Stormlord’s Exile

by Glenda Larke

  And Amberlyn.

  Taquar spat out a tooth. “My game after all, I think,” he said, straightening up.

  Jasper bundled water together in the centre of the room. “Don’t come any closer,” he said to the armsmen, “or you’re all dead.”

  “That’s the Cloudmaster!” one of the men exclaimed, holding the lantern high.

  The room was stilled, the men looking from one to the other in startled shock. No one needed to explain to them the danger they could be in if they challenged a stormlord.

  “He won’t hurt you,” Taquar said, dabbing at the jagged tear in his cheek with his sleeve. “We have his daughter.” His next remark was addressed to Jasper. “Touch any of my men, and one of them will kill the child, I swear it, and I’ll kill you as well. You can’t drown us all. Let’s talk about what we want in a civilised manner.”

  A long, tense silence swallowed them all. No one moved. No one spoke. Then a guard shuffled uneasily and darted an uncomfortable look at Amberlyn.

  A spike of terror drove into Jasper’s heart. Can I risk it?

  All it would take would be one man who had it in him to kill a child. One man. And these were enforcers.

  “Whoever harms my child dies in the very next instant,” he said.

  “They’ll follow my orders,” Taquar said. Blood streamed down his face and his speech was distorted by the damage to his cheek, but his gaze never wavered from Jasper’s.

  “Are you sure?” Jasper asked grimly.

  More shuffling at the door was followed by the guards parting to let someone else through: Harkel Tallyman, once again the seneschal of Scarcleft Hall and the man in charge of the guards and the water enforcers.

  Jasper shifted his focus to stare at him, and their gazes met briefly, before Harkel’s look moved on to Taquar. “My lord?” he asked. “Your orders?”

  Taquar repeated what he’d already said.

  Harkel looked at his men. “Any volunteers to kill the Cloudmaster’s daughter if the need arises?”

  No one moved or spoke.

  “Wise men. I don’t think that person would be alive a moment afterwards,” Harkel told Taquar apologetically. “I don’t think you would be, either, m’lord.”

  Taquar’s rage exploded, his hatred spilling out in his voice, in his glare. He advanced on Jasper, his sword raised. “Get rid of that water through the balcony door, Jasper, or both Amberlyn and you die, right now.”

  “I think not,” Jasper said quietly. He nodded to Harkel. The seneschal tossed him a sword, which he caught by the hilt.

  Taquar swung his head in bewilderment to stare at his seneschal.

  “Sorry, my lord,” Tallyman said. “It’s over. A sensible man knows when it’s time the change masters.” He made a gesture with his hand and the armsmen surrounded the highlord, swords at the ready.

  “What?” Taquar’s tone was pure disbelief.

  “Wise decision,” Jasper told the seneschal. “This is the end, Taquar. For what I am about to do, I don’t have the slightest compunction.” He stepped between two of the armsmen, flung a small amount of water at Taquar’s face to distract him, and used the moment to jam his blade home, upwards between the ribs, into Taquar’s body. “I shan’t ever be sorry at all. Remember Citrine?” He stepped away, withdrawing the sword. The steel slid out easily. Surprising little blood followed the blade out of the flesh.

  Taquar tried to speak, but no sound came. One of the armsmen plucked the sword he held from his fingers. For a moment the highlord remained standing, then slowly he slid to the floor where he sat, propped up against the wall. He looked down at his chest. His fingers touched the small wound there, as if he was surprised by its negligible appearance.

  Jasper, coldly calm, removed his buckler and cleaned the sword with the cushion cover. Taquar raised his face to look at him. His last coherent expression before he died was one of utmost astonishment.

  “Welcome back, m’lord,” Harkel said. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a small piece of parchment. “I thought this must have come from you. Made me think, it did.” He tossed it into the fireplace.

  “I was banking on your survival instincts, Harkel. We shall discuss terms later. In the meantime, get this mess cleaned up, send a message to Lord Umber in Breccia notifying him of Taquar’s death, and inform the Rainlord Council that a new highlord is needed. I will be suggesting Lord Umber. Oh, and send someone to the south gate. They will find the waterpainter Terelle Grey there, with another stormlord, Lord Rubric Verdigris. They are to be made welcome.” Even as he spoke he bundled up a ball of water and pitched it through the open door towards Rubric and Terelle.

