Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “Certainly. It’s Freath.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “For when you kill me, do you mean?”

  “There’s no violence in me, so I doubt your death will be by my hand.”

  “Shall we get on?”

  Clovis could see Kirin’s jaw grind. Moments later Kirin opened his eyes. “The woman does not lie. She has visions. They are reliable but they are infrequent. There, satisfied? Whether I’m right or wrong is up to you now to decide but I’ve done as you’ve asked. I trust Master Clovis is safe?”

  “For the time being,” Freath said. But as Kirin moved away, he stopped him again. “Not so fast, Master Kirin. Your friend is safe at this moment because of what you told me about this woman. But now I wish you to give me similar insight into everyone gathered. I presume you’d happily lie about Master Clovis so we’ll leave him out of it. Let’s begin with…Jervyn of Medhaven.”

  Kirin hung his head. Clovis understood now that his friend was indeed torn between two evils. He didn’t want to display his skills but at the same time lives were in the balance, especially his and he realized as new as their friendship was, Kirin would not easily let Clovis suffer.

  “Jervyn has no ability to divine using water, the man who claims to make things disappear is a conjuror at best, the woman who can understand animals is simply very good with them—she has no magic. The healer woman is very talented at what she does. The girl who reads blood is simply ghoulish but the boy who dreams the future possibly has an untapped skill. Old Torren can make things grow—he has limited but unique power…” On Kirin went, as though reciting from a list in his head, damning some and saving others. All the while he seemed to shrink. By the end of it he looked haggard.

  “Master Kirin, are you unwell?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Make room for him to lie down,” Freath ordered. By now the chamber had quietly split itself into two groups: those Kirin had denounced and those he had supported. It was only those from this latter group who moved to help. The others, rather understandably, Clovis realized, would have happily let him drop dead. Freath called for a guard and ordered that Kirin be seen to. Shortly after they carried his friend away, Stracker returned to the chamber.

  “Well, Freath, how have you fared?”

  “I have chosen.”

  “Good. Give me the names.”

  “What will happen to the rest of these folk?”

  “Never you mind,” Stracker said, though his smile was malicious.

  “But I do mind. I wish to speak with your leader.”

  Stracker laughed aloud. “No.”

  “Then you will risk his wrath. He will want to know what I have discovered.”

  “Stop worrying, Freath. They’re all safe, because they all have talents. Choose the pair you want.”

  “They are all safe?” Freath confirmed.

  “I give you my word. Now hurry, please. I have to report to Loethar.”

  Freath began. “Everyone over here is of no use to me. The people over here possess unique skills that your leader should know about, especially the middle-aged woman. The older one is a talented healer, which I’m sure will be handy for you, and the youngster has valuable insights through dreams. The old man uses a magic of his own to make things grow—again a rare talent, one you should make good use of.”

  “And the jokers?”

  “They’re my choice, Stracker. Masters Clovis and Kirin are mine.”

  “I passed the younger one on my way in. He looks half dead. Are you sure you want him?”

  “I’m sure. Now let me go check on him.”

  Stracker stepped back, sneering as Freath passed by. As soon as Freath had gone, the barbarian called his guards.

  “Take this lot away,” he said, pointing to those Kirin had named as untalented. “You know what to do.”

  Men and women from that group instantly began to cry out, screaming for mercy. Clovis pulled Reuth, Torren, the youth, the silent young woman, the old man and the older woman back toward the window.

  “You lot wait here. Don’t try anything foolish,” Stracker warned and was gone before they’d even had a chance to finish mumbling their agreement.

  Gavriel was nearing the kitchen and although the walls were impenetrable here, he found himself tiptoeing. Fear and anticipation were combining to put him on edge. He was very aware that Leo would be counting the minutes as well and the longer he was away the more anxious the king would become. This was the first time in two days he was no longer within touching distance of his charge and that was making him additionally nervous. His father’s words rang ominously in his mind: “Do not leave him for so much as a second. You and he must all but inhale the same breath of air,” De Vis had ordered before he’d squeezed his son’s shoulder and gestured to his twin to follow him. Gavriel had not been privy to Corbel’s journey or where he would go after he had killed the baby. Though Gavriel knew Corbel could not, would not have ever denied his father anything, this murder of an innocent was cruel to ask of anyone.

