EXILE'S RETURN

by Kate Jacoby

  She made it as far as the top of the stairs down to the wall before Robert spoke. “Jenny?” She stopped and turned back to face him. Once she did, he didn’t really know what to say. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

  “About as careful as you. Goodbye, Robert.”

  The stairs took her away quickly, but before he could even move, a last single thought floated into his mind.

  And I don’t know where you got the idea I wanted to be finally rid of you. I never said anything of the kind.

  Micah had the horses saddled and ready for their pre-dawn departure. Robert was already yawning from little more than an hour’s sleep. But before he could mount up, Bella appeared out of the darkness and strode across the courtyard towards them.

  “I thought you’d do something like this,” she murmured a little acidly.

  “Am I so transparent?” Robert replied.

  “Sometimes, yes—but then, I suppose I know a different side to you most people don’t see.”

  “And which one is that?”

  “The irritating one.”

  “Ah,” Robert grinned. “Then you will find you have a lot in common with your sister.”

  “May I speak to you before you go?” Bella moved away from the horses, Micah and the stable boy who held the animals. “Tell me honestly. You say she has the Mark of our House. Have you seen it?”

  “I have.”

  “And you are certain she is my sister?”

  “I have no doubts at all. Do you?” Robert studied Bella, afraid to say more.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Bella sighed. “But I do want to apologize for yesterday. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. It’s just that I was so shocked—and I was afraid of what it would mean to father—if there should be some mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake. And perhaps your apology would be better served if you made it to Jenn.”

  Bella frowned and looked up at him. “There’s something that troubles me, however. You insist she was taken during the Troubles? But how? The only children who were taken were boys from the families directly involved in the feuds. My father had no part in that, so why would anyone take his daughter? Who would take her—and why was nothing ever said about it later? And why...”

  “Why would she turn up, years later, alive and well, when the others have never been seen again? I can’t tell you. I doubt we’ll ever know. It’s so long ago now that even if we did find the person responsible, I doubt they would admit to it—or be able to give you a reason why.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Robert glanced back at Micah then up at the keep. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, Bella, but I want you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Be kind to her. I don’t think she’s had much of that in her strange life. She remembers nothing of Elita. She’s independent, irritating and intensely curious. She also has an extraordinary ability to take change in her stride. She’s very tough but even so, in agreeing to come here, she has made herself vulnerable and she knows it. She’ll resist you and try your patience—but all the same, be kind to her, please.”

  Bella studied his face for a moment. “I thought the great Earl of Dunlorn cared for nothing.”

  Robert held her gaze. “Will you?”

  She nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Then, goodbye, Bella—and thank you for your hospitality.”

  Robert turned and climbed on to his horse. Micah drew alongside him as they rode through the gate. With the castle receding into the distance, the first rays of morning crept over the cloud-shadowed ridge.

  “Well, my lord, I suppose it could be worse,” Micah ventured. “It could be snowing.”

  Robert glanced at him and couldn’t help smiling. “Micah, you’re a dear and faithful friend, but timing was never your greatest virtue.”

  “My lord?”

  Robert raised his hand and pointed skywards. “Look up.”

  Chapter 9

  Vaughn stood on his balcony and gazed down at the lights of the city. In the early darkness of the winter evening, torches lined the causeway leading to the mount, following the road up until it reached the square below him. Opposite the Guilde Hall, the imposing Basilica was ablaze with orange and surrounded by crowds of city folk, waiting in silence.

  The Basilica also waited, lit from inside by a thousand candles. Tall pillars and smooth arches dwarfed the statues of saints atop the door and played counterpoint to the castle wall. Beyond, now in almost complete darkness, the keep stood like a shadow against the sky, a stormcloud of grey stone, silent and uncompromising.

  Vaughn grimaced up at the sky as the first few snowflakes drifted down. Of course, it was too much to expect fortune to smile on him all the time. This night had its own advantages, both for his beloved Guilde and for himself. After all, it was not every day one was witness to the funeral of a bishop.

  He turned and went back inside where it was warm. Osbert, dressed in his formal bright yellow robes, waited on him. Round and soft. That was always how Vaughn thought of this man, that’s how Osbert appeared, but it was far from the truth. Osbert had few real talents but he did have the ability to organize the host who worked for them in secret. Osbert called them his legions and in truth, Vaughn knew very little about them. He didn’t want to. All he wanted from them was results.

  “I’m beginning to lose patience, Osbert,” Vaughn grunted. He picked up his fur-lined cape and drew it across his shoulders. “How long am I to wait before you bring me this evidence? All I’ve had so far are vague reports, suspicions and your assurances that you can get me what I need. If you cannot, why am I wasting my gold?”

  “My lord,” Osbert began carefully, “I did warn you at the outset that it might take some time. The situation is very precarious. My man can’t get messages to me every day. He would be suspected. I hope by summer.”

