Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “No. Utterly relieved. Now let’s get out of here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “No idea, your majesty. But my plan is to put as much distance between us and Brighthelm as we can. We’ll keep heading north and then think about where to go once we feel a bit safer.”

  “I’m ready. After you, Legate De Vis!”

  The two warriors had already entered the first courtyard but Valya had been straggling and was now twenty, maybe almost thirty strides behind the pair. She didn’t care much for this gloomy castle, much preferring Graystone, her family’s hall in Droste.

  The scenery of Droste was more lush, with softer hues and rounder lines. Penraven appeared jagged, more elemental, with its sea nearby and rocky cliffs. Although the forest she had just begun to explore was certainly dense and rich with sounds and colors. It could grow on her—would have to, in fact, if she would be forced to make this home. And even Penraven would be better than the garforsaken Steppes—those treeless plains that Loethar called home. She would rather die than live there, on land too dry to support a forest and yet not dry enough to be a desert. But it might as well be! she said to herself uncharitably as she thought of the tented villages in which the tribes lived. The tribesmen, without boundless water with which to wash regularly, smelled of the horses they raised. Loethar didn’t fit in there, really. And yet he also stood very much on the outside of the people like herself. She was more in tune with the people of the Set than he could ever be.

  She heard a familiar cawing sound and looked back over her shoulder to see Vyk lifting from a window of the small suite of rooms in the castle in which Loethar had chosen to live. His suite was far away from her chambers. So far, in fact, that it didn’t seem likely she would feel the warmth of his skin any time soon. She sighed to herself as she watched Vyk glide away toward the woods; the bird had more attention from its master than she did these days. She followed its flight, wistfully thinking about how she might dissolve the current standoff that had seemed to erupt between them, when her attention was caught by a flash of movement.

  She halted her horse and squinted into the distance. Males. One taller; both, she thought, seemed young and were running hard. Poachers? Did it matter?

  “You!” she called out to the Green, instantly embarrassed that she had not bothered to learn his name.

  The Green turned slowly, his dark gaze showing its usual disinterest, bordering on disdain.

  “I just saw something.” Stupid! she told herself—her words were stupid. “Men!” she corrected.

  “Men?”

  “Well, youths, perhaps. I’m not sure.”

  “Why is that worth mentioning?”

  “They were running.”

  “Boys tend to do that,” the Green said sourly.

  “They looked stealthy.”

  His mouth shaped itself into a smirk. “Stealthy?”

  She pointed, exasperated. “They ran into the woods. It was furtive, I tell you.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t you want to check and see what they are doing?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Why?”

  Valya vented her frustration with a groan. “Because who knows what they’re up to. They could be the enemy.”

  “We are in enemy territory. It is highly likely you saw locals but I doubt they can trouble us if they are merely two boys.”

  “Not just boys. Oh, I can’t be sure,” she tried to correct again. “Young. One tall. Running. Furtive.”

  “Were they carrying weapons?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t see. A sword, perhaps. Possibly a bow. I couldn’t see properly and I just got a glimpse of them.”

  “A single sword—perhaps a bow—against the might of the tribes that have already crushed their realm?” The Green paused, shook his head. “I doubt we need to panic.”

  She flinched at his sarcasm even though he had kept his tone even. “We should tell Loethar.”

  “You think it’s worth alerting the leader of the entire barbarian tribes—the new Emperor of the Set—about two running people?”

  “I do,” she persisted.

  “Then you can tell him.”

  Valya made a sound of exasperation. “At least send people to check. I can show—”

  “Our chieftain has ordered us to bring you before him. That is my duty. Do not force me to carry you.”

  She stared at the man in frustration, his tatua looking all the more sinister for the snarl in his expression. Valya momentarily considered ignoring him and ordering anyone who would listen to her to chase down the two fellows but something in the way he climbed down from his horse told her he meant every word. He would chase her instead and drag her—probably by her hair and screaming—back into the castle. And that would not do. Her status among these men was fragile enough and dependent entirely upon Loethar’s indulgence. This warrior would relish the chance to belittle her on the premise of following orders…and then all the Greens and no doubt the Blues and Reds would privately celebrate that the Droste whore had been cowed. She would not give him that satisfaction.

  “As you wish,” she said, briskly clicking at her horse to continue. “I shall mention it to Loethar.”

  He simply gave her a sly smile and turned his great back on her. Valya fumed. She would make him pay for these last few moments.

  After running full pelt for as long as their lungs would permit, they’d stopped, bent over and sucking in air. Gavriel felt as though they’d been crashing through the woodland for an eternity.

