The Exiled Queen

by Cinda Williams Chima

Han’s hopes faded a little. “Can you really do that?”

  Dancer shrugged. “I’ve never done it before. And there’s no good way to test it ahead of time.” He tilted his head back. “That’s why you should stay away.”

  “Like I said, I don’t have much choice.”

  “You go back day after tomorrow?”

  Han nodded.

  Dancer rocked to his feet. “I’ll get to work, then.”

  Han held up his hand. “Dancer. One more thing. Were you in my room today?”

  His friend shook his head. “No. Not until now. Why?”

  “Someone’s been in here. I thought maybe you’d come in to get something.”

  Dancer shook his head. “Maybe you were here and didn’t know it,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Did you see anyone else hanging around? The Bayars?”

  Dancer shook his head. “They were at the Dean’s Dinner. First I saw them all day. I was with Cat until I had to get ready to go.”

  “You were with Cat?” Han asked, surprised. Since when did they spend time together willingly?

  Dancer nodded. “She says she might leave the academy.” He slid a glance at Han. Not accusing, exactly, but close.

  Han stared at him. “Why?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Dancer said pointedly.

  “Let’s go see her now,” Han said, stung by guilt.

  “You go,” Dancer suggested. “I have to research your talisman.”

  But when Han walked over to the Temple School, Cat wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WORD FROM

  HOME

  After a tenuous, three-month visit to Oden’s Ford, winter went north again, leaving behind bursting bulbs, like farewell fireworks in her wake.

  It was already warm enough that three hours’ strenuous riding left Raisa damp and flushed, and Switcher sweating and blowing. Raisa rubbed the mare down, murmuring silly endearments to her and singing snatches of “Flower of the Mountains.”

  You’re not usually a giddy kind of person, Raisa said to herself. Is this what being in love does to you?

  She would see Han Alister tonight. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought.

  As she led Switcher into the stall, Raisa noticed that the stall next to her was now occupied by a shaggy gray mountain pony with a white blaze on his face.

  Hallie’s gelding.

  Raisa forced herself to finish up, shoveling grain with shaking hands and replenishing Switcher’s water. Hallie could be bringing any kind of news, she told herself. Good or bad. Or none at all.

  Raisa ran across the stable yard, threading between the buildings to the grassy quad. She bolted up the steps to Grindell Hall. Mick sat by the open window in the common room, scowling over his mathematics. He looked up when Raisa burst into the room.

  “She’s upstairs in your room, putting her things away.” He paused for a heartbeat, then said, “She brought honey cakes.”

  Raisa ran up the stairs, around and around and around until she reached the third floor. Hallie was kneeling by her trunk, folding clothes into it. She stood when Raisa entered and opened her arms.

  Embracing Hallie was rather like embracing a sturdy oak tree.

  “I’m so glad you’re back!” Raisa said. “I’ve missed you so much, and I was beginning to worry. How’s Asha?”

  “I’ve missed you too,” Hallie said, her cheeks pinking up. “Asha is good. She’s huge, bigger ’n all the other two-year-olds.” She let go of Raisa and dug into her carry bag on her bed. “Here. Lydia, Corporal Byrne’s sister, she made me another picture.” She extended a framed pencil sketch of a solemn-looking little girl with a stubborn chin and a ribbon in her hair.

  “She’s beautiful,” Raisa said, passing back the drawing. “She looks like you.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t be beautiful if she looked like me,” Hallie said, grinning. “But she is rum clever. She learned to say Mama while I was there.” Hallie paused. “I already spoke with Commander Byrne about being late coming back. I nearly missed the whole term. It shouldn’t have happened, but it was hard to leave her when it came down to it. I cut my time too close and run into bad weather on my way back.”

  Master Askell had better listen to me about providing for children, Raisa thought.

  “I brung you some honey cakes,” Hallie said, pointing to a cloth sack on Raisa’s bed. She looked up at the ceiling. “Let me see, there was something else—”

  “Hallie! Don’t tease,” Raisa said.