  “I can’t wait until the summer!” Vaughn snapped. “Have you no idea how important this is? Especially now that Domnhall is finally dead! After all the work we’ve done, the depth to which we are involved—something like this can easily destroy all our plans. Domnhall is gone, yes, and we have our new law, have the hospices officially under our jurisdiction, but the Church tarries. It could take years for them to pass the work on to us fully. In the meantime, there are demands on our resources that must be recompensed. And if we are to support the King further Vaughn didn’t finish the sentence. This was not the time to be telling Osbert of their future plans, their future glory. No. First he needed Osbert to complete this one mission.

  “I need firm evidence by spring, Osbert. I will wait no longer. Something is going on at Dunwyn. Blair is playing a very dangerous game and I must know what he plans to do. The King must know. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Vaughn nodded. It was time to go; Lewis was waiting for him in the concourse. Together they made their way across the square.

  The chant of monks in the quire filled the Basilica with a gentle harmonious glow, like a thick warm carpet on a stone floor. It softened the arches above and the booted feet of those arriving to pay their final respects. Before the altar a priest bowed to the wood-carved image of the Trilogy, famous throughout Lusara for its fine workmanship. Both candles and incense burned and filled the Basilica with a cloying scent of honey and myrrh. They took their familiar places to the left of the quire and sat alone, in the stalls set aside for the Guilde.

  Placing his hands on his lap, Vaughn glanced at the dome above and followed its lines down to the altar. He’d never much liked this Church; it was always dark and serious, deliberately trying to invoke the mysterious spirit of the gods. It was pathetic. The Church had long ago lost its connection with the deities. Now it was just an empty tradition, a worthless shell in which the people still held overwhelming faith.

  Well, no more.

  Tomorrow evening, the clergy would gather within the chapter house and elect the man who would take
Domnhall’s place. A man who would help his people and join together once more with the Guilde. That at any rate was what Vaughn hoped. Despite the fact that all his plans rested on the outcome of that election, he was powerless to control it.

  Vaughn clenched his hands into the soft folds of his robe. He was not sorry Domnhall was dead. For the last thirty years, Domnhall’s primacy had blocked every move Vaughn had made to advance the Guilde. But now the time had come for change. Domnhall had been a reformer, trying to bring the Church back to its former glory. But reformer or not, his intransigence had driven a wedge between Church and Guilde.

  Yes, time indeed for a change. It was time for the Guilde to rise once more. They had the sacred trust given them by the gods themselves. The trust to care and hold knowledge, to teach and learn, to record and witness. These were not light burdens, but the backbone on which society depended. Without the caretaking of the Guilde, mankind would never have survived the Dawn of Ages, never have passed through the barrier of time, and certainly never have lived through the following thousand years.

  Vaughn took a deep calming breath and settled in as much comfort as this bleak place would allow. The only obstacle was tomorrow’s synod and the man the Church would choose as the new primate—but no matter what, Vaughn would find a way to ensure success!

  As the clergy formed two lines before the altar, Vaughn pondered. He would find a way, no matter what.

  Osbert opened the door to the study and Vaughn flew past him. “By the blood, two hours of that dreary mass—and for what? So we can all sit there and pretend we’re sorry Domnhall’s no longer with us? Come inside, Lewis, and shut that door!”

  He loosened the ties around his throat and snatched the cup of wine Osbert handed him. “Thank the gods that’s the end of him!”

  Lewis’s sallow face turned to him. “There are plenty who will miss him.”

  “Not nearly so many as he would have liked, I’m sure!” Vaughn snapped. Two hours sitting in the maudlin confines of the Basilica while his hands and feet froze had done nothing to still his agitation. Seeing Hilderic handling the ceremony had only made it worse. Now if he should take the primacy. ..

  “Osbert, I have a task for you.”

  “Yes, my lord?” Osbert hovered close by the fire, his hands behind his back.

  “I need someone inside the chapter house tomorrow night. I must know how the vote goes—who will stand with us and who against.”

  “My lord?”

  “Don’t be a fool, man, you know what I’m talking about,” Vaughn snapped. “You know the King and I have discussed Domnhall’s successor. Selar has made his wishes quite clear to the synod. It is to be either Brome or Quinn. Now I need someone in there to make sure they understand that.”

  Osbert shook his head. “But the only man I have who could get in there without being discovered is Nash and he’s on his way out of Marsay tonight.”

  “Then stop him! Go, now. I don’t care if the election is closed.” Vaughn drained his wine and slammed the cup down on the desk. “I will know what happens!”

  The stone floor was cold beneath Rosalind’s knees. It made her joints burn, her back ache. She took the pain in, dwelt on it, drowned in it. Fire and ice, agony and isolation. Alone, she prayed.

  The Basilica was almost empty now; the last of the court had faded away. The Church guard stood waiting for her to leave before lifting Domnhall’s body and taking it away. When they did, they would take her hope with it.

  Selar meant to do it. He would start a war with Mayenne. He would tear Lusara apart, bring the Church to its knees, and all because of his desire for bloody revenge. Revenge for being born younger than Tirone, for being favoured by his father and then cast aside when his ailing brother grew stronger. Revenge for having to support Tirone when the barons of Mayenne revolted after their father’s death. Revenge for Tirone pushing him out of Mayenne and into Lusara. Revenge for leaving him there to live or die alone, for trying to kill him.