  Leo recovered more quickly than he did. “We’ve made some good ground,” the king said, breathing hard.

  “I worry they’ve seen us,” Gavriel gasped.

  The king replied with a confident shake of his head. “We’d hear horses if they had.”

  “We have to keep moving,” Gavriel said, straightening but feeling his chest protest.

  “Where to?”

  Gavriel shrugged. “Let’s follow the line of the woods—the Deloran Forest thickens as it goes north. Where is the rebel you spoke of?”

  Leo shrugged. “No idea. North is all I know. I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

  “Well, we can’t fret on that now. We have to get you away—as far away from Loethar as possible. Come on.”

  “Look!” Leo suddenly said.

  “What?” Gavriel frowned, looking up to where the king pointed. “Oh, sod it!”

  “He can’t hurt us.”

  “Look how he watches us. He’s so sinister.”

  “He looks like a raven, Gav.”

  “I think he’s evil.”

  “You and everyone else. Why are ravens hated so? I’m told they’re extremely intelligent.”

  “That’s the problem. Corbel said you can teach them to speak.”

  Leo’s eyes sparkled. “Perhaps Loethar’s taught this one.”

  Gavriel shook his head. “No, we’ve spied on him enough that we’d have heard the bird say something if that were the case. But I think its silence is just as horrible, especially combined with that sly look. Don’t you think it always appears to be thinking…calculating?”

  Leo gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s strange that it’s found us specifically and when we least want to—” He stopped abruptly as Gavriel whipped around.

  “Run, Leo! Don’t you see? This is no coincidence. He will mark our position! Maybe he has been trained. Maybe he is able to follow us.” Gavriel took off, making sure Leo followed him deeper into the woods. “This way,” he hissed over his shoulder. “We mustn’t lose direction.”

  “You don’t really believe—”

  “Save your breath. Just run,” Gavriel snarled, looking up, trying to see the raven. He couldn’t sight him but he suddenly didn’t trust that the bird wasn’t a spy of sorts.

  They ran until they both fell to the undergrowth, exhausted.

  “I feel sick,” Leo gasped. “I’ve never run that far ever.”

  Gavriel’s words came out
ragged. “I know. I shouldn’t have frightened you. I’m sorry. We’re fine now.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No,” Gavriel said, sliding back to sit against a great trunk of a tree, his breathing finally becoming shallower, easier. “I spooked us both. I shouldn’t have—”

  He broke off as Vyk swooped down, landing heavily in front of them.

  Leo scrabbled backward, bumping into Gavriel, who hauled him behind his own body, up against the tree.

  “Gavriel—” Leo muttered but he didn’t finish his thought. His wide, fearful eyes said enough.

  “Be calm,” Gavriel said, staring at the bird, who was eyeing them with a sinister appraisal. It hopped closer and both boys flinched. “It’s a bird, that’s all. It cannot hurt us,” Gavriel soothed, as much for his own benefit as Leo’s.

  “You could shoot it,” Leo said.

  “Of course I can,” Gavriel said, surprised he hadn’t thought of that action first. “We’ll soon see who owns the forest,” he added, angrily reaching for one of the few arrows they’d been able to bring. Nocking it into position on the bow, he took aim, amazed the bird had not so much as blinked. Vyk turned its head slightly, watching him intently.

  “Wait, stop!” Leo hissed.

  “I’ve got such a clean shot,” Gavriel murmured angrily, his gaze never straying from the pale eyes that stared straight back at him.

  “It’s not scared of us, Gav.”

  “I don’t give a flying—”

  “No, wait! You said it was very intelligent. A smart creature would run for its life right now, wouldn’t it? Especially a bird! It would fly at the first hint of danger.”

  “Lo save me, what’s your point, Leo?” Gavriel said, exhaling loudly.

  “Don’t kill it.”

  Gavriel lowered the bow. “You were so scared of the raven only a minute ago. And now you want me to spare its life?”

  “You scared me, not the raven. You were the one who said he was sinister, that he’s leading Loethar to us. But he’s not doing anything now, is he? And he’s on the ground, so who can see him but us?”

  “All right, good point,” Gavriel had to grant. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “What now?”

  “Nothing,” the king shrugged.

  “Nothing? The raven has clearly followed us!”

  “I know, but let him be. Let’s just get on our way.”

  “Why? This evil bastard belongs to Loethar. I want to kill everything that belongs to the barbarian who slew my father, effectively murdered both your parents and is the reason my brother is gone, you and I are running for our lives, and our realm is crippled. Do you want me to go on?”

  Leo said nothing. He continued to stare at Vyk, who hadn’t so much as ruffled a glossy feather.

