Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  As Valya closed the door silently, her mind filled with notions of bitter triumph, she just caught sight of someone scurrying down the main flight of stairs. It was Genrie. Presumably it was early enough for the servant to still be going about her business, but Valya sensed something curious in Genrie’s urgency. The servant looked behind her carefully, as if mindful of being trailed or watched. Valya had kept the deliciously clandestine nugget of information of the secret relationship between the dour Freath and the defiant Genrie to herself for now. She needed to think about how it could be used to her advantage. But perhaps the girl had more secrets Valya could explore. From the shadows high above, she decided to follow the servant.

  Twenty-Nine

  He felt himself reaching consciousness but had the presence of mind to remain still, keep his eyes shut while he took stock of the situation as best he could. He felt confused, disoriented. His head was on fire with pain, as was the rest of his body. It even hurt to breathe; some of his ribs must be cracked.

  As he came fully to consciousness, he realized that not an inch of him didn’t flare with agony. His arms were tied behind his back, his ankles tied together. He was lying on the ground. He smelled the forest but couldn’t hear any birdsong, just the low voices of men and the occasional snort from a horse. His memory gave him nothing. He had no idea what he was doing here or why.

  He opened his eyes, just to slits—it was all he could do, anyway—to see if he could get some bearing on his surrounds. And he realized then that his face was puffy, misshapen. His lips were not sitting right at his mouth, and, once he realized that, he noticed that his mouth was dry. No, not dry, parched. He would kill for a sip of water.

  He tried to concentrate on what he could see. Right enough he was in woodland…but why? He turned his head but very slowly in order not to attract attention, and to protect against the pain. Three men sat around a small fire, talking in low voices. Who were they? What did they want with him? It was early evening, he knew that much. Had it rained recently? Possibly. The ground felt damp and smelled freshly earthy. In addition to the earth, he could smell the firs and smoke from the fire. The one man’s face that he could see in the dimness had designs on it, some sort of dark ink. How strange. Who were these people? Why was he with them? Why was he their prisoner? Why was he hurting so much?

  Time to find out.

  “Hey!” He had meant to yell it in a friendly manner but it came out a low groan.

  The three bulky figures moved as one, approaching him silently. They were obviously adept at stealth. The one on the far right seemed to be the leader; the other two appeared to defer to him.

  “Thirsty,” he explained.

  The leader pulled down his trousers and unleashed hot acrid liquid all over his face. “Better?”

  Coughing and spluttering, fear began edging around the horror of the man deliberately aiming for his mouth. He must know Gavriel couldn’t move his head too far or too fast. He began to vomit—not from the piss but from the overwhelming nausea that engulfed as pain fully claimed him. His vision blurred as he retched and he knew his head must be injured because that’s where the worst of his agony was emanating from. It was clear these men had already punished his body. But he couldn’t remember it. Had they beaten him while he was unconscious?

  “Why?” he managed to say.

  “Because we can,” another man answered. “Penraven scum. Think you can run from us, eh? Well, you won’t be running any more. We’ve hobbled you. Perhaps you know what that means in relation to a horse?”

  He did his best to nod, to be cooperative.

  “Except on the plains we use ropes,” the man said.

  “But we’re not on the plains now,” the third added.

  “And you’re no horse,” the presumed leader continued. “So we’ve had to use a slightly more radical method of keeping you from moving too far.”

  “We broke your feet,” the second one said. The three of them seemed to find this highly amusing.

  Broke my feet? he repeated in his mind. Instinctively he twisted his ankles. Immediately he felt shards of white hot pain, like lightning, bolt through him until he saw stars behind his tightly shut eyelids. He began to breathe shallowly just to help him focus on the pain, riding it, hoping the concentration would make it easier to handle and then hopefully dull. Someone told him that once. He couldn’t remember who.

  In the shadows a figure watched, had been observing this odd quartet for a number of hours now. It was reaching twilight. Soon the wood owls would begin their mournful calls and the animals that forage in darkness would begin snuffling around the undergrowth. There were wolves in this forest. The stranger had heard them, even seen a couple, and didn’t want to meet the pack that roamed this area. The eavesdropping figure did not belong here, and had not anticipated company—or such a dilemma. Good sense demanded that the quartet be left. Their prisoner had been beaten so badly that the sound of his breaking bones could be heard from this relatively distant spot. And the men had gone about their grisly task while he was out cold. How strange. Whatever their argument with the prisoner was their business, the stranger knew. But no man deserved the hiding the boy had endured and for what? The thugs were bored. Anyone could see that. And this fellow who had stupidly stumbled into their path had offered entertainment of a most base kind.

  The observer looked down. A decision needed to be made.

  He was half conscious again. He knew now there was no escape from these brutes. But he would give them no satisfaction. Though he suspected he would succumb quickly if they decided to finish it; they seemed to be tired of it. The call to sleep had become stronger than the call for more blood. Perhaps they’d been drinking. He was too far gone to tell. He watched them slump back down around their fire, and within minutes he heard snoring from two. The other dozed or perhaps slept silently.