  Gavriel’s stomach complained loudly of its emptiness and he banished thoughts of his family. The sound seemed to echo around the tiny alley of the ingress that he was now crawling along as the roof of the secret tunnel dropped low. He could see the glints of shiny pots and pans in the distance through a grille, which he’d reached on his belly. He had to admit he’d never noticed the cunning opening so high in the kitchens. But then the kitchens themselves were a vast complex of chambers and everyone who entered had their mind on food, eyes always drawn to the endless array of pies, breads, stews, roasts, custards and tarts that seemed to continuously be coming from the ovens and cooking areas.

  He looked out now into the kitchen and was relieved to find it deserted, though it seemed so unnatural. Cook always had someone on duty to stir the pot of porridge or prepare vegetables for the next day, keep the ovens stoked. The kitchens never slept but this dawn—he thought he could hear the first stirrings of the larks outside—it was silent and lonely. No doubt a reflection of the whole palace. Still, desertion suited his needs.

  The sky was beginning to lighten, throwing some murky but nonetheless welcome illumination into the cavernous chamber through the high windows. He squinted into the dimness, scanning quickly for any easy way to get to food. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to climb down and make a dash for the larder. Any stale bread, overripe fruit, perhaps even soup left to allow its fat to separate would do.

  But there was nothing left out. Nothing! “Lo’s wrath!” Gavriel cursed, knowing he had no choice now but to put himself into the vulnerable situation of having to come out into the open of the kitchen, make his way across the entire chamber to the pantry and cold larder and then steal back with whatever food he could loot and carry and, more importantly, climb back up through the small hole with. Lucky his father had insisted he and Corbel stay so lean. They used to joke that their father deliberately starved them to make real men of them. The truth was the legate simply maintained that a trim man was a healthy one; a lean man could run faster, ride easier, and last longer in any sort of stamina contest.

  Gavriel slipped his fingers through the grate to see about unhooking it. Just then he heard a light humming sound—a woman’s voice. He pulled his hands back as if burned.

  Lo’s balls! he swore silently. It would have been a catastrophe if he’d been caught hanging out of the opening. He watched the woman move around the kitchen and realized she was Genrie. Her hair was not pinned up today. It made her look younger, less stern, and the wavy auburn tresses shone as the light hit them. It mattered not that her face was bruised from Stracker’s battering; she was still delicious to him. Lost in her activity, she began to hum softly and Gavriel found her voice suddenly sweet and comforting. She awkwardly set about pulling out a haunch of cold meat from storage, then a round of cheese from the larder. She sniffed a pail of milk from the cool room for freshness and poured some into a small covered flask spilling only a
little. After she set some oats on to cook in a pot over the embers, she brought out a pouch of nuts along with some apples. Gavriel imagined she was up before the birds to either break her own fast or she had been asked to prepare something for one of the barbarians. Either way she didn’t look practiced and he could understand why. This was not her domain. Cook would be furious to see the haphazard manner in which everything was being pulled out and left to clutter the freshly scrubbed working table. There was no order to what she was doing—which was odd because Genrie seemed so very tidy and controlled.

  He flinched when she called out. “Tatie…are you there? Lo save me, is anyone up this morning?”

  There was no reply. He watched Genrie give an exaggerated huff of disgust before she flounced off, muttering aloud, “Well, I’ll just have to drag the ale barrel up myself though why they’d need that at this time is beyond me.” She disappeared down a corridor leading from the kitchen toward the main palace cellar.

