Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Or to?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I’m of the Davarigons.”

  He blinked. “Should Davarigon mean something to me?”

  She looked amused. “You know Lo’s Teeth, the mountains that outline Droste and act as a barrier to the Great Plains?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what or where Droste is, or what the Great Plains are.”

  She frowned. “Well, you certainly are confused, aren’t you? But you remembered henbane?”

  He gave an expression to imply he was as baffled as she looked. “I don’t understand, either.”

  “Our people have lived among those mountains for centuries.”

  “Are they all as…as…”

  “What? Beautiful as I am?”

  He grinned, amazed that he still could, his battered mouth punishing him immediately for the gesture.

  “I am big in comparison to the people of these realms, that is true,” she said, almost shyly.

  “And strong,” he added. “Elka, you picked me up like a sack of potatoes.”

  “Strength is in our blood, as is height.” She carefully inspected his ankles, “Our people are reclusive. We have lived quietly in the mountains and our lives have not crossed those of either the Steppes or the Set. We are peaceful.”

  “Yes, I took note of that when you killed three men without blinking.”

  She laughed softly, her face brightening magnificently, crinkling her eyes. “I’m very accurate with a bow but we kill reluctantly. That’s why I took so long to make my decision.”

  “Why did you?” he asked seriously.

  She sighed. “You’re young. What they did was cowardly. And wrong. If you’ve done something criminal, you should face your elders or whoever is in authority. It looked to me like those three were making their own judgment. There was no talk of wrongdoing, other than your running from them—as anyone might. So I decided to save your pathetic carcass.”

  “I’m sure if I’d done something bad, I’d feel it.”

  She shook her head. “I think we’d all like to think that way.”

  He sighed. “I owe you my life. Somehow I will repay you.”

  “You speak elegantly. I suspect you’re from the city, perhaps even noble.”

  “What city?”

  “Brighthelm, the palace of the Penraven Kings. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  He shook his head bleakly.

  Elka let out her breath loudly. “Well, I can see I have a lot to teach you. You have a great deal to re-learn while we wait for your memory to return.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “You’ve got a huge gash on the side of your head and—” she reached behind him and he yelped—“and the most enormous lump. I imagine that is the cause of your memory loss.”

  He lay back, closing his eyes. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Stay still, stay calm. I need to fetch a few things and we’ll see if we can’t deaden that pain for you before we set those ankles.”

  “You make it sound so gentle and easy.”

  “You’ll hate me by the end of it.”

  “Thank you, Elka,” he said, reaching for her large hand.

  “You’re welcome…What shall I call you?”

  He shrugged. “How about Regor? I think I’ve always liked the sound of it.”

  “Regor it is. Good strong name. Tomorrow we’ll head further toward the Dragonsback Mountains, which separate Penraven from Barronel. I’ll feel more comfortable once we’re in that terrain. And you’ll have time and safety to get well, await your memory’s return. But for now, be still.”

  Elka loped off and Gavriel De Vis lay back, finally allowing himself a few tears of self-pity. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his now clouded mind were flashes of thought—something about a snake and fear…but not for himself. He had been afraid for someone important. But when he reached for more clues, the dizziness only intensified, and he gave up. Elka was right; he needed to give it time…if only he didn’t have the feeling that time had been his enemy in the first place.

  Valya carefully followed Genrie all the way to the chapel, which surprised her. She began to believe that this was a pointless exercise, that the servant was going for a blessing from Lo or to offer up prayers. But then Genrie moved beyond the obvious door, carrying on further toward the chapel’s walled garden.

  She stepped back quickly as Genrie cast a worried glance around. Then Valya heard a man’s voice. Recognizing it with a thrill of shock, she immediately chastised herself. She shouldn’t be surprised by this. Hardly daring to breathe, she strained to hear the conversation.

  “Have you got it?” Genrie said.

  “Here,” he replied. Valya peeped around, unable to believe what she witnessed. “Two only,” he continued. “Any more and it will be recognized. It won’t take any more, trust me. Are you sure?”

