Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Does she appear to all the Kings?” Leo asked, his eyes shining with wonder.

  “I honestly don’t know the answer to that. But your father confided that he didn’t meet Cyrena and he wasn’t sure your grandfather did either.”

  “Brennus confided so much in you,” Gavriel remarked, working hard to keep the sarcasm he felt out of his voice.

  “He and I made the same journey that we just have. He wanted to reiterate his oath to Penraven. There was plenty of time for talking,” Faris said, carefully.

  “Cyrena is likely just legend,” Leo said to Faris.

  The outlaw nodded noncommittally. “True, but we should observe tradition, do this properly. No one should ever be able to accuse you of not taking the spiritual side of your regal oath as seriously as the physical or emotional side. And I do believe in magic and if there’s even a chance of Cyrena showing herself, I respect that. I will not eavesdrop, I will not guard you. No one will. We must ensure you do this in the correct manner. This is usually the last stage of the ritual of kingship.”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Leo cut in.

  “Do you?”

  “I think so. I believe you were going to say that Cormoron, the first of the Valisars, took his oath before the Stone of Truth first, before any physical celebrations or crowning.”

  Faris smiled. “I was going to say just that. So in truth you are following tradition far more closely than your more recent ancestors did. And should Cyrena pay a visit, it might be because of that very observance of old ritual.” This he said more facetiously, winning a grin from Leo.

  Gavriel scowled inwardly. Though both Leo and Lily had been seduced by the outlaw, he wanted to reserve judgment.

  “So we can rest, perhaps?” Lily offered into the sudden silence.

  “Indeed. Now is a good time. Gavriel, I shall leave you in charge. There is no threat here; Jewd and Tern have already scouted from the trees and no one approaches. The nearest people are a trio of tribal men using a horse track that runs through this region but we’re high enough not to be seen, so you are safe for me to leave. Just stay together please and take the time to rest. Jewd, myself and Tern will hunt. Here,” he said, giving Gavriel a whittled whistle. “To the untrained ear this makes the sound of a bird.” He grinned, annoyingly neat white teeth flashing briefly at Gavriel. “Our trained ears, however, will recognize it as your signal. Call us if you’re frightened by anything.”

  Gavriel wondered if Faris had chosen his words to be deliberately inciting. “I don’t think we’re frightened by much after all we’ve been through.”

  Lily took the whistle instead. “Thanks. I’ll gladly blow it if anything unnerves me.” She gave Gavriel another of her stares; he scowled back.

  “Right, good. Sleep, all of you. Don’t leave the clearing. You are safe here,” Faris assured. He melted into the shadows beneath the oaks and was gone.

  “Can you please stop,” Lily demanded, rounding on Gavriel.

  “What?”

  “Can’t you see that he’s on our side?”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  She stared at him, her expression exasperated. “What happened to the affable, easy-going, courageous Gavriel De Vis I met just a couple of days ago?”

  “Perhaps he got tired of watching you flirt with the outlaw.”

  She moved fast, her hand coming up to slap his face. But his reactions were honed to perfection. He was the best in the cohort; no one had more lightning reflexes than Gavriel. Instinctively, he caught her wrist before it connected.

  “Let me go,” she yelled at him.

  Something snapped inside. Gavriel’s voice was deeper, with a hollow chill through it, when he spoke again. “Don’t you ever raise your hand to me again.” He nodded toward the trees. “I’m no outlaw who’s up for some rough fun with you, who will cast you aside as quickly as you might him. Remember who you talk to. De Vis is a proud name. We walk with kings.” Though he could tell he’d frightened her initially his final jab sounded pompous even to him. As soon as it was out of his mouth he wished he’d never uttered the final sentence.

  “You forget, so do I,” she sneered. “Grow up, Gavriel. You’re pathetic.”

  Her last few words stung more than the intended slap ever could have. He let her wrist go and stepped back. Glancing at Leo, Gavriel saw bitter disappointment in the king’s stare. Gavriel turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Gavriel!” Leo called. “We’re meant to stay together.”