  He closed his eyes, hoped he might die peacefully during the night.

  The arrow whizzed out from the darkness of the woodland and hit the warrior’s throat so hard he didn’t register his own death; his body jerked in one angry subconscious recognition of the fatal injury and then lay still. Though the other two were on their feet in a blink, the second man hardly had time to look around before another arrow came humming out of the trees, sinking into his heart. As he fell like a stone, the third man looked around wildly. An enormous stranger emerged from the trees, dressed in a simple dun garb of animal skin.

  The warrior appealed to the stranger, opening his palms, the look of plea a universal expression. Dragging a huge, mean-looking blade from his scabbard, the warrior waved it, offering a far fairer way to settle whatever it was between him and the intruder.

  The stranger did not hesitate, though. The bow that was trained on the barbarian tightened and then a final arrow was loosed at close range, passing through the warrior’s chest and out through the other side with the greatest of ease, burying its shaft almost to the fletchings. With a groan of surprise, the leader fell to his knees, hurling some sort of insult at the stranger before crumpling to his side.

  Gavriel watched this all unfold, hardly daring to believe what he was witnessing. And then he felt a fresh spike of fear as the newcomer turned and strode toward him. Was it his turn now? An arrow to the throat, perhaps? At least that would be swift.

  The figure bent over him, withdrew a blade and cut his wrists and ankles free of their bindings, then lifted his broken, pathetic frame. He moaned. He had no strength to do much else as his body gave him fresh explosions of suffering.

  “Bear up,” she said as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Thirty

  Tern had returned to brief Faris on what was occurring.

  “He’s unconscious?”

  “You’re sure?”

  The man nodded. “I left them as soon as they’d finished pissing on him. They got bored, turned in for the night.”

  Faris looked up. “A bit early to be sleeping,” he remarked.

  “They�
��d been drinking the kern, too.”

  Faris nodded. Kern was a local and notorious liquor of Penraven’s north. The warriors might be big and hardy but they would be no match for kern’s powerful intoxication. He himself had drunk it only twice in his life, and on both occasions he had awakened the next day feeling as though he’d been kicked by a mule several times. Since then he had refused to take the fiery red liquid, distilled from the noxious aspenberries that grew with abandon on low bushes that fringed the forest.

  “So he’s safe for now?”

  “If you can call what they’ve done to him keeping him safe. He’s half dead, Kilt. I don’t think we should leave it too long.”

  “We have to wait for Jewd and the others. I don’t think we should go in alone.”

  “You and I can easily take the three of them.”

  “I know but I have to ensure the king takes his oath tonight. It’s a full summertide moon tonight, which makes this evening all the more important. Twilight will not hold for us. And they’re probably asleep already.”

  “So we wait until tomorrow?”

  “As soon as Jewd arrives, we go in.”

  “Let’s hope he lives long enough. What do you want me to do in the meantime?”

  “Fetch some food for the king and Lily. Then go back, keep watch on De Vis until morning.”

  Tern left to organize the food and Faris went over to where Lily looked to be deep in thought.

  “One minute we seemed to be so in control and now everything feels dangerously out of kilter,” she commented as he sat down beside her.

  “All will be well. Right now we must get Leo to take his oath.”

  “Why is that so important?” she snapped.

  “I thought I’d explained. This is what Brennus asked of me. It was part of our bargain and I intend to keep it.”

  “Well, you’ll have to make sure of that yourself. He’s not paying any attention to me.”

  “That’s because he’s smitten with you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. Nor am I so old that I can’t remember what it was like to be his age, and with a terrible crush on a much older woman.” He grinned but she didn’t take the bait.

  “I’m worried about Gavriel.”

  “I understand. But I will not risk my life for him. For the king, yes, not for De Vis.”

  “How callous.”

  “Not at all. If he’d followed my instructions he would be safe among us. I can’t be responsible for every petulant decision your travelling companions make while they come to terms with the fact that you find me far more engaging than either of them.” Once again he’d hoped to lighten the leaden mood around her with gentle mocking but his sardonic approach did not work; in fact, it did the opposite.

  Lily stood. It seemed her tinder was always dry, Faris thought, always ready to ignite at the tiniest spark. He sighed privately, waited for the onslaught.

  “How dare you, Faris! How dare you make presumptions that—”

  His shrug stopped her tirade. “Sorry. I thought the hand on the chest thing was rather intimate considering you barely know me.”

  She slapped him. He didn’t see it coming, though he realized he should have. It stung but he didn’t touch his cheek. Just stared at her.

  “If Gavriel dies, I’ll never forgive you,” she hurled at him.

  He straightened his shirt. “If De Vis dies, it’s your fault for not being more honest with him and your fault for leading him here into danger. I offered protection, and he flouted that protection because of a young man’s perceived jealousy, even after I tried to make peace with him. You were the one who argued with him. But that’s not my concern, Lily, nor is it my problem. I gave a blood promise to King Brennus and I intend to keep faith with it.” He shrugged. “What you do and what De Vis does is your business.”

