Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Hope made Aravelle leap to her feet.

  But the brute caught Asher before he could take ferret-face down. Aravelle saw the brute’s blade flash as it sank into her father’s abdomen, up high under his ribs. Asher fell to his knees.

  Her father blinked once, then pitched forward onto the sand.

  Aravelle’s stomach turned over. She stumbled two steps, dropped to her knees and retched until she had nothing left to bring up.

  When she lifted her head, she saw Vittor had shoved Tamaron and Itania aside, and sprung to his feet.

  ‘Stop him, Ronnyn,’ Aravelle hissed.

  But all he did was blink slowly and stare at their father’s body.

  She lurched to her feet, catching Vittor around the waist. ‘There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.’

  Vittor shook with emotion, and the same outrage filled Aravelle. She wanted every last one of the Mieren dead. If only Ronnyn’s gift had reached its full potential. If only he had been trained by the brotherhood.

  If only she had let him practise on her.

  But she hadn’t. She’d been too weak to trust herself.

  And now they were all powerless, and she hated it. She felt like sobbing until her heart shattered, but she couldn’t, not when her little brothers and sister needed her, and not when Ronnyn seemed to have lost his wits. Hatred for her own impotence seared Aravelle, erasing all thought but survival.

  Dragging in a ragged breath, she searched Vittor’s face. When she was sure her brother would not do something rash and get himself killed, she released him. He shuddered and sagged against her. She sat abruptly, her legs giving way. Little arms and bodies wrapped themselves around her. She would do anything to protect them, but all she could do was reassure them.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be all right,’ she told them. It satisfied the two little ones, and Vittor seemed resigned for now.

  Meanwhile, Sasoria had crawled over to their father and rolled him onto his back.

  Their father’s death seemed to have sobered the four remaining Mieren. They stared at the knife hilt protruding from Asher’s stomach. Aravelle could see her mother’s lips moving as she whispered her father’s name, searching frantically for signs of life. When she found none, she gave a keening wail of despair. It rose on the night air, carrying above the sound of the fire.

  ‘Now you’ve gone and done it. We coulda got a silver coin for that copperhead!’ ferret-face shouted. ‘They’re paying nothing for bodies.’

  ‘It’s not so bad.’ The one who’d been silent so far grinned. ‘Now we don’t have to give the trader his share!’

  Their cruel laughter infuriated Aravelle.

  ‘You’re right,’ ferret-face conceded as he picked up her father’s cane and tucked it under his arm. ‘It’ll take days to deliver the Wyrds, and he’d have fought us all the way.’

  Deliver them where? Aravelle glanced to her mother, but Sasoria was lost in grief and Ronnyn was... lost, for now. At least, she hoped it was only temporary.

  Businesslike, the brute pulled the knife from Asher’s stomach and cleaned it. Then, grabbing Sasoria by the hair, he pressed the blade to her throat. ‘Any trouble and you’ll get the same.’

  Ronnyn made a strangled sound of protest in his throat, tried to stand, then pitched sideways and threw up again.

  ‘That’s not the way.’ Ferret-face snatched Itania from Aravelle.

  She watched helpless, as ferret-face strode across the sand, carrying Itania by the back of her nightgown like a kitten. He held her in front of their mother. ‘Take a good look, copperhead.’ His knobbly hand closed around Itania’s throat. ‘One twist and no more little girlie!’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? She’s just a baby.’

  ‘She’s just a copperhead,’ ferret-face snapped. ‘Only worth one silver coin, so don’t you be giving us trouble.’

  Anger and disgust coursed through Aravelle.

  Sasoria held out her arms. Wordlessly, the Mieren dropped Itania onto her lap.

  ‘After tonight, we’re all rich men,’ ferret-face said, gesturing with the cane. ‘Into the boat with them. We should take their fishing boat as well.’

  ‘Who’s going to sail it, uncle?’ the youth asked.

  The man went to Ronnyn, who was still on his hands and knees, head hanging forward. The man caught a handful of his hair, jerking his head up. ‘I’d get this one to help me, but it looks like we’ve scrambled his brains.’

  The brute grinned. ‘Just as well, he coulda been trouble.’