  Gavriel couldn’t believe his luck. Without waiting a moment longer, he unhooked the grate and lightly lowered himself to the ground. Hurrying to the food scattered over the bench, he hacked off some of the ham, pushing it into his pocket carelessly. He’d have to think about using a shirt to carry food another time. He stuffed apples into the other pocket with a couple of handfuls of nuts and seeds. Slicing off some cheese and bread, he threw those hunks into his shirt to scratch against his skin. He knew Leo wouldn’t care. Paupers can’t be fussy, Gavriel heard one of his tutor’s favorite adages in his mind, although his tutor certainly hadn’t meant for it to be applied to the King of Penraven. In his panic the notion nearly made him laugh aloud. He looked over his shoulder; there was no sign of Genrie, but it wouldn’t be long before she or someone else would turn up. As a last thought, he grabbed the flask of milk. She would be furious but he hoped she would forget about it, put it down to someone lazy passing through the kitchens and grabbing whatever was around. She’d never suspect it was the missing duo—she probably wasn’t even privy to their disappearance and the subsequent search underway. And even if she was, Gavriel reasoned as he hoisted himself back up to the grate’s opening, the ring on the flask’s lid dangling delicately from his clenched teeth, she hated Loethar and surely would not share her suspicions.

  He heard her humming again down the corridor and winced at the soft clank the milk flask made as he accidentally put it down too hard in his rush to get onto the safe side of the grate. But she obviously didn’t hear it. With his heart pounding from the close call he slid the plate back across the opening just before Genrie returned, wiping dusty hands on her apron. He had been careful not to take much. Only the cannister of milk could be instantly noticed as missing. But Genrie did not seem to notice anything amiss and Gavriel was able to let out his breath slowly. Finally, when he was sure his heart had slowed enough for him to steal backward on his belly, he blew Genrie a soft, silent kiss.

  “Pretty but dim,” he said, intensely grateful that she had not lived up to the sharp intelligence he had always presumed she possessed. “Pity.”

  And he was gone, relieved and also a tiny bit smug that he and Leo might survive another day—this time with full bellies.

  Eleven

  Kirin blinked. He had no idea where he was.

  “There you are,” a kind voice said. “You had us worried.” Nausea suddenly rose in Kirin’s throat and he found he couldn’t respond.

  “Don’t speak,” the man said. “Take your time. I can answer some questions I’m sure you have. You’re still at Brighthelm Palace and you’ve been brought to the infirmary. I’m Father Briar and I belong to Brighthelm’s church, which is essentially Penraven’s spiritual home. I also look after the private chapel in which the royals worship. You’ve been here for just over four hours. I imagine you’re thirsty, so I’m going to try and help you sit up and sip from this cup of water.”

  Kirin felt an arm slip beneath his shoulders, smelled peppermint tea on the man’s breath.

  “Help me if you can, Master Kirin,” the priest said gently.

  Kirin didn’t want to move. He liked the soft voice and all of its reassurance but he was sure moving meant throwing up. He knew this feeling, had hoped he’d never experience it again. As expected, as Father Briar hauled him up, Kirin retched.

  “Oops, here we go,” the clergyman said, getting a bowl in front of Kirin just in time. “Go ahead, don’t be embarrassed. I’m a man of Lo but I also think I’m a frustrated physician.” Kirin could hear the smile in the man’s voice.

  “Water,” he croaked and the man immediately reached for the cup.

  It was cool and sweet. Kirin felt his body relax. He wouldn’t be retching again—a small blessing. “Thank you,” he managed to say, before leaning back helplessly onto the pillows.

  “Let me go clean this up,” the clergyman said and Kirin was suddenly alone. It was not unpleasant. He could hear birds twittering outside somewhere and the air inside was moving gently so he assumed a window was nearby. The light in the room was bright—it must be midday or so, if he’d been unconscious for the time the priest mentioned. With the gentle sounds around him he could almost believe that he had dreamed the invasion of the barbarian horde but the surprise that he was no longer dressed and the arrival of the stranger called Freath told him he was not in any dream.

  “Awake? Good. We must talk.”

