King's Exile: Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound: Book 1

by William Culbertson

  #

  Leaving the bootblacks was harder than Dax had thought it would be. During the months he had worked there, he had developed a sense of belonging. The other boys expressed their disappointment as well. However comfortable it might have been to stay, he knew there was too much danger with the group’s connection to Holder’s enterprises—not to mention Lilly’s memory. Besides, if he was going to Iron Moor, he had to leave sometime. He had no desire to ever see Holder again. However, living with the bootblack boys, he had become one of them. Leaving felt like he was leaving a piece of himself behind. He had felt the same way when he had left the castle. How many pieces of himself did he have to lose?

  He was already living with Herne and Moryn most of the time. It would be hard, but the break would be easier if he just stopped going to the bootblacks. Rather than depart with no explanation, he took Hammer aside one day and quietly told him he was thinking of leaving soon. It was just as hard to say good-bye as he had feared, but Dax was careful to give no details of his actual plan. He had wanted to say good-bye to Hammer, and Herne had encouraged him. It would make his leave-taking seem more ordinary.

  Dax still had access to Tepp away from the bootblacks. The attack on Duke Maklyn’s caravan had yielded a rich haul, and Holder’s people were eager for more intelligence. Although nothing he had provided had matched the plunder from that raid, until he actually left the city, he planned to supply the man with any piece of information chosen by Herne to discomfort Mathilde and her people. Someone like Tepp dealt with many people on the margins of society. He would not miss Dax when Dax finally left.

  #

  Although the apartment was safer, staying with Herne and Moryn full-time created problems Dax had not considered. Outside Holder’s protection of the bootblacks, Dax was not safe on the streets, but being inside all the time made him restless. The apartment might be safe, but even Moryn could not keep him busy and entertained all the time. The longer he remained inside, the more he was filled with, as Herne would say, the fidgety-widgeties, to the point that even Moryn became annoyed.

  Finally Moryn came up with an idea that allowed Dax to get out of their apartment with some degree of safety. Since he had started living with Herne and Moryn, Dax once again bathed regularly. His old clothes, which he had worn at the bootblacks, were tattered and stained with polish. Moryn bought him new clothes, and Dax enjoyed being clean again. One day after Dax returned from the bathhouse down the street, Moryn took a comb to the snarls in his hair. It was long now, and today she had promised to trim it for him.

  Patiently she worked out the knots and tangles, then brushed in a little cream from one of the jars she kept by her side of her bed. Dax could not recall ever having had his hair brushed, but the strokes were familiar. A memory of sitting on someone’s lap who was humming and brushing his hair flitted through his head. His mother? But no, he would have been much too young—wouldn’t he? The memory was just a snippet, and he could not summon anything else, but the thought of his mother made his eyes prickle with moisture.

  Moryn put the brush down and admired her work. “Now you look good, and you smell good,” said Moryn. She played with his hair a bit, pulling it back and to one side, then the other. “Yes, if I had a daughter like you . . .” She stopped and quietly repeated, “A daughter like you.”

  Dax turned to look at her. Moryn’s eyes were dancing with excitement. “What?” he asked.

  “If you want a way to travel about the city unnoticed, you could dress as a girl. Your voice hasn’t yet changed, nor has your beard come in. Your hair is pretty enough.” She nodded. “Yes, if we get you the right clothes, I could introduce you as my niece visiting from the country, and no one would give you a second look.”

  Dax absorbed her idea and stayed quiet while Moryn finished brushing his hair. Thinking about dressing as a girl made him feel funny inside. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Oh, piffle. Sure you can. We’ll just get some girls’ clothes for you, and you’ll look just fine.”

  “No, I mean I really don’t know if I can dress like someone I’m not.”

  Moryn looked puzzled now, so Dax tried to explain. “I’ve never been able to tell a lie, and General Herne says the dragon-bound can’t lie. Not even a little fib. Every time I try, the words just freeze up in my mouth or something. If I really try hard to do it, I get a bad headache.”