  He said nothing in reply, stomped further before the steep incline made him take up a slow trot. He didn’t mean to go far but he needed to put some temporary distance between him and Leo’s regret and Lily’s disdain. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. He’d made a fool of himself with Faris and now he’d let himself down in front of the woman he wanted to impress. And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? He was jealous. Jealous of Faris’s easy manner. He ran still further, anger fueling his legs. He’d stop in a moment and cool off before he returned. He wasn’t so far away yet.

  Faris was a competitor, not just for…Lily, but more unnervingly for Leo. He had watched Leo being seduced by the outlaw’s knowledge, his devil-may-care attitude, and especially by his curious closeness to Brennus. Who could blame Leo? Faris came in precisely the right shape, size, age, looks, attitude—everything, damn him—to impress the young king. Even worse, Brennus had approved of him. Slowing down at last, Gavriel finally drew to a stop. The more dense air here helped him think clearly about the complete idiot he had been. What had he been thinking? Why had he allowed himself to become such a victim of his own insecurities? If Corb were here he’d give him one of those looks of his. Grow up, indeed. Lily was right. He owed them all apologies, especially Lily. And he needed to get back to Leo. Hopefully they’d both fallen asleep. He’d only been gone a short while.

  He took stock of his surrounds. The trees had certainly thinned out and if he wasn’t mistaken he could see right ahead the horse track that Faris had spoken of. He felt suddenly vulnerable. Turning, he took the first couple of steps back toward his friends.

  It was then he heard voices and horse hooves. But there was nowhere to hide without being noticed. He froze, realizing he had no choice but to remain as still as a mouse, hoping against hope the riders—three of them, he now counted—would pass by without even glimpsing him standing in the open beneath the hawthorns. His only stroke of fortune was that he was upwind of the horses and still on the incline—if his luck held, they might pass by without even looking up, engrossed in their low conversation. He held his breath, closed his eyes and began to count. He reckoned within a count of twenty he would be behind them.

  At the count of fourteen a voice yelled: “Oi, you there!”

  Gavriel De Vis began running.

  Twenty-Seven

  Kirin stirred. His eyelids slit open and closed immediately. He groaned. He must have sensed someone nearby, for he moaned, “Clovis?” His voice cracked from a parched throat.

  “It’s Freath. Here, drink something.”

  Kirin tried but couldn’t get the cup to his mouth. When Freath pushed the cup to his lips he could barely open his mouth and what little liquid passed his lips he couldn’t swallow; his throat refused to obey him. After a struggle he’d managed a few drops of water only.

  “How are you feeling?” Freath asked.

  “I’m dizzy.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Some.”

  “Where?”

  “My head.”

  “Take this.”

  Kirin tried to look at the mug Freath held out, daring to open his eyes to slits again. “What is it?”

  “Crushed peonies—a helpful painkiller. If that doesn’t ease it, we’ll try comfrey.”

  “No henbane?”

  “Kirin, it seems to me that these—well, shall we call them dizzy spells of yours?—are going to happen more frequently. Perhaps we need to keep an arsenal of painkillers on han
d for you. If that’s going to be the case, I’d like to try to begin with the least potent so that you don’t build an immunity.”

  Kirin sneered. “Are you adding physic to your list of talents…right after executioner?”

  Freath bit his lip to prevent his retaliating. He had expected this attack from Clovis but had been hoping Kirin would understand. He sighed, disappointed. “Try the peony. See if it helps.”

  Kirin didn’t move.

  “Please, Kirin. You need help.”

  With obvious reluctance and a hefty dose of discomfort the man of magic raised himself onto his elbow and sipped the warm peony tea. “Tastes surprisingly good,” he remarked, his voice bitter.

  “I added some honey,” Freath said. “Keep drinking. The more you get down the better, although I’ve made it quite strong.”

  Kirin sat up properly and groaned again, holding his head. “I think I’m going to hurl.”