  “This was your idea,” Genrie accused. Then she shrugged. “It’s too good an opportunity to miss.”

  “If you injure him I will declare you. I am loyal to him. Stracker will lay this realm to waste. But you need Loethar.”

  Valya felt a thrill of fear. Without waiting to hear the rest of the conversation, she took her chance to run away silently. When she reached Loethar’s chamber he was still gently snoring in the same position she’d left him in. In contrast her heart was hammering, her breathing ragged. Even though it frightened her somewhat to do it, she woke her emperor, ignoring his angry growls, calming him so she could explain.

  Freath knocked on the door of Loethar’s suite. He had no idea why he’d been summoned at this hour. He shifted his shirtfront, embarrassed by how dishevelled he knew he must look, although he knew that Loethar wouldn’t care.

  “Come,” came the voice of the barbarian. It sounded ominous.

  Freath took a steadying breath and walked in. Not in his darkest thoughts could he have guessed that inside the room would he find the five people he did. His gaze was helplessly drawn to Genrie, who stood, eyes downcast, fingers opening and shutting nervously into fists at her side. Beside her stood a member of the Greens, Belush, Freath thought his name might be, and, of course, Stracker.

  “My lord?” he asked, his breath shortening behind the words that flowed by instinct; those same instincts were telling him now that something exquisitely dangerous was afoot once again. His heartbeat quickened. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, Freath, something is very wrong. I thought it appropriate that you be here for this.”

  Freath felt the short breath now catch in his throat. In the fleeting moment of time between Loethar’s reply and his response of a short bow he was able to get a better look at Genrie: the waves of hair, presumably unpinned for the night and curling recklessly at her shoulders; the full, well-rounded breasts that sat high and proud beneath her uniform, which was unbuttoned at the throat. Just above the buttons he could see her pulse, strong and too fast, and a tiny apricot colored birthmark just at the point where her neck reached her shoulders…the clavicle, that’s the name, he thought ridiculously, besieged now with fear. Genrie was the first woman he’d loved in…so long he didn’t want to think about how long it had been. But now she refused to look at him.

  “What seems to be the problem, my lord?” he forced out, clearing his throat.

  “It seems your servant woman, Genrie, is plotting an assassination of sorts.”

  Freath’s head rocked back. “What? No, my lord. I don’t believe so.” He felt confident saying this for Genrie would never try and kill Loethar, not alone and not without consulting Freath.

  “I couldn’t believe it either, Freath, but Princess Valya insists that Genrie is plotting death.”

  “My lord, I have known Genrie for some years now. She has been a hardworking servant of the royals but her real loyalties, like mine, are to her own. She has family, as you know.” He shrugged. “Genrie would do nothing to injure you, my lord. In fact—”

  “No
t me, Freath,” Loethar cut in. “Valya believes that Genrie was plotting her death.”

  “To kill the princess?” Freath repeated dumbly.

  Loethar nodded, yawning. That casual carelessness chilled Freath all the more. The emperor would order Genrie’s slaying as easily as he would swat at a fly. And now Freath could see that the ruler was tired. He’d obviously been roused from sleep and wanted to return to his bed. “So, let’s just settle this once and for all, shall we?”

  The pit of Freath’s stomach opened up. That sort of introduction could only mean bloodshed.

  “Er, my lord. May I take care of this for you?”

  “Do you consider this such a petty matter that the emperor need not be involved?” Valya demanded, like a snake striking from hidden bushes. “I can’t imagine you would, considering you were kissing this woman oh so tenderly not so long ago.”

  Freath just stopped himself from taking a step back, noticing the rueful grin on Loethar’s face. No one cared. Not one of them. They were seeing this farce through to appease Valya. Stracker looked bored. The other Green seemed entirely unconcerned—and what was he doing here, anyway?

  “Let’s get this done with, Loethar,” Stracker grumbled.