  ‘He’s only a boy, only twelve,’ Sasoria protested. ‘He won’t make trouble.’

  ‘Only twelve? And him bigger than most of us.’ Ferret-face laughed and shoved Ronnyn so hard her brother sprawled in the sand. He curled up, holding his head.

  If the Mieren knew Ronnyn’s gift was already manifesting, Aravelle suspected they would have killed him.

  Ferret-face pointed to Vittor with the cane. ‘You. Bet you helped your father with the fishing.’

  Vittor glanced to her. She was a better sailor than him. But the man didn’t seem to think of her; he turned back to the others, saying, ‘I’ve got my crew.’

  Vittor’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth.

  Ferret-face noticed and caught Tamaron by the back of his nightshirt, lifting him off the ground in front of Vittor. ‘Remember what I told your mother, silverhead. Play up when we’re at sea, and he’ll go overboard.’

  ‘But he’s worth five silver coins,’ Aravelle said.

  ‘Brazen bitch!’ He released Tamaron to bring her father’s cane down across her shoulders. The blow sent her sprawling on the sand. She’d bitten her lip, and she tasted blood in her mouth as the man stood over her. ‘I can’t stand girls who don’t know their place.’

  Too stunned to move, she lay there, her eyes watering. With a murmur of protest, Sasoria crawled to Aravelle and helped her sit up. Tamaron and Itania ran to them and held on tight.

  ‘Look at his face.’ The Mieren pointed to Vittor, who stood there, hands clenched. ‘He’d kill me if he could. Try it, silverhead. Come on.’

  ‘Don’t, Vittor,’ Aravelle said, quickly. ‘They’re just looking for a reason to hurt us.’

  Ferret-face looked around. ‘Wind and tide are in our favour. Get a move on, silverhead.’ He shoved Vittor in Ronnyn’s direction. ‘Help your brother.’

  When Vittor helped him up, Ronnyn stood there swaying and blinking.

  The Mieren grabbed Tamaron. ‘Come along.’

  Sasoria thrust Itania into Aravelle’s arms and struggled to her feet, holding her gown together. She went over to hug Ronnyn, searching his face, then leaned down to hug Vittor and Tamaron, before whispering something to Vittor.

  ‘Here, what’re you telling them?’ ferret-face demanded.

  Their mother turned. ‘To do what you say.’

  The man grinned. ‘Listen to your mother, boys, and I won’t have to throw the little one overboard.’

  Then before Aravelle could say goodbye, she was being herded down the beach towards the Mieren’s boat, with Itania clinging to her, too frightened to cry.

  ‘Hurry up.’ The brute shoved Sasoria between the shoulder blades.

  She staggered. Aravelle slid her free arm around her mother’s shoulder. ‘What did you really tell Vittor?’

  ‘To keep his mouth shut,’ Sasoria whispered, fierce as ever. ‘And not to give them a reason to hurt us.’

  ‘Where are they taking us? Who’s paying for our people? The king? What will he do with us? I don’t–’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is, whatever you do, don’t give them a reason to lay a hand on you.’

  Aravelle nodded. Survival. That’s what it was all about. She focused on the sand in front of her feet, then the shallows as they waded through the icy water to the boat.

  Rough hands reached down, plucked Itania from her arms and lifted her onto the deck. The same hands hauled Aravelle over the side, then her mother.

  Ar
avelle gathered Itania in her arms and searched the beach. She was in time to see ferret-face push her father’s boat into the shallows and swing his weight over the side.

  As the main sail rose above her, one part of Aravelle noted that the Mieren’s vessel was much like their own, only larger, with two more sails.

  She glanced back to the family’s boat, looking for Ronnyn. He must have been lying down. She only hoped he would be all right. At the same time, she worried what would happen when he regained his wits and his gift surfaced. Maybe they’d be where they were going by then? Days, the Mieren had said.

  In the meantime, Vittor could look out for Ronnyn and watch over little Tamaron. But it was a lot to ask of a small boy.

  Now that they were leaving the bay, her gaze was drawn to beach where her father’s body lay on the sand, not far from the trader’s corpse.

