmly made it clear which is the head of Leonel so if you’d oblige, it will end all doubt.” He gave her a soft push. “Go ahead.”

  Freath felt only admiration that Genrie did not search out his face for a sign. Instead she lifted her chin, gathered her composure bravely and stepped forward. He could see her swallowing her disgust. Glancing over at Kirin and Clovis, he noted that Clovis was haggard with despair, no doubt recalling his own child’s decapitation. Kirin simply looked glazed. Freath understood, looking away, down to the ground. He could no longer watch this.

  “Must I touch it, my lord?” Genrie asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She seemed to be swaying slightly, as if dizzy. Freath couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t help her, either. He returned his gaze to the ground.

  “Make it quick, Genrie, then it’s over for you,” Loethar said tightly and Freath heard only the true threat behind those words. Both their lives were forfeit, he realized.

  He sensed rather than watched her move closer to the grisly lineup and held his breath, at the last moment deciding he owed it to Genrie to be fully with her in this terrible trial. Raising his chin, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to steady himself. He watched Genrie move before the heads, could see her body trembling as she raised a shaking arm. It was moving toward the second from the left. The wrong one. Of course it was wrong. They were all wrong. He felt a pit in his stomach open up as her forefinger pointed to the boy. He couldn’t remember his name. Didn’t want to.

  Genrie staggered and shook her head. When she steadied herself, she seemed to change her mind. “This one,” she said, pointing at the fourth head.

  Freath was sure his heart stopped. She’d picked Tomas Dole.

  “You’re sure, now?” Loethar urged.

  Genrie nodded. “I’m sorry, my lord, I couldn’t concentrate at first. The heads…they—”

  “We understand,” Loethar said, although it was obvious no one from his party was in any way moved by the pathetic sight of the remains of the boys. “You may go.”

  She curtsied and fled from the room without looking at Freath.

  “Well, Freath,” Loethar said, “it seems you have indeed found whom we seek.”

  It took every ounce of Freath’s willpower to keep his voice steady, his expression calm. “I never doubted it, my lord. I have known the child since he was born.”

  “Could he have told her somehow, Loethar?” Valya challenged quietly, cunning in her voice.

  “I didn’t permit him to speak or see anyone. He came here with me from the bailey.”

  Valya shrugged.

  “Be sure, my son,” Dara Negev spoke up.

  Loethar nodded. “Just one more confirmation, Freath, if you don’t mind.” The barbarian’s words were like a smothering blanket on the flames of Freath’s elation. “We need to be absolutely certain, you understand?”

  “Of course,” Freath acknowledged graciously, as if Loethar should call for a dozen affirmations if that is what would put his mind at rest. He retreated another step, his heart pounding.

  “Call in Father Briar—but first, change the order of the heads.”

  It was done and then a visibly shaking Father Briar was brought in. He spun away the moment he caught sight of the ghoulish parade. “Lo forgive me, I cannot. Why am I here?” he beseeched.

  “This is hard for you, I understand, Father Briar, but you are one of only a few in the palace who knew the Valisar heir. We need to identify him.”

  Briar hadn’t turned around. Freath suspected that if the warrior who’d brought him in had not been holding him upright, the man of Lo would be on his knees, sobbing. His cheeks were wet with tears. “These are children. Surely, my lord?”

  Loethar looked at him in silent enquiry.

  “We are conquered. Right across the Set our armies are broken. Those of us who still live must accept your rule, my lord…and do. The spirit of the people is shattered. It’s time for peace to ease the collective heart of the Set. That is what I will preach when once again I have a congregation, my lord; I will tell them to embrace your sovereignty, to forge a new empire under your leadership.”

  “That gladdens my heart, Father Briar,” Loethar said. Freath knew the priest was too far gone in his fear, and desire to make some impact on the barbarian, to hear the irony in Loethar’s tone. “But right now I need your assistance. I want you to face the four heads behind you and I need you to pick out for me the one that belongs to Leonel of Valisar.”

  Father Briar began to shake even more. “Please do not ask this of me, my lord. I cannot.”

  “You must, Father Briar. I insist, or the killing can’t stop. If you do not identify Leonel, I will kill every eleven-, twelve-and thirteen-year-old across the Set and I will lay their heads at your feet. You alone have the power to prevent this additional slaughter. Now Freath here has told me that I have the head of Leonel. I want you to affirm it by showing me which one you recognize. I know you knew the boy well.”

  The tension in the room had risen dramatically. Even the cool evening breeze could not temper the oppressive warmth around them all. Freath could see the old woman and Valya entranced by this theater, whereas Stracker looked ready to draw a sword and hack the babbling priest to bits.