  “I came prepared for that,” Freath comforted, reaching for a pail. “Here, drink plenty, no matter what comes back up.” He stood and moved over to the window to give Kirin a measure of privacy.

  “Where’s Clovis?”

  “I’ve sent him away.”

  “What? Why?”

  Freath explained quickly, finally adding, “He is my only hope but he has no stomach for what’s happening here. He is better away from the palace and its brutality.”

  “What makes you think I will fare better here?” Kirin snarled.

  “Because you do. Because you also believe in what we’re reaching after. Clovis doesn’t, or at least he is still so mired in the past and his sorrows that he cannot imagine a future. Not yet. But you can, Kirin. Or let me put it this way: You are angered enough by the present to want to change the future. And, unlike Clovis, you would not rather die than face the present hardship. Clovis’s survival so far has been largely due to your encouragement and presence. But I’m afraid last night set him back; he’d become a liability—for all of us.”

  “Where will he go?”

  “I suggested he find Reuth. I have since discovered that Father Briar got all the Vested safely away. Where they’ve scattered to I don’t know but we did send them each with a homing pigeon. I am hoping they will use the birds to tell us where they end up.”

  Kirin seemed to approve. He nodded. “How will you know if he has found the child?”

  “I’m not sure I will. I simply pray that he is successful. I can do no more for Piven from here without drawing suspicions.”

  “Are you secretly relieved, though, that Piven is no longer your responsibility?”

  Why this perfectly reasonable and honest question seemed to incense Freath where far more offensive accusations had not, he did not know. But he spun angrily on Kirin, only just managing to rein in his wrath. “I’m going to forgive you for that. But I think it best I remove myself for a while. Rest. We need to talk but later.”

  He didn’t give Kirin the chance to respond or apologize, but left the room immediately, only just managing to shut the door without banging it. As he did so he happened to catch a look of genuine surprise on the man of magic’s face. Outside he forced himself to take several deep, calming breaths. This would not do. He prided himself on keeping his temper at all times. Iselda had once joked in his presence to King Brennus that she would give the scullery maid her magnificent pearl earrings if Brennus could get Freath to lose his composure just once in the ensuing hour.

  Freath remembered how Brennus had smiled at his wife and said: “Iselda, my dear, I may be a gambler in some things but I’m not so naive as to take up any challenge where our Freath is concerned. I have never seen his expression slip once in all the years he’s been with our family and I can only imagine the price you’ll demand when you win.”

  She had smiled lovingly at her husband and then given Freath a sympathetic glance. “Sorry, Freath. The new uniforms for the kitchen staff may have to wait a bit longer. Although I could always sell my pearl earrings, I suppose.”

  Freath now smiled sadly to himself at the memory. New uniforms had been measured and made the following moon for the entire kitchen staff through to the youngest scullery maid. Iselda had always known how to play Brennus.

  He looked up to see Genrie approaching. “Master Freath,” she said, curtseying, always a stickler for propriety.

  “Genrie, are you all right?”

  She looked at him with a cool, direct gaze. “Of course. I’ve just got a headache. I’m sorry about this evening.”

  Freath had not had a chance to discuss what had just occurred with Genrie; all he had been able to do was enquire politely how she was feeling. Genrie, in her usual no nonsense way, had muttered that she was recovered and said no more, barely giving him eye contact. And still the sight of her fired hope in him. He had loved serving Iselda. Any other woman would have suffered for his dedication to the queen and so he had never taken a wife, not even pursued a life partner. But Genrie had surprised him. Her delicious auburn waves, pale complexion and intensely green eyes aside, he adored her defiance and especially her courage. She had carried herself with dignity throughout this whole invasion, and unlike him, had convinced the barbarian that she was trustworthy without once publicly relinquishing her sympathies to the Valisars. His heart melted just a fraction more for her bravery. “You have nothing to apologize for, Genrie. You were incredibly courageous. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me, for allowing you to be put through it.”