  She stared at him, her eyes glittering with fury. He felt his gut twist at the loathing in her face but he did not show his discomfort.

  “Where is Tern?”

  “Setting up some food, I believe, before he returns to observe De Vis.”

  “I’ll go with him.”

  “Fine. It will be at your own peril, of course. Those men are dangerous.”

  She gave him a backward sneer, and said nothing.

  Faris sighed, looked out from the highpoint of the clearing. Twilight was giving way to night. It had to happen now. He went in search of the king, and found him sitting quietly, arms around his knees not far from where he’d argued with Lily.

  “I suppose you heard that?”

  Leo stared at him but said nothing and Faris felt himself suddenly become defensive. He hated that a boy who couldn’t even think about growing facial hair yet managed to make him feel guilty…over nothing! “Why is everyone blaming me?”

  “I’m not sure everyone is,” Leo answered calmly.

  “Lily is.”

  “Lily is angry over your comment. She’s not blaming you for Gavriel’s loss. She simply said she won’t forgive you if he dies.”

  “That’s just a different way of saying she blames me!” Faris answered, exasperated.

  “Not from where I sit. Is it time?”

  “Yes.”

  “What should I do?”

  “The oath is carved into the stone. Simply read it aloud and mean it. What happens after that is left to the gods.”

  Leo nodded. “Will you be close by?”

  “I am bound to leave you alone with Faeroe, upon whom you must swear as well.”

  “Thanks. Make peace with Lily…for me. It’s bad enough losing Gavriel. I have so few people to rely on—please, Kilt.”

  Faris nodded. “I will at the first opportunity but I can’t move from this spot here until you return. If you get into any bother, yell. Good luck.”

  Leo approached the Stone of Truth with trepidation. He had no idea what to expect. This was not something his father had schooled him in. The summertide moon looked huge, golden and so close he felt he could reach out and touch it. There was a thrum in the atmosphere this evening that he couldn’t quite decipher, as though Faris’s warnings of the potential for magic might be true.

  He carefully laid Faeroe on the uneven but sparkling surface of the stone. Twilight seemed to heighten its shimmering effect and, as though they were picking up the moon’s luminosity, the branstone’s silver threads glittered in mesmerizing fashion. Leo found himself suddenly kneeling before the Stone of Truth. It felt right to pay it this homage. Once again he ran his fingers across the glimmering stone, over the words he must now recite.

  Placing his hands on Faeroe, with great reverence he began to speak the ancient, sacred oath that the eight Valisar Kings before him had spoken.

  He had no idea how far they had travelled. The swaying motion of the woman’s gait as she ran, surprisingly lightly, through the forest was strangely comforting despite the pain. He was riding her back, his arms around her neck, her arms supporting his broken feet. He was sure he had blacked out several times from the waves of agony washing over him even though she was doing her best to minimize the jarring effect of their motion. The fact was, he told himself in more lucid moments, feeling that pain meant that he was alive, for which he had this curious person to thank.

  Finally, she paused.

  “Where are we?” he groaned.

  “Far enough from where we were,” she answered, cryptically, the only indication of her exertion the long, deep breaths she was taking.

  “Do you know this place?”

  “No. But I sense no danger. There’s an old hollow up there, I think.” She pointed with her chin. He could see where she meant clearly in the moonlight. “That’s where we will rest this night.”

  He must have fainted again because when he came to she was laying him down in the cool hollow. “You’re a mess,” she said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Elka. And you?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know.”

  She regar
ded him with a look of skepticism.

  “I promise. I have no recollection of who I am or what I was doing there with those men. Or even what I was doing in the forest.”

  “You’ve forgotten?”

  He shrugged, wincing. “I don’t know. My head hurts, that’s probably got something to do with it.” He grimaced.

  “How much pain are you in?”

  “Just a smidgeon,” he said sarcastically through another wince. Up close he could see that she was not just some sort of monstrosity with a woman’s voice. When she smiled she was rather handsome.

  “I will need to look at those ankles,” she said and they both understood what that meant.

  “What do you carry in that sack? Henbane, by any chance?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I will make up something for you to take before we tackle it. What about the rest of you?”

  It was his turn to grin mirthlessly. “What bit isn’t bruised or broken?”

  “I watched them beat you.”

  “Did you have to wait so long to protest?”

  Elka smiled, embarrassed. “I couldn’t make a decision about you. I know this much: you are not one of them.” She nodded as he opened his mouth, and stopped his words by continuing: “I know that’s obvious because you don’t look or dress as they did, but I watched them bring you into that place on the back of a horse. You were unconscious so presumably they had captured you somewhere.”

  “But why?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t tell you. They said something about teaching you a lesson about running away from them.”

  “Where do you think I could be running from?”