  “And you, my lord? Is there something you need? You’re bleeding—”

  “Yes, never mind, it’s nothing much. I need you to leave me alone. With my daughter.”

  He beckoned to Zirca. She entered the room with a broad grin. “My lord, it’s good to see you again.” She deposited the child she held into his waiting arms. Amberlyn stirred and smiled in her sleep. He touched her hand and she curled her fingers around his.

  Amberlyn. Her hair was soft and curly and so long. How she’d grown!

  He didn’t even noticed as the armsmen carried Taquar’s body away and the room emptied, leaving him and his daughter, together.

  He whispered, “We are going home soon, Amber. To the Gibber.” The child stirred, then nestled more comfortably. He nearly wept. “With your mother. Her name is Terelle, and she’s the most beautiful woman in the Quartern.”

  In the fireplace, a tiny piece of paper began to brown around the edges and the unsigned writing on it darkened:

  Harkel,

  saving the life of a child

  will earn you the undeserved right

  to a long and comfortable old age.

  Sometimes, Jasper reflected, it paid to be known as an honourable man, one who kept his promises. On such little details could hang the fate of the most important things in the world.

  Jasper stood next to Terelle at the top of the crack across the land and looked down on the floor of the wash. Wash Drybone. Where he had been born and grown up, where he’d been abused and kidnapped. The settle was still there, two parallel streets of stone houses, each surrounded by its stone wall with the narrow gap facing upstream to catch the water rush. Once it had been all of Shale Flint’s world, all that he knew. Now it was a tiny fragment of Jasper Bloodstone’s past life.

  The bab-palm thatching had long since gone, but the stone walls remained, largely as they had been the day he’d left. Not his house, of course; that had been on the bank, poorly built and now no more than a heap of uncut stones covered in dust sprinkled through with the sparkle of mica from the Gibber Plains. Some of the bab trees of the wash had survived too, but none were thriving. The cisterns and slots remained; it was just a matter of cleaning them out. The trees would fruit again…

  He looked along the edge of the wash, now crowded with people gazing down on what was to be their new home: Elmar, Dibble, Zirca and Crystal were among the forty Gibber families, mostly people who’d been waterless in the Scarpen. He’d sketched a vision for them of a different future. He hoped they were thinking of that now, seeing beyond a dusty drywash with its dilapidated houses and cisterns to a different sort of wash: a wetter place than it had been for centuries, a place where trees would grow along the edges of its natural pools, where there was greenery and water birds and wild fish. A place where their children could play and be carefree in a way he’d never been. He’d promised them hard work, yes, but he’d also promised them a better world. The buzz of their conversation and their laughter cheered him.

  In a moment they would ride on down. Perhaps he and Terelle would sleep the night in the ruins of what once had been Rishan the Palmier’s home. A humble house for a stormlord, but neither of them cared. He had smaller ambitions now: to be a man who brought unity to the Gibber and supplied its water. No more would Gibber folk be the lowest of the low, the dust along the hem of th
e Quartern. They would be independent-minded folk who earned their living as miners and traders and fossickers, perhaps even a nation in the way that Khromatis was a nation. A people who had the water and the pedes to do it. And the stormlord and the waterpainter healer to seed the beginnings of a better life. A dream? Yes. But he was content to start small. They were young, and their lives stretched before them yet.

  Beside him Terelle slipped a hand into his. She was carrying Amberlyn on her hip. “Look, Amber,” she said. “That’s your new house down there. One day you’ll run along those streets with your friends.”

  “Mama,” said Amberlyn. “Mama.”

  Terelle’s face lit up. “Oh! You precious thing!” She planted a kiss on the child’s head and, glowing in her delight, turned to look at Jasper. “Her first word!”

  He grinned at her. ‘You cheated, I swear. You’ve been coaching her.”