  Kirin checked he was fully covered by the sheet. “Where are the others?” he croaked, finding his scowl. He cast an eye around for his clothes and especially his boots.

  “Dead, probably. Our new masters have, in their wisdom, chosen to kill the few empowered people who likely could have been of help in whatever cause they chose them for.”

  Kirin felt the shock of this news ripple through him as though a bolt of thunder was passing via his body. He couldn’t speak for a moment.

  “All dead?” he finally uttered, his numb lips hardly moving.

  Freath shifted uncomfortably. “No. Your friend Master Clovis is safe, as well as the woman Reuth. I rather hoped the old man, older woman and the boy might survive.”

  In equal measure and with similar force as the numbness, relief now flooded Kirin. “Clovis is safe?” he repeated.

  “You and he now work for me.”

  Kirin wasn’t sure he understood but he pressed on, his voice finding its timbre and volume at last. “And what is it exactly that Clovis and I are supposed to do?” he said, risking sitting up. Giving a groan, he put a hand to his head. “Where are my things? Can you see my boots?”

  “Is it wise to sit up?”

  “It will pass,” Kirin said gruffly. “My stuff?”

  “We’ll find it. What is wrong with you—do we know yet?”

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to enlighten me?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I despise you.”

  Freath took a seat next to the bed. “I know.”

  Kirin stood and turned away, in a deliberate snub. “You and your savage employer have let talented people go to their death.”

  “Were they really talented?”

  “Did it matter?”

  “To me it did.”

  “Why?” Kirin said, rounding on Freath.

  “I needed to know that I had genuinely skilled practitioners of magic. Now I do.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’m sure, Master Kirin,” Freath replied calmly.

  “And they were all talented in their own way,” Kirin added, his voice becoming more ragged. “Anyone who can make plants grow in spite of disease or poor rains is a wizard. Anyone who can heal using only touch and herbs is surely a living marvel. Even the mere conjuror possessed the skill of being a magician. Surely these people were innocent enough to be saved! Loethar’s already conquered the Set—he’s got nothing to lose by letting people live, letting people try and get on now.”

  “Does he not?” Freath asked, dropping his piercing blue st
are as the priest re-emerged.

  “Ah, you’re up, Master Kirin. Do you feel a little steadier?”

  “Er yes, thank you, Father…?”

  “Briar,” the man repeated.

  “That’s right.” Kirin shook his head slightly, embarrassed. “Thank you, Father Briar. Er, where are my boots…my clothes?”

  “Perhaps Master Kirin could remain here a little longer, Master Freath?”

  “I think not. He looks fine.”

  “He’s hardly hale, Master Freath,” the priest protested.

  “No, but I think it’s best if he comes along with me now. Otherwise we all risk Emperor Loethar’s wrath.”

  “Emperor?” Kirin growled even though Freath’s grave expression did not change.

  “It’s the title he accords himself.”

  “And you, you treacherous bastard, go along with it to save your own neck.”

  Father Briar frowned, clearly uncomfortable, as Freath straightened and stood. “I saved yours too and that of your friend. You should be grateful to me. Now I shall not ask you politely again. Please follow me.”

  Kirin looked at the priest, who gave a sad, sympathetic smile. “Lo keep you safe, Master Kirin. I’ll fetch your things.”

  “I’ll just be outside,” Freath said. “It’s a lovely morning.”

  Kirin ignored him. The priest returned with his clothes. “Would you like some help getting dressed?”

  “No, I can manage. Er, who undressed me?”

  “I did. I took the liberty of having one of your socks darned.” He shrugged, smiled sadly. “A small kindness among all the fear and bloodshed goes a long way, I’m sure.”

  Kirin felt dizzy again. “I’m sure,” he muttered.

  “Master Kirin, do you—”

  “I’ll be all right. Just give me a few moments to dress. I’ll do it slowly.” He forced a brighter tone. “Take lots of deep breaths.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I am. Thank you for everything.”

  The priest nodded. “Be well, Master Kirin. I’ll leave you to Master Freath.”