  It didn’t feel right, leaving their father for the island’s scavengers, not that laughing, gentle man. A shudder ran through Aravelle, and her stomach revolted. She lurched to her feet and hung over the side, retching, but she had nothing more to bring up.

  ‘Seasick already?’ The brute laughed.

  Aravelle did not reply, but kept her mutinous eyes lowered.

  There was little wind tonight. She stole another look as they sailed out of the cove under a moonlit sky. Her home had burnt to the ground. Only the stone hearth and chimney remained, in a sea of winking coals.

  Her childhood was over.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  JARAILE WATCHED THE king closely. It seemed she’d spent all her married life watching the king, trying to gauge his moods. In the past it had been so that she could avoid his temper. Now...

  The king settled himself in the chair in front of the fire and his manservant returned to the bedchamber, humming under his breath as he cleaned up. Today the king had managed to bathe and get dressed. She suspected he would need to go back to bed later, but right now Charald was alert and grateful to her.

  It was a new experience.

  For three days now, the king had been rational; in fact, he seemed to grow more alert by the day. A servant arrived with the king’s breakfast tray. She’d made sure it was just the way he liked it. She knew every one of his likes and dislikes, learned from painful experience.

  Charald grimaced as he nibbled the cold meat, careful of his teeth, careful of his stomach. She knew he hated admitting to frailty, but she needed to remind him before he forgot.

  ‘It is good to see you sitting up and eating, sire.’

  ‘Growing old is a terrible thing,’ he complained. ‘Better for a man to die a warrior’s death than to waste away in bed, clucked over by women and servants.’

  ‘Soon our son will be returned to us. With the way your health has been, I was worried what would become of him, but you have set my mind at rest.’

  Charald’s hands slowed as he tore at the chicken carcass. ‘Oh?’

  She recognised the signs. He did not remember, and was trying to cover his lapse. Excited yet fearful, she clasped her hands in her lap and picked her words with care. ‘When you took me aside and explained how, if anything happened to you, you’d chosen four trusted men to guide our son, I was so grateful. Sorne has drawn up the decree just as you ordered. Now that you are well again, we could–’

  ‘Where is this decree?’ Charald asked, mopping up gravy with bread.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ She sprang to her feet. ‘Would you like me to bring your chosen advisors as well?’

  ‘Just the document will do.’

  She darted out of his bedchamber, meeting Nitzane about to go in. She caught his hand. ‘The king is going to sign the decree. I’ll go and get it. You keep him company.’

  ‘Clever girl,’ he told her fondly, slipping into the room.

  She went straight to her chambers, collected the leather folder with the decree and headed back. Her mind raced. If she sent for everyone, they could sign it before lunch, before the king fell asleep and forgot their talk.

  ‘And how is the king today?’ Eskarnor asked, stepping out of a doorway. He must have been lying in wait for her. ‘Back on his feet?’

  Fighting the instinct to hide the decree, she lifted her chin. ‘He’s–’

  ‘Ah, what have we here?’ Eskarnor snatched the leather folder from her, flipped it open and read the first couple of lines. His eyes narrowed.

  She looked over her shoulder for the closest servant.

  Before she knew what was happening, the baron had lifted her off her feet and stepped into a deserted bedchamber. He thrust the door closed. Holding her around the waist with one arm against his body, he carried her across to the bed, tossed the document folder onto it, flipped it open and read the decree.

  She tried to wriggle free, felt him harden.

  ‘Don’t stop. I like it when you fight back.’ He flipped the folder shut and straightened up, holding her against his body. ‘My, you have been busy. But then, I suspected as much.’ He grimaced. ‘For a people who pay no heed to other countries’ laws, you place a great deal of reliance on your own laws. Don’t you realise this decree is only a piece of paper with scribbles on it?’ He chuckled to himself as if it was a private joke.

  She glared over her shoulder at him. She hated bullies.

  He laughed, gesturing to the folder. ‘Sign your bit of paper. It means nothing in the long run.’

  She wanted to tell him they’d anticipated his plan. He wouldn’t disrupt the handover. Her son would be returned, the decree would be signed and, with the might of the church, the king and half the barons behind him, Prince Cedon would sit on the throne of Chalcedonia.