  She smiled. “So if a guardsman on the street asked you if you were King Darius Ambergriff X, you would have to say yes.”

  “If I said anything at all,” Dax said with a sly smile. “I’ve found I don’t have to answer. I can keep my mouth shut.” He quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes I can answer in a way that is exactly true, but doesn’t sound like it. I might say to the guardsman, ‘Yes, and I think I should have you arrested for accosting me on the street.’ It would be the truth, but he would think it nothing but street bravado.”

  “That would take quick thinking.”

  “That’s why I usually keep my mouth shut.”

  She laughed and took up the brush again. “And you feel dressing like a girl would be a lie?”

  Dax relaxed with the stroke of the brush, but he thought about Moryn’s plan. “I don’t know. When you mentioned it . . .” He shrugged. “It makes me feel strange.”

  “Well, I think it would be a perfect disguise, at least for now. When Orin gets home, we’ll see what he says.”

  #

  Herne liked Moryn’s suggestion to disguise Dax as a young girl. Dax was still not keen on the idea, but they tried it that evening. Putting on a dress and wearing a clip in his hair did not seem to bother his dragon-bound sensibilities—whatever they were. He still could not visualize himself as a girl, but both Herne and Moryn stressed that he would be safer so camouflaged. Safe did not mean happy, but he did agree with their reasoning.

  Moryn took on the job of helping Dax learn how to dress and act like a girl, and she pursued it with an enthusiasm that soon became annoying. Since Herne had said it was good strategy, Dax resigned himself to the plan. However, that did not mean he liked it. Although he knew there was some danger in his occasional trips to feed information to his contact in Holder’s organization, he relished the opportunity to dress in his regular clothes. While he enjoyed being on the streets and comfortable, he had to keep a wary eye out for the guard.

  Over the next few weeks, Moryn worked with him constantly. She took one of her old dresses and cut it down to fit him. She also had to teach him how to wear it. Dax had not realized there were so many differences between boys and girls.

  “Don’t stomp, Leith.”

  “Small steps.”

  “A softer voice, please.”

  “Sit sideways on the chair.”

  “Ah, ah. Knees together, Leith.”

  Dax had thought Herne a task master, but Moryn was every bit as demanding. She watched him constantly and chided him every time he slipped. “You must live the part, Leith,” she reminded him time and again. “Habits are what we do when we aren’t thinking, and you have to behave this way without thinking.”

  “I think very little of this anyway,” he muttered. More firmly he said, “We don’t even know if I can pretend like this in public.”

  She smiled. “Of course you can. Leith really is one of your names—it’s handy that kings can have so many. You will not wear a mask or hide your face. You won’t have to tell anyone a lie. They will see you, see your clothes, and they will think what they will think.

  “Fortunately,” she continued, “your castle-bred manners will do nicely—as long as you don’t use those words you learned as a bootblack.”

  Dax looked sheepish. He had been trying hard to remember his manners. Moryn and Herne both acted very proper around the house, and he found himself living up to their standards—for the most part.

  He had to learn a whole new regimen of personal grooming. His hands were much too rough, so twice a day he had to soak them in buttermilk. O
nce his skin was soft, he washed his hands with rough soap to wear away the calluses. At night, Moryn supervised while he rubbed cream onto his face, arms, and other areas darkened over the summer by the sun. It made his skin tingle until she washed it off before he went to bed. She claimed it was making his skin lighter, but he did not notice much difference. He had already learned how to brush out his longer hair, but now he had to do it more often.

  His fingernails had been the hardest. Several months of black polish had built up under them, and no amount of scrubbing seemed to help. Finally, Moryn took a pair of short, stout scissors and trimmed his nails back to the quick. The tips of his fingers stung for a few days, but soaking and scrubbing finally removed the last of the black. Now his fingernails were too short, but Moryn said it would have to do—they would eventually grow out. She filed them smooth, then showed Dax how to keep them groomed.

  Dax thought Moryn had way too much enthusiasm for this project. Most of the girls Dax had seen on the street were not as carefully groomed as Dax was by now. “I look more like a girl than any of the other girls outside the castle,” he protested one day.