  “Her second word will be Papa, I promise.”

  Next to Jasper, Dibble drank from his water skin and then offered the skin to Elmar. Amberlyn waved her hand at him in supplication.

  “Water,” she said. “Water!”

  Jasper threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once upon a time… in fact twice… I wrote and had a book published without the aid of a single beta reader. I have no idea how I ever achieved that miracle. I know I couldn’t do it today. This book owes more than usual to four beta readers: Karen Miller, Phill Berrie, Alena Sanusi and Donna Hanson. I cannot imagine I would ever have finished Stormlord’s Exile with my sanity (relatively) intact without these people; for sure, without their spectacular advice and input, the book would be the poorer—by far.

  In addition, my heartfelt thanks to my agent Dorothy Lumley, and my editors Stephanie Smith and Bella Pagan, who were all superbly supportive when things weren’t going well. I consider myself lucky to know them all.

  extras

  meet the author

  Glenda Larke is an Australian who now lives in Malaysia, where she works on the two great loves of her life: writing fantasy and the conservation of rain forest avifauna. She has also lived in Tunisia and Austria, and has at different times in her life worked as a housemaid, library assistant, school teacher, university tutor, medical correspondence course editor, field ornithologist and designer of nature interpretive centers. Along the way she has taught English to students as diverse as Korean kindergarten kids and Japanese teenagers living in Malaysia, Viennese adults in Austria, and engineering students in Tunis. If she has any spare time (which is not often), she goes bird watching; if she has any spare cash (not nearly often enough), she visits her daughters in the United States and her family in Western Australia. Find out more about the author at www.glendalarke.com.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed STORMLORD’S EXILE, look out for

  THE SWORN

  The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book One

  by Gail Z. Martin

  As plague and famine scourge the Winter Kingdoms, a vast invasion force gathers beyond the Northern Sea. And at its heart, a dark spirit mage wields the blood magic of ancient, vanquished gods.

  Summoner-King Tris Drayke must attempt to meet this great threat, gathering an army from a country ravaged by civil war. Tris seeks new allies from among the living—and the dead—as an untested generation of rulers face their first battle.

  Tris turns to the Sworn, a fierce nomadic clan bound to protect ancient, legendary warriors—the Dread. But even the mighty Sworn do not know what will happen when the Dread awake. All are certain, though, that war is coming to the Winter Kingdoms.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Every time you go, I can’t believe six months have passed already.”

  Prince Jair Rothlandorn of Dhasson looked up as his father, King Harrol, stood in the doorway. Jair smiled and sighed as he closed his saddlebag and secured the cinch. “And every time I get ready to leave, I can’t believe I’ve survived six months away from the Ride.” Carefully, Jair folded his palace clothing into neat piles and placed them in a drawer to await his return. For the Ride, the only clue that would mark him as the heir to the throne of Dhasson was the gold signet ring on his right hand.

  Jair walked to his window and looked out over the city. Valiquet was the name of both the Dhassonian palace and its capital city. The sun gleamed from the white marble and crystalline sculptures that had earned Valiquet its reputation as “The Glittering Place.” Long a crossroads for commerce and ideas, Dhasson was perhaps the most cosmopolitan of the Winter Kingdoms. Its long tradition of tolerance for all but the Cult of the Crone had spared it the conflicts that often tore at the other kingdoms and had made it a magnet for scholars and artists. Beautiful as it was, for the six months Jair was home, the city felt like a glittering prison. Jair sighed and returned to packing.

  Harrol watched as Jair gathered the last of his things. For the last eleven years, ever since Jair’s fourteenth birthday, he had made the Ride. Although this trip would take Jair away from the palace, Valiquet, and Dhasson for six months, Jair’s belongings fit neatly into two large saddlebags. “You miss her still.”