  “I brung a letter to you. From your mama.” Hallie groped in her duffel and brought out a military dispatch bag. She extended it toward Raisa. “Lord Averill, he said to give this into your hands directly.”

  Raisa stood frozen, hugging the leather bag to her chest.

  “I’m going down and talk to Mick,” Hallie said. “Read it over and come down when you’re ready.”

  Raisa sat down on her bed, still cradling the bag. With trembling fingers she undid the buckles and lifted the flap.

  Inside was another envelope, a large one, with Lightfoot, Lord Demonai scrawled on it. It was sealed. She pulled it open.

  And inside was an envelope with Lady Rebecca Morley written on the front. Inside that was another envelope, sealed with the Gray Wolf.

  Using her belt dagger, Raisa slit it open and shook out the page inside. The pages bore her mother’s elegant script.

  Daughter,

  It is not easy for those of royal blood to say we are sorry. The stars realign and the world remakes itself so that our mistakes seem prescient in hindsight.

  I never meant to drive you away. I meant to save your life, and perhaps I succeeded, for now. There are many on the Wizard Council who do not want to see you on the Gray Wolf throne. Even at your young age, you are viewed as difficult, headstrong, and too close to the clans.

  Governance of the Fells has always been a balancing act, with each strategic move precipitating unintended consequences. My marriage to Averill quieted the clans but prompted the Wizard Council to build an alliance with the army. General Klemath is in league with the council. He has filled the army with mercenaries loyal only to him.

  Your father sent you to Demonai Camp so you could learn to be a warrior. He and the other Demonai see you as one of them, because of your Demonai blood. Elena Cennestre in particular believes that the Demonai blood is strong in you. A faction of warriors favors setting me aside and crowning you as a queen more to their liking.

  When the Wizard Council learned of this, they hatched a plot to murder you. It was to happen when you returned from Demonai Camp.

  I feared they would succeed. To forestall that, I proposed a marriage between you and Micah Bayar, knowing that Lord Bayar would see this as an opportunity to expand his power and perhaps eventually put his son on the throne. The conspirators conveniently disappeared.

  This bought us time, at least until your name day. Captain Byrne has been working to grow the guard and to undo the damage Klemath has done to the army, but it is a slow process and difficult to undertake unnoticed. I had hoped to delay your nuptials until that happened, but as your name day approached, Lord Bayar pressed me to keep our bargain.

  So I decided to allow the marriage to proceed. I mistakenly believed that you would accept Micah because you were already seeing him on the sly. I was wrong. We are so very different. It is difficult for me to predict what you will do.

  Your absence has defanged the opposition for now. The Demonai have no candidate to rally around. Lord Bayar is unwilling to make a move without knowing where you are. As long as you live, I live, because a Marianna is preferable to a Raisa.

  Do not write to me again—there is too much risk that our correspondence may be traced. As you will have seen by the contents of this letter, it is dangerous here. I will contact you when it is safe for you to return. In the meantime, trust no one. Know that we are surrounded by enemies.

  —Love, Mother

  The letter slid from
Raisa’s nerveless fingers. She slumped back against the wall, her eyes burning with hot tears.

  Couldn’t you have told me, Mother? Couldn’t you have trusted me a little? We could have worked together instead of at cross-purposes.

  That was just it. It might have been Lord Bayar’s influence, but Marianna didn’t trust her daughter. She might have even suspected Raisa of plotting with the Demonai to take her throne. Imagine if she knew that Amon Byrne was already bound to her.

  Maybe that was the real purpose of the marriage to Micah. It would have put a stop to Demonai schemes. A Queen Marianna was preferable to a Raisa married to Micah.

  And the Demonai—had they really planned to set her mother aside and put Raisa on the throne? Did they think she would go along with that? Were her father and grandmother in on it?

  A memory trickled back—Reid Nightwalker urging her to come with him to Demonai Camp instead of fleeing the country. No one will touch you at Demonai, he’d said. No one should force you from your birthright.