  “You haven’t seen how the girls dress in the nicer parts of the city,” Moryn said firmly. “Besides, the more you look the part of a proper young lady, the less likely some guardsman will see the boy king when he looks at you.”

  While he saw the merit of her statement, it did not make his work any easier or more pleasant. He wanted to swing a sword at Mathilde. Instead, he had to learn to walk and carry himself with poise and grace. Moryn frowned at the word he said in response.

  #

  Moryn made two more outfits for him from dresses she altered and salvaged from her own closet. She was not satisfied with her work, but Herne told her they would do while Dax learned to wear them. Dax practiced. He would rather have practiced wrestling or knee kicks, but he forced himself to wear a dress and not flinch at the touch of the skirt swirling about his legs. While he might learn to wear a dress, he was certain he would never feel at ease in one.

  There were countless other lessons to absorb, but Moryn made him spend hours each day learning needlework. They finally settled on knitting since she already had ample material for him to use, and he had enough dexterity to get by. She told him that no one would expect a young girl to be particularly good at it, but he would need to know some needlecraft.

  “Besides,” she said with a smile. “If you are sitting quietly doing needlework, the men in the room scarcely notice you. You often hear the most interesting things.”

  From sword craft to needlecraft in less than a year’s time. Dax sighed inwardly. Compared to losing the throne, it was a small concession, but he added it to the score he would settle someday with Mathilde and Keir. At least since the weather had turned colder, he had convinced Moryn that he needed to wear leggings under his dress when he went outdoors.

  #

  Over the winter months Dax became more comfortable and confident posing as a girl. He started going out in public, usually with either Moryn or Herne, but occasionally he ran an errand by himself. Several times Dax went along when Herne, in his Tulee persona, went visiting inns in Old Town. One evening they ended up talking with Baron Taftle of Northwood about the political situation.

  “Can’t say that Keir would be my first choice as king,” the baron said carefully, “but then again, that’s for the whole assembly to decide, isn’t it?”

  “The great houses do seem to be lining up in that direction ever since the boy king disappeared,” Herne offered as he took another sip of his ale. Dax sat quietly at the table with a glass of watered wine doing a simple flat knit pattern, which by now he could do without thinking while he listened.

  The baron was already well into his third mug. “Yes, bad situation that.” He wiped a dribble of ale from his chin and leaned a little closer to Herne. He lowered his voice, but since the baron had been getting louder ever since his first mug, Dax could still hear him clearly. “There’s funny business there somewhere, I figure.” He stabbed the tabletop with his finger for emphasis. “They says he’s run off, but I figure for somebody dropping him into a hole somewhere.” He nodded in emphasis but held up a finger to his lips. “I didn’t say that, you understand.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dax saw Herne glance at him, but Dax did not say a word. Moryn was right about girls and their needlework.

  The baron made a dismissive gesture. “Even if the boy king turned up again, he’d have only a part of the kingdom behind him. Then we’d really have a mess.”

  Herne lifted his mug and studied the contents. “What if Keir doesn’t become king?”

  “Oh, they’re lining up behind him, right enough.”

  Herne didn’t say anything, but arched his eyebrows questioningly at the baron.

  “Well, I suppose anything could happen then, couldn’t it?” The baron paused to take a handful of toasted nuts and another sip of ale. He set the mug down and looked reflective. “Now that would really be like a visit to the hen house in a thunderstorm, wouldn’t it? The Ambergriff line has been a long one. With the boy king’s aunt gone, and if there are no heirs or obvious successors . . .” Thoughtfully, he rubbed his finger back and forth in the pool of liquid that surrounded his mug. “Now each of the major houses has their own favorite son or daughter they’d want to put forward. Several of the lesser houses would have strong candidates too, some with a royal connection or two along their family tree.”