  Jair turned back to look at his father. “I miss her always.” He was dressed for the road, in the dark tunic and trews that were the custom in the group with which he would ride sentry for the rest of the year. Jair slid up the long sleeve of his shirt, revealing a black tattoo around his left wrist, an intricate and complicated design that had only one match: around the wrist of his life-partner, Talwyn. On his left palm was an intricate tattoo that marked him as one of the trinnen, a warrior proven in battle. He stared at the design on his wrist for a moment in silence. “I wish—”

  “—that the Court would accept her,” Harrol finished gently. “And you know it’s not to be. Even if it did, Talwyn is the daughter of the Sworn’s chieftain and she’s their shaman. She can no more leave her people than you can renounce your claim to the throne.”

  “I know.” They’d had this conversation before. Although every heir to the Dhasson throne made the six-month Ride, only two before Jair had married into the secretive group of warrior-shamans. Eljen, Jair’s great-great-granduncle, had renounced the throne, throwing Dhasson into chaos. Anginon, two generations removed, had worked out an “accommodation,” accepting an arranged political marriage in Dhasson to sire an heir while honoring his bond to his partner among the Sworn by making it clear the Dhasson marriage was in name only. Neither option was to Jair’s liking, and it was at times like these that the crown seemed to fit most tightly.

  “You may find that this year’s Ride leaves little time for home and hearth,” Harrol said. “Bad enough that plague’s begun to spread into Dhasson. What I’ve heard from Margolan sounds bad. I know the Sworn stay to the barren places, where the barrows lie. Please, avoid the cities and villages. And be careful. Nothing is as it should be this year. I fear the Ride will be more dangerous than it’s been in quite some time. I have no desire to lose my son, to plague or to battle.” Harrol embraced Jair, slapping him hard on the back. But there was a moment’s hesitation and the embrace was just a bit tighter than usual, letting Jair know that his father was sincerely worried.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be home before Candles Night. And perhaps this time, I’ll bring Kenver with me. The Court can’t argue that he’s my son, whether or not they recognize my marriage. Whether he can take the crown one day or not, they can get used to the fact that I won’t deny him.”

  Harrol chuckled. “If the boy can be spared from his training, by all means, bring him. If he’s half the handful you were as a lad, it should keep you busy fetching him out of the shrubbery!”

  Neither Jair nor his father said more as they descended the stairs to Valiquet’s large marble entranceway. There was no mistaking the two Sworn guardsmen who awaited Jair. They were dressed as he was, in the dark clothing and studded leather armor of the Sworn, wearing the lightweight, summer great cloaks that would help to keep down the dust and disc
ourage the flies. Jair shouldered into his own cloak.

  “Good to see you once more, Commander.”

  Jair recognized the speaker as Emil, one of the guardsmen he had known since he’d first begun making the Ride. Emil’s greeting was in Dhassonian, but his heavy accent made it clear that that language was not his native tongue. His companion, Mihei, a warrior land mage, echoed the greeting. No one would mistake either of the men as residents of Dhasson. Both wore their dark, black hair straight and long, accentuating the tawny golden cast of their skin. Their eyes, amber like the Sacred Lady’s, marked their bloodline as servants of the goddess. A variety of amulets in silver and carved stone hung from leather straps around their necks. The leather baldrics that each wore held a variety of lethal and beautiful damashqi daggers, and the weapon that hung by each man’s side was neither broadsword nor scimitar but a stelian, a deadly, jagged, flat blade that was as dangerous as it looked, the traditional weapon of the Sworn.

  Jair was dressed in the same manner, but it was obvious to any who looked that he did not share the same blood. Tan from a season outdoors, he was still much lighter than his Sworn companions, and his dark, wavy, brown hair and blue eyes made his resemblance to Harrol obvious.

  “It’s been too long,” Jair responded in the clipped, consonant-heavy language of the nomads. “I’ve been ready to leave again since I returned.”

  Jair knew his father watched them descend the sweeping front steps to the horses that waited for them. Even the horses looked out of place. They bore little resemblance to the high-strung, overbred carriage horses of the nobility. These were horses from the Margolan steppe, bred for thousands of years by the Sworn for their steadiness in battle, their intelligence, and their stamina. Jair fastened his saddlebags, shaking his head to dissuade the groomsman who ran to help him. Then the three men swung up to their saddles and rode out of the palace gates.