  Loethar nodded. “Freath, I think we can handle this in a fairly straightforward fashion. Genrie, you’ve been appointed my taster by Master Freath. His romantic inclinations aside, he obviously has strong belief in you, which seems rather ironic considering what you’re being accused of. So do show Princess Valya up to be the false accuser here and bear out Freath’s great faith. Drink down the milk, there’s a good girl.”

  And now Genrie did look up. She ignored Loethar and the sneering Valya. The two Greens she seemed hardly aware of anyway. She focused all her attention on Freath.

  “I tricked you, Freath, you pathetic, grasping old man. You thought you could trust me? I’m not prepared to climb into bed with these pigs, let alone you! At least this is less messy than the blade.” She reached for the milk, swallowing it in four gulps. As she let the mug fall to the ground, she turned briefly to Loethar. “Never say I didn’t try to help you. Kill her yourself, my lord, before she destroys you,” she sneered.

  Freath felt his heart lurch in his chest. It was true! His beautiful girl had attempted to poison the witch of Droste but Valya had prevailed. And now, in the face of death, another brave woman, just like the queen, was protecting his cover. He felt his heart breaking apart, shattering into dozens of pieces, as he watched Genrie begin to gasp.

  She was brave to the end, refusing to show panic at her body’s desperate attempts to grapple for air as it betrayed her. Freath watched numbly as the woman he loved, in heroic fashion, her body shaking from the effort of concealing her obvious suffering, lowered herself awkwardly to the floor. She lay her head back against the fireplace, the effects of the poison foaming out of her mouth, her lips already blackening, eyes glassing over.

  He knew she’d held her tongue to her death and now he had to make sure that death wasn’t in vain. “My lord, I have absolutely no idea what this is about,” he said truthfully, unable to hide the shock in his voice.

  “I know you don’t, Freath, because Belush here has explained everything, particularly that it was his idea and that he was in league with the servant woman to kill the princess.”

  “Why?” Freath asked. Why would they be so naïve to try such a thing? He had no delusions as to why they might want to.

  Loethar waved his hand, distracted. “I can’t be bothered with more of this. Stracker, you know what to do?” His half-brother nodded, glancing angrily toward the warrior at his side, who still looked unimpressed by what was unfolding. “Belush, you’re an idiot. Lose your life for her?” Loethar pointed at Genrie’s now frightfully swollen face.

  “No, Lord Loethar. I am losing it for her,” the Green spat savagely at Valya. Freath seemed to be the only one taken aback by the outburst. “This saran,” Belush continued, loading the word with scorn, “treats your people with loathing. Forgive me, my lord, but I fear the woman who has drunk the poison is more loyal to you than the one you seek to make princess. Heed the servant’s warning. I go to my death holding my head high as a Drevin. No Green bows to a Droste slut.” He spat again and a gob of saliva landed on the rug glistening before them all.

  Loethar nodded at Stracker but said nothing and the warrior was led away, presumably to die in some ritual or tribal manner. As far as Freath was concerned, there would now be one less barbarian to chase from Set soil.

  Valya had an expression of disgust on her face. She turned to say something to Loethar but the look he gave her silenced her instantly. “I suggest you think on what has happened this night, Valya,” Loethar said coldly. “For I cannot protect you for the rest of your days. Now leave.”

  She had the sense to turn on her heel and depart without another word, though it must have cost her to remain quiet, Freath thought. With Genrie’s distorted face staring at him, he could not enjoy even a moment of cheer that Valya, who clearly saw herself as the victim in all this, had come out of it badly.

  The door closed on the two men and the corpse they shared the room with.

  “I think you were fond of this woman, Freath,” Loethar remarked.

  Freath cleared his throat, forced his gaze upon the man who had ordered Genrie to kill herself. He nodded. “She was brave,” was all he could say.

  “I noted. The poison she used is called strenic. It is distilled from an herb that grows wild on the Steppes. It’s harmless to horses, but deadly to us.” When Freath said nothing, Loethar continued. “It causes an incredibly painful death. I admired her stoicism at the end. It seems she despised Valya more than she loved her life.”