  Simple revenge, and yet it would cost the lives of thousands of Lusarans. It would destroy the country her son would one day rule. Dear, sweet, wounded Lusara. In agony. Isolated. Those who saw her pain could do nothing about it. The rest were blind.

  And Rosalind saw it all, felt it all, but now that Domnhall was dead, there was no one left to stop it, no voice to rise above the rest. No saviour.

  She let her folded hands drop to her sides. Inside her a voice cried out for her to have faith, but she was deaf to its call. Stiffly, she rose to her feet, glanced briefly at the trium then turned around and walked away.

  He fell.

  Slipping, screaming, tumbling down the slimy riverbank. Icy water sucked away his breath, crashed in on his skull, blinded him, deafened him. Only the old mans triumphant laughter echoed in his mind. Then the pain. The agony of the cold driving into his bones, his clothes full of water, dragging him down, the blade of betrayal slicing the air from his lungs. Inky darkness swirled around him as the river pushed him along. His mouth opened, filled with freezing poison. He struggled, flailed his arms around, crashed into rocks and logs, his cloak, sword. Nowhere could he find the surface. There was nothing to grasp, nothing but the torrent shoving him further towards hell. Pounding in his ears, pain in his chest. He had to breathe but there was only the water. He was drowning.

  Something hit his arm. He could hardly feel it, his flesh was so numb. He stopped moving. His chest ached and he knew he would have to draw breath now. It was time to die.

  Then he was moving again and suddenly his head came free of the water. More pain in his arms as something gripped him hard, held his head high. Like a cry, he gasped in real air, coughing and choking—but it was not water and he gulped in again.

  There was a voice. Somewhere in the darkness, someone was talking to him. Calm. Comforting. Solid. Strong. He caught hold of the voice, focused on it. Steadily he was dragged forward until he felt a hard surface behind his back. He was lifted up on to the river bank. He lay there, exhausted. In the night, he opened his eyes and saw the stars above, dusted across the sky.

  Then the voice again. “How do you feel? Can you speak?”

  He turned his head as a cloak was laid over him. He looked up at the man who had saved his life. But this was no man. This was a boy. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Concerned eyes gazed down at him, eyes of a green so deep it was visible even in the darkness.

  He nodded and tried to sit up, unable to take his gaze from those eyes. Then suddenly the young face changed, shifted and shimmered and, abruptly, it was Carlan kneeling there beside him. The old man’s black eyes laughed at him, his white hair a mockery of the night, the wizened face creased in a triumphant sneer.

  “Now I have you! Now you are mine!” the old man screeched.. .

  Selar sat bolt upright in bed, gasping in air. For a second he couldn’t remember where he was. He turned his head this way and that until his eyes caught the glimmer of pre-dawn light through the window and things shifted back into their familiar places.

  His breath steady now, he reached up and pushed hair back from his sweat-drenched face. He leaned over to the table by the bed and grabbed the wine cup which always sat there. But it was empty. Cursing and bone-weary, Selar shoved back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. From there he stumbled to the cabinet by the window and drained the flask of wine which sat there.

  Damned nightmare!

  There was another flask, this one full. He took that, grabbed a blanket and headed for the window. He pushed the shutter wide open and sank down on the padded seat. Outside a frail mist had settled on the valley and would last until the sun had risen properly. The air was cold, but Selar drank it in, even as it reminded him of his twisted dream.

  It wasn’t the truth. Just a perversion of it. He’d only been in the river a minute or so before Robert had pulled him out. And Carlan hadn’t been there. Not then. Not afterwards. Carlan had only been there to push him into the water.

  Selar took
another mouthful of the wine, letting the bitter flavour wake his mouth and warm his stomach. He pulled the blanket up around both shoulders but he didn’t feel cold. No. He felt empty.

  The battle of Seluth, almost fourteen years ago. He’d been looking for Carlan. Just as the battle had edged towards victory, the old man had wandered off. Selar had gone searching for him, wanting to share the triumph with the man who had been instrumental in achieving it. Although it had been Selar’s idea to invade Lusara, it had been Carlan who had first pointed out the instability of the warring Houses, the weakness of the King. Without those, Selar would never have dreamed of taking arms against Lusara. She was too strong, always had been.

  And he’d found Carlan. By that river. The old man had stood there, his black eyes glinting in the evening light. He’d stood there, held out his grizzled hand and said Selar was now his creature. Like a frightened child, Selar had recoiled, and in response, Carlan had pushed him backwards into the river.

  Betrayal. Like all the others, Carlan had betrayed him. All of them had betrayed. All except...

  But Robert had left. Deserted him. Left him drowning as surely as if he’d walked away from that river all those years ago. He’d gone because he wouldn’t break his oath of fealty. Because he wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t give in to those who battled against his ideals. And Selar had needed him to bend.

  Yes, it was best that Robert was gone. Selar was alone now—but alone, no one could stop him.

  George, Earl of Kandar and Knight of the Realm, paused by the garden gate, his hand on the latch. In summer this was easily one of the most beautiful places in the castle and even now, in the depths of winter, it still held a certain charm. But it was not the beauty of the garden George had come to see, it was the fur-cloaked presence seated on a bench by the pond.