  Was her life just a series of lies? Was this what she had to look forward to—a lifetime of manipulating others to serve her own purposes?

  It’s not just the real, but the perception of real that counts, Mother, she thought. If people perceive you as weak, then you are weak, even if it’s a survival strategy.

  Interesting that her mother hadn’t mentioned Mellony, or the pressure from the Wizard Council to name her princess heir. Did she not want to worry her? Did she not want her to rush back into danger?

  Or did Marianna mean to keep Raisa in the south until a change in succession could be accomplished?

  Trust no one. Never had her mother spoken truer words.

  Raisa felt more trust in her friendship with Talia and Hallie than with anyone at court, save Amon.

  Had Raisa done anything to encourage the intrigue swirling around her? Why was the council so convinced that she would be troublesome?

  And now what? The term was nearly over. Should she wait here meekly until her mother called her home? If she returned home, would it knock down the fragile house of cards that was her queendom?

  Could she possibly be more alone?

  Raisa flopped onto her back, tears leaking from her eyes and running into her hair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A BABE IN

  THE WOODS

  Han cut across the greening lawns, heading for Bridge Street. It was Tuesday—the day before his class with Dean Abelard. He’d stayed up half the night for the second night in a row. He and Dancer had spent the afternoon experimenting with a talisman Dancer had crafted from a flying rowan. It was challenging to create a talisman that wouldn’t interfere with Han’s own magic while protecting him from someone else’s.

  And now he was late for his meeting with Rebecca.

  The flower vendors lined the street leading to the bridge. That was one thing they had more of in Oden’s Ford than at home—flowers. They grew pansies all winter long, the deep red blooms called Blood of Hanalea, white solstice stars, flowering cactus of all kinds from We’enhaven, magnolias with big saucer flowers you could serve dinner on, orchids of all colors and sizes. And now tulips and daffodils and bulb irises.

  Rebecca loved flowers. She said she missed her garden at home.

  On impulse, Han stopped long enough to buy a fistful from a vendor.

  When he entered The Turtle and Fish, the common room was half filled with cadets, but Talia and Pearlie weren’t there. Han nodded to Linc, the bartender, walked straight past the bar, and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  Just as he put his hand on the latch of their meeting room, the door flew open and Rebecca stood in front of him, her carry bag slung over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed with anger—obviously on her way out.

  “Well!” she said, looking him up and down. “If it isn’t Hanson Alister.” She paused ominously. “The late Hanson Alister.”

  There was a raw, ragged edge to her voice, an emotional vibration he’d never heard before. Blueblood or not, she could rough him up better than any girlie he’d ever known.

  He groped for the right thing to say. “Rebecca, listen. I know I’m late. I’m sorry. I was — working on a project — and I lost track of time.”

  “I warned you,” she snapped. “You think the rules changed because we kissed?”

  “I’m meeting with the dean tomorrow,” he said. “I was getting ready for that.” He paused, and when she said nothing, added, “Please forgive me. It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s what you said last time.” She glared up at him. “You’re the one who wanted tutoring. Do you think I have nothing better to do? You can squander your own time, but when it comes to my time —”

  “It is valuable. I understand that.” Usually he could charm and cajole her out of any foul mood, but today she was all clouds and rain—tense, snappish, and downhearted.

  Belatedly remembering the flowers, he produced them from under his coat and extended them toward her. Irises and Blood of Hanalea, tied with a ribbon.

  “Here. You said you liked flowers.”

  She stared at the flowers as if astonished, then looked up into his face as if he’d been swapped out for somebody else. “Another present?”

  Well, admittedly, he wasn’t the present-giving, flower-buying kind. He’d never had need of that. Nor the money. “Making up for lost time,” he said. “And, to be honest, that last present was for me as much as you.”

  She took the flowers grudgingly and sniffed them. “Thank you.”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, taking advantage of the lull in hostilities to shoulder open the door.