  It took all of Freath’s courage to say what he did. “Well, my lord, at risk of sounding hilariously ironic, can I fetch you a warm drink to help return you to your slumber? I can assure you, you will find no poison in it.” He tried for levity but to his ears it sounded leaden.

  Loethar gave him a slow smile. “Now that I’ve lost my royal taster I suppose I shall have to trust you, Freath. Perhaps you could move the corpse as well?”

  Freath nodded. “You go back to your chamber, my lord. I’ll see to this.”

  It was only much later, after recruiting help to have the body carried down to the chapel, after Father Briar had recited prayers blessing Genrie’s spirit, after he had finally been left alone with her, that Freath broke down and wept. Feeling old, very alone and broken, he cried for Genrie and his loss. But his tears were also for all the courageous souls who had given their lives for Valisar.

  Thirty-One

  King Leonel felt elemental power swirling around him, the way it feels just before a lightning storm begins to split across the sky. He felt the hair on his head begin to lift, the hair on his arms stand up and his skin begin to itch as though the very air was beginning to thicken and crackle. The forest had become utterly silent. All the noises of the birds settling down to their roosts and insects calling out to each other faded to nothing. The trees, the grass, the night…all blurred into a dim void.

  The only thing he could see clearly, he realized, was the Stone of Truth. He could swear it was pulsing in a rhythm of its own, as though listening, responding even, to the words he recited.

  He continued to speak the oath as loudly as he dared, to mean every word of what he was saying, to throw behind it all the emotion of the past few days. He wanted the very souls of his mother, father, Darros, perhaps even Cormoron to hear him make his promise as the new King of Penraven, 9th of the Valisars. He needed someone to tell him that Gavriel was going to be all right, that Corbel was safe, that he was pursuing the right path and that one day he might challenge Loethar for the crown that was rightfully his.

  “Is anyone listening?” he yelled into the air that seemed to be splintering about him. Suddenly a dull rumble sounded, escalating in volume to an ear-splitting roar. He couldn’t hear his own voice above the clamor and was glad his
oath was spoken. “This is King Leonel of Penraven,” he cried at the moon. No longer golden, it was now a glimmering silver orb that filled the space it lit with sparkles and flecks of flashing light. “I am King Leonel, the 9th,” he tried again, to affirm the title to himself as much as to whomever might be listening.

  And someone was listening.

  Holding his breath now, Leo watched as a fissure appeared to open in the air that was rippling before him. It was as though he was straddling two worlds and into this world, where he knelt, was emerging a figure.

  The Stone of Truth was blazing with blinding silver explosions of light. Though Leo had to blink and squint against it, unable to look directly at it, he could see a sinuous form stretching, unfurling from the Stone itself. He shrank back as the shape began to take a more solid form. The explosions began to recede until the figure was bathed in a constantly moving, shimmering glow.

  “Do not be afraid,” she said, as she finally coalesced into a curious half-woman, half-serpent beast.

  “Cyrena?”

  Her pale, achingly beautiful face broke into a gentle smile and all the noise quietened. “Welcome, Leonel, to the Stone of Truth,” she said, reaching out to him.

  “You are magnificent,” he breathed, stunned by her glory. Her upper half had the proportions of the most perfectly shaped woman, with long silky hair that curled and flicked down to her elbows, but from her waist down her body became a dazzling, glittering mass of coils. Her arms were long and sinuous, shifting with the grace of a dancer.

  Moving purely on instinct, Leo reached for one of those elegant hands and kissed it gently, reverently. She placed her other hand upon his head.

  “Rise,” she commanded.

  He watched, tongue-tied, as Faeroe lifted from the stone, eased itself from its scabbard and landed effortlessly in Cyrena’s waiting hand, where it blazed with silver power. She turned the blade toward Leo and touched it to his head.

  “King Leonel, I accept your oath and proclaim you ruler of Penraven, 9th of the Valisars, keeper of the Denova Set.” She handed him the sword and he took it, re-sheathing it.