  He paused and politely controlled a belch before going on. “Right now I think the major houses are too evenly split to allow any of their candidates to take the throne. No, I’d bet on someone from one of the lesser houses—probably a respected senior member of some sort. That way the new king would at least command some measure of respect among the people while he did the bidding of the council.” The baron seemed to startle out of his musing on political intrigue and looked around embarrassed. “Oops. You always do this to me, Tulle. You give me the runs at the mouth end.” He chuckled then waved his hand decisively. “They’re going to make Keir king, and that’s both the long and the short of it.”

  Herne grinned at the baron and clapped him on the shoulder. “Trouble? Nonsense, Kebble. They love you up in Northwood. Besides, as long as you’ve known me, do I go spreading tales?”

  “No, you’re a good man.” Baron Taftle smiled and drained his mug. “You’re especially good about buying your share of the rounds.”

  “Always my pleasure when you’re in town. But we’ve got to be going.” Herne got to his feet and dropped some coppers on the table. “I promised to look after Wryn’s niece here while she’s off helping tend our neighbor’s sick baby.”

  “So you take the poor girl to an inn?” the baron winked at Dax.

  “Much healthier here than feeding her my own cooking,” laughed Herne merrily, and the baron joined in the mirth as they made their way out of the inn.

  On their way home Dax pondered what he saw when Herne dressed as Tulee. Tulee’s personality was lighthearted and talkative. Perfect for gossiping in the common room of an inn. At home Herne tended to be serious and dour, except around Moryn. Yet Dax saw honesty in all his roles. Which one was the real Herne? Could he be all of them? Perhaps it was possible to act differently in different contexts yet remain true to one’s self. Maybe he could be the girl Leith.

  #

  As the season eased into spring, the storms that blew in off the Western Ocean dropped water instead of snow. The political situation in the castle had not changed. Herne reported that since Keir was ruling as regent, he and Mathilde were taking their time building support among the nobles before they called for the formal meeting of the assembly.

  After listening to Herne describe the situation, Moryn said, “Their green shoots of spring will bloom in the summer.”

  “Most likely, my dear,” Herne said. “Most likely.”

  Although he had gotten comfortable living with Herne and Moryn, as the weather moderated, Dax
grew increasingly restless to move on with his plan. He looked at Herne and nodded his head. “So how do I get to Iron Moor?”

  Herne pulled at his chin with his callused left hand. “That question involves more than just travel arrangements. We have to think about the plotters. I’m sure they are still looking for signs of you.”

  “Is the Silver River route too obvious?” Moryn asked.

  “Yes and no. That would be the most direct route—sail north to Silverdale, then take a barge upriver. However, the last part of that trip is not easy. Since the Silver River goes wild above Pine Barrow, you would have to go overland from there on the trade route to Newham on the Circular Sea. Dinwiddie and the academy, however, lie on the north side of the Circular Sea, and you’d have to arrange a crossing. And you are right. They may also be watching in Silverdale.”

  Dax tried to picture the Circular Sea up in the northeast on the large map of West Landly he had studied with Evnissyen. In a moment Herne continued. “Leaving Tazzelton and going up the Ostdell River would lead you south of the Redbush Barrens, but the route north from there on the east side of barrens through Pine Barrow is mostly wilderness—not an easy trek. On east of the mountains is East Landly, but that’s a fair bit out of the way.”

  “Bington?” Moryn offered.

  “Longer, but maybe easier and safer,” Herne said. “That’s a fair sail north on the outside of Deadman’s Finger to Bington, but the Weston River runs strong and deep from Timberlake down to Bington. There’s a regular trade road from Timberlake directly to Dinwiddie.” He paused and frowned. “The only drawback is that every ship from Tazzelton headed outside the Finger makes a stop at Butterock Haven. If our friends are looking anywhere, they are looking there.”

  They did not come to any conclusions that night. The next evening, Herne was particularly stone-faced when he returned from the castle. Even Moryn could not bring a smile to his face. After a silent supper, Moryn led them into the main room by the fire. Herne settled into his favorite chair, and she brought him a glass of wine from the kitchen before she sat down. Herne did not usually drink in the evenings at home, but this night he took a large swallow of wine, stared into the fire, and sighed.