  She shook her head. “Neither of us have any say. I wish I could have been stronger.”

  He risked taking her hand, looking around furtively before pressing his lips to it. “He did not suffer, I promise you. I made sure of it.” He didn’t bother to mention the purse of money, for he knew no family could be compensated for the loss of a child.

  She looked up at him, baffled, her eyes misty. “I don’t understand what happened. I thought we were all destined for the same fate as those boys. I still can’t believe—”

  “I know. Coincidence, perfectly timed,” he soothed, reaching now to tuck back a soft wisp of hair that had escaped her careful pinning.

  “But Father Briar—was that coincidence, too?”

  “Blind luck, I think. I agree, I thought we were done for.”

  She stared at him, confounded by his explanation. “You’d better go see Father Briar. He has a nasty headache too,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him.

  He cleared his throat under the scrutiny. He wasn’t quite ready to admit what he believed, even if Genrie’s thoughts seemed to be keeping pace with his own suspicions. “I’ll do that,” he said, unable to think of anything else with which to fend her off.

  “And I must warn you that the Droste woman is on our path.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She watches me constantly. Questions me incessantly. Wants to know if I’m in liaison with you.”

  “Liaison? What on earth does she mean by that?” Freath felt his gut twist with horror. “Collusion?” he added.

  Genrie gave him a fresh look, one that suggested he could be awfully vague for a normally sharp man. “She means a romantic liaison.”

  “Pardon?” He didn’t like the way his voice squeaked slightly on the word.

  Genrie explained wearily, “She doesn’t know anything. She’s simply sending out feelers in all directions.”

  “She’s looking to make trouble, that woman,” Freath said, checking again that no one was watching them. “I so want to kiss you again but I daren’t, not here.”

  She nodded, smiled sadly and dropped her hand. “It’s more sinister than simple trouble, Freath. She’s on the trail of what she believes is conspiracy. We must be very careful.”

  “Indeed.” He already missed her touch. “I’ve been granted permission to personally re-staff the palace.”

  This caught her attention. “By whom?”

  “The man himself. He is very cunning, very smart to do this. He wants to quickly return Brighthelm’s
life to as normal as possible.”

  “He’ll never wash the bloodstains from it,” she said, her voice bitter.

  “Never let your anger show like that, Genrie, promise me. They must believe that you now work for them with diligence, if grudgingly. They must think they have cowed you through the threat to the family we’ve pretended you have. Each day you must show yourself to be more indispensable, more accepting of their presence, more reasonable about their needs and culture. Fake it, Genrie. If not for yourself, then for me. I could not bear to lose you.” And then he bent, kissed her so fleetingly he could almost convince himself later it hadn’t happened, and then he was gone, striding away, not looking back.

  Neither of them saw Valya watching.

  He’d run blindly, crashing through the now thinning forest’s undergrowth, his only thought that he must lead them away from the Stone of Truth at Lackmarin and where King Leo hid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He had run right into the warriors Faris had mentioned; he knew this by their horses—the stockier, more muscular breed with long manes and tails. Though Gavriel desperately wanted to head up the incline, slowing down the animals, he knew that would lead them closer to Leo and Lily.

  The warriors came after him, seemingly uncaring whether their horses could handle the uneven ground. But still Gavriel ran, his arms cartwheeling to give him balance, aid his speed. His breathing was erratic, his thoughts had scattered in a dozen directions and his fear was overwhelming.

  They hit him hard, his head snapping back as they leaned down from their saddles and walloped his legs out from under him; his chin hit something, he didn’t know what, nor did he care. The darkness welcomed him and he moved into it willingly. His final thought was of how much he missed his brother.

  Kilt Faris squinted from his perch high in one of the tall trees. He felt his gut twist at the sight of the barbarians bringing the young man down. Thank Lo he had decided to do another check on the tribal men. At least De Vis had had the presence of mind to run away from Lackmarin rather than toward it. Cursing, he called down to Jewd, “Are you going to break my fall or drop me this time?”