  Mercifully Father Briar did gather himself together, finding the courage to turn. He allowed a soft sob to escape when he finally laid eyes on the sad sight before him, and as if on cue, one of the propped heads toppled to the side. Father Briar flinched, a low shriek escaping him.

  “We’ll just right this one for you,” Loethar said matter-of-factly, grabbing the hair and pulling the head straight to lean up against the sideboard on which they’d been placed.

  The room went silent.

  Father Briar took a shallow breath. “I feel sick, dizzy…I’m sorry, I—”

  “Quickly, Father Briar. The sooner you do this for us, the sooner we can work out what happens next,” Loethar said briskly.

  Again, Freath heard the undertow of threat in the barbarian’s words. His own breathing had become ragged. He wondered if his own tired heart was giving up. It felt set to burst from his chest, it was pounding so hard. Though he wanted to look away, he forced himself to fix his eyes on the priest, who had one hand on his chest and was raising the other in a shaking arc. His finger pointed but from Freath’s vantage he couldn’t tell which head had been chosen.

  “Touch the head, Father. We must be sure,” Loethar urged. “You are too far away. Hurry up; I tire of your squeamishness.”

  Father Briar staggered three steps and placed a hand, as though giving a blessing, on the third head—the head of Tomas Dole. “This is Leonel,” he said, turning abruptly to vomit into the corner.

  “Well done, Father. Let us all retire to another chamber,” Loethar said. “Freath, perhaps you could have this one cleaned. Father Briar, you’re free to go once you have gathered your wits. As are you, as well,” he added, sweeping his gaze across the Vested. “Freath, please come and see me afterward. Thank you for your work today. I’m impressed.”

  Freath nodded graciously. “I’m glad to have proven myself worthy to you, my lord,” he replied, resisting a desire to draw his own shaking hand across his brow.

  The barbarians left hurriedly. How Freath kept his own composure he didn’t know but he managed to put one step in front of the other, guiding everyone out of the stinking salon. Closing the door on their backs, he allowed himself a moment of impossible triumph combined with startling disbelief. Father Briar was trying to say prayers for the children, his words at war with his grief. Freath began to move toward the priest in an effort of consolation.

  “Freath!” Clovis called, soft but urgent.

  Freath turned to see Kirin collapsed on the floor.

  Twenty-Five

  The six of them had been
walking for hours in silence. The path they’d been following was narrow, well disguised and certainly not conducive to conversation. Everyone seemed lost in thought, but no one was fatigued. Gavriel realized that he was suddenly invigorated, likely due to the fresh sense of purpose.

  The tunnel-like animal track they’d been following opened up and although the single lamp that lit their way meant that they still had to walk carefully, they now had more space to spread out.

  This prompted Leo to talk. “Tell me more about the meeting with my father,” he said to Faris.

  “What’s to tell? It was a shock. But I knew he was no impostor, having seen your father many times without him realizing he was sometimes close enough to touch his most gifted thief.” Faris laughed. “He was as good as his word and had come alone. We’d followed him for many miles, seen his arrival—just as we’d seen yours—for a long distance.”

  “How did he know where to find you?”

  Faris shrugged. “Followed his nose in much the same way as Lily did hers. I know the rumor-mongering says my gang is in the north but it’s a huge area. No one really knows where we are. The truth is, we found him, in the same manner that we found you.”

  “And he just pronounced that he had a bargain to make with you?”

  “That’s about right. He wasn’t scared of me. But then I was hardly scared of him either, considering he had so many arrows trained on his chest. He was extremely confident. I genuinely thought he’d come to work out a deal whereby I stopped stealing taxes and he might turn a blind eye to the odd wealthy merchant being robbed on the highway. I must admit, his lack of interest regarding his own money was refreshing and his real reason for coming intriguing.”

  “It’s incredible that he was planning for this eventuality so far ahead,” Gavriel said. “Even more surprising that he kept my father at arm’s length on it.”

  “Gavriel is now legate, by the way,” Leo said. “Some day he will command the Penraven army.”

  “Right now, my king, there is no army to speak of. I have seen what the barbarians have done. All the Set armies are decimated; bodies still scatter your realm and the blood is yet to dry across the fields and the villages. People are still to bury stranger and foe alike before they can even mourn their own lost. The whole region is in turmoil—on its knees to Loethar, you could say. I imagine it will be years before a generation of boys grows up without memories of this bloodshed.” He glanced at Gavriel. “I hate to pour water on your fire.”