  His free hand began to tug at the drawstring of her pleated pants.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She tried to stop him.

  ‘Giving the king a reason to believe you and Nitzane are lovers. Be hard to explain away a brat.’

  ‘The king–’

  ‘Hasn’t been near you since we got back.’

  She jerked and twisted with all her strength, but it only excited him. He held her, face down on the bed, while he freed himself and settled himself in place. Then he hauled her up against his body.

  She was so angry she shook with rage. ‘I’ll tell–’

  ‘Nitzane? You think that puppy can stand against me?’ Eskarnor whispered. ‘You think those old Chalcedonian barons won’t bend over for me? They swore fealty to King Matxin. They’ll swear fealty to me. You think the church will do more than wring their hands and pray?’

  She tried to reach behind her to claw his face, but he caught her hand and laughed with excitement, his breath growing ragged. ‘Now that Charald the Great is in his dotage, there’s only one man who could stand against me, but you’re blind to him. You’re exiling him.’

  Then he was silent as he concentrated on his finish.

  She endured.

  When he was done, he pushed her down onto the bed while he laced up, then pulled her upright, turned her around and adjusted her breeches. ‘There, if that doesn’t do the trick. I can–’

  Her hand swung up.

  He caught it and pinned both her hands behind her back. Laughter lit his eyes. ‘They have no idea about you, do they?’

  ‘I’ll tell them you raped me.’

  ‘Who, Nitzane? He’ll challenge me to a duel. Out in the plaza where everyone can see, I’ll kill him in a fair fight.’ He saw her stricken expression. ‘No, you’ll keep quiet and hope I haven’t planted a babe.’

  He picked up the folder and handed it to her. ‘There you go. Get your bit of paper signed, but know this. Power is the only real law. I’m going to be sitting in the king’s chair, sleeping in his bed and fucking his queen by spring.’

  Blind with fury, she walked out.

  She wanted to break something. She wanted to slide a knife between his ribs. She...

  She walked into the king’s chamber to find Charald and Nitzane playing cards.

  ‘Cards?’ Jaraile muttered.

 
‘Cards.’ Nitzane looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Cards,’ Charald agreed. ‘I swear, it feels like a grey fog has lifted from my mind.’ He noticed the folder and gestured to the sideboard. ‘Just put it over there.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Nitzane asked her. ‘You look a little feverish.’

  ‘I think...’ She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks as Eskarnor’s words echoed in her mind – Charald the Great is in his dotage. ‘I think it would be a good idea if the king took a ride around the plaza this afternoon.’

  ‘A ride?’ Charald looked up. ‘I’d like that. I’m sick of being shut up inside.’

  Nitzane seemed uncertain.

  ‘The king is up to it,’ Jaraile assured him. He had to be. ‘A rest after lunch, then a ride around the plaza. The people need to see their king astride his horse.’

  Eskarnor needed to believe Charald was recovering. As much as she hated him, she needed King Charald the Great.

  IMOSHEN WRAPPED A cloak around her shoulders as she ran out of the palace and down to the sisterhood gate. It was dusk, and the gate guard was just lighting the lanterns. By their glow, she didn’t recognise either of the T’En men. But she did recognise Kyredeon striding up the causeway road with his two seconds.

  ‘We have a message from Adept Tobazim,’ the smaller of the two said.

  ‘And Captain Ardonyx,’ the big one added. ‘They gave us two copies in case one of us...’

  Imoshen nodded and took the message from the smaller man. As it started to rain again, she stepped under the gate arch to read. The two lanterns illuminated the archway above her and made the pouring rain to each side gleam like a shimmering curtain. Kiane shifted uneasily as Imoshen tilted the message to the light. One glance told her the news was dire indeed.

  ‘What are my brotherhood warriors doing, reporting to the sisterhood?’ Kyredeon demanded, as he strode into the confined space under the arch.

  ‘These T’Enatuath warriors are reporting to the causare,’ Imoshen said. She wanted to back off and put more distance between them, but the all-father would see that as a weakness. She met his eyes. ‘We have to leave the city within the next couple of days, or we’ll never reach port.’