  She allowed herself to be ushered back inside. “What’s wrong is that you’re late,” she said.

  “I’ll buy you dinner after we’re done,” he suggested. “Anywhere you want.”

  She dumped her carry bag on a chair, then sat down at their usual worktable. “We’ll see. First, I want to see evidence that you’ve read chapter twelve.”

  Fortunately, he had read chapter twelve, which dealt with Fellsian court protocol, and was about as interesting as reading crop reports. But somehow, when Rebecca talked about it, it came alive. He was amazed at how much she knew about the history and inner workings of the court in Fellsmarch. She quizzed him on the role of the Council of Nobles, the Wizard Council, and the Office of the Royal Steward.

  Some parts she had to fill in—parts that weren’t in Han’s books. Faulk tended to focus too much on the royal family.

  “What’s the difference between the Wizard Assembly and the Wizard Council?” Han asked. “For instance, how do they choose the council members?”

  Rebecca sat back, narrow-eyed, as if wondering what he meant to do with that information. “The assembly is made up of all gifted citizens in the registry on Gray Lady. The council really holds all the power. The major wizard houses have vested seats on the Wizard Council, dating back to before the Breaking,” she said. “The eldest gifted child of the council member replaces his or her parent, unless the child steps aside. Also, there’s one seat voted in by the assembly, and one member chosen by the queen. The council elects the High Wizard from among those on the council.”

  “If the queen dies, does the High Wizard stay on?” Han asked.

  “No,” Rebecca said. “Each High Wizard is bound to an individual queen, so when the princess heir is crowned queen, a new High Wizard is named.”

  “But it isn’t an inherited post,” Han said. “Any wizard can serve, right?”

  “Well, theoretically,” Rebecca said. “But most, if not all, of the High Wizards have come from the vested wizard houses.”

  “Which are — ?” It seemed that every day Han became more aware of how little he knew, and how much he needed to know.

  “The Bayars, the Mathises, the Abelards, the Gryphons,” Rebecca said vaguely. “Some others.”

  “What keeps the High Wizard from overpowering the queen?” Han said. “Magically, I mean?”<
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  Rebecca’s head jerked up and she stared at him. “Why do you ask that?”

  Han shrugged. “Well, it stands to reason that it could be a problem. Wasn’t that what happened after the invasion?”

  She licked her lips. “The Binding is supposed to prevent that.”

  “What do you mean, is supposed to?” Han said, catching an odd inflection.

  Rebecca shifted her gaze away. “The Binding does control the High Wizard,” she said, nodding as if to reassure herself. “The speakers conduct a ceremony that binds the High Wizard both to the queen’s will and to the good of the queendom.”

  Han tapped the cover of his book. “It says in here the High Wizard serves as a counselor to the queen on magical matters, represents her to the Wizard Council, and uses magic to support and protect the army, the realm, and the throne.”

  Rebecca nodded, her shoulders slumping a little, the curtain of her hair obscuring her face. “That’s right.”

  “But he’s not in charge,” Han said. “The queen’s in charge, right?”

  She nodded. “The queen rules alone. Queens of the Fells are forbidden to marry wizards, and even the man she marries takes the title of consort only.”

  “But there used to be wizard kings,” Han persisted. “Right?”

  “Right,” she said. “But not since the Breaking. After the kings nearly destroyed the world, they decided it was a bad idea.” She reached for Han’s book, seeming eager to change the subject. “I had no idea you were so interested in politics. Now, let’s review the rules surrounding royal succession and accomplishments of some specific queens.”

  “How can you remember all those names?” Han said.

  “My family’s been at court for generations, you know,” Rebecca said. “Some of it had to soak in. You’ve heard those songs, haven’t you, that name off the Gray Wolf queens in order?”

  Actually, he knew some drinking songs that named off the queens, but they didn’t bear repeating to a blueblood. “I don’t have to memorize them, do I?” he asked. “I’d just as soon skip over that. To tell the truth, I don’t give a rat’s arse about the queens.”