  “Tell me, Leo, please. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blast this creature to its maker and strike a blow for Penraven.”

  The king looked embarrassed when he finally dragged his eyes from Vyk. “I don’t really know, Gav, but Piven likes him.”

  “Piv—?” Gavriel stopped himself saying anything further but knew his expression must be one of disgust laced with disbelief.

  “I have you,” Leo attempted to explain. “My brother has no one familiar, save the treacherous Freath or that nasty Genrie.”

  Gavriel sighed. “Piven doesn’t need anyone familiar. Each day everyone’s a stranger to him, even those he has known for his entire life. It doesn’t make any difference to him, you know that.”

  “Yes, I know,” the king said, sorrowfully, “but he always recognized Vyk, don’t you think? He always ran up to the raven; even though the barbarian keeps him on a leash now, he is always straining to be close to Vyk.”

  Gavriel looked back at the raven, who hopped a few steps to the side and wiped its big black beak on the ground. He sighed. “And you think there’s a friendship there?” he asked.

  “No, I know Piven can’t form a friendship really, but unlike us he’s not scared of Vyk. He recognizes him. It’s something, isn’t it? A bond?”

  Gavriel didn’t know what to say. He exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. “I suppose both of them are silent and damned creatures. Perhaps that binds them in some strange way.”

  Leo’s eyes sparkled. “That’s right! Perhaps Vyk comforts Piven somehow—in a way we don’t understand. He certainly amuses him.”

  “Everything amuses Piven,” Gavriel muttered, not unkindly.

  “We can’t kill the bird. Let’s just go.”

  “But why did it follow us all this way?”

  “I don’t know…food perhaps?”

  “It eats flesh, Leo, not stale bread and mouldy cheese.”

  “I have no idea why it’s here! But I don’t want you to kill it. Let’s just go.” Leo got up, brushing the leaves from his backside.

  Gavriel stood. He jutted his chin out. “That way, come on.”

  They trudged off, Leo behind Gavriel. The king looked over his shoulder. “It’s coming with us.”

  “Well, I hope he likes a long walk on those very short legs,” Gavriel said uncharitably, refusing to look at their new companion.

  Valya had not been invited into Loethar’s personal rooms before. She had been told to await his arrival and, secretly pleased that Loethar was not tapping his feet impatiently for her, took the time to calm herself and to take in her surrounds.

  It was a beautiful chamber with a series of large double doors opening onto various balconies through which she could view the sea. She realized it had a similar outlook to that of Iselda’s former rooms but this was more remote, tucked away in a corner of the castle and not on such a high level as Iselda’s apartments.

  The room had definitely belonged to a man. A man with good taste, it seemed, from the sparse but finely made furniture. She made a soft clucking sound with her tongue. Weaven timber was scarce—there was almost none left in the Set. Whoever owned these rooms must have travelled into Skardlag to buy the raw wood. Her father had craved anything made of the honey colored timber shot through with golden striata. He owned only one small piece—a bowl—but he’d treasured it as though it were wrought from solid gold. She’d never understood his fascination, although she could appreciate its beauty now that she looked at the larger, more solid pieces which seemed to possess an internal glow.

  Apart from the furniture there was little drapery in the main room. There was, however, a beautiful bronze sculpture of a horse and various paintings hanging around the walls. Again the artworks were few, like the furniture, but they were of similar exceptional quality, the likes of which she hadn’t seen in many years, since leaving the Set in fact. She looked toward what must be the bedchamber, wondering if any more fine pieces were behind that door.

  Her musings were interrupted by that very door opening.

  Valya gasped. “Why?”

  “Always hated it,” Loethar replied, rubbing his now clean-shaven face.

  “I’ve never seen you without your beard. I hope you don’t mind my mentioning how much younger its loss makes you?” He gave an awkward twitch of a smile as he approached, moving toward the tray of wine and glasses that had been set up. Valya was privately amazed. Gone was that unruly mask he had obviously hidden behind, banished were the strange piercings that had once borne rings and jewels. Before her stood a handsome man, his dark features much easier to see, now that he’d washed and combed his hair into a neat pigtail. The fresh garments he wore—he must have found them in these chambers—accentuated his lean limbs and broad shoulders, making him appear even taller than he was. “You were never one of them,” she said, drinking in all the detail as her gaze roved over this new Loethar. She could smell the scent of soap, the fragrance of herbs that had aired the clothes he now wore.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, and sounded genuinely interested, his dark eyes sparkling.

  “Pour me a wine, and I shall tell you.”

  He smiled and she felt her heart leap. Perhaps the strange detachment h
e’d been suffering of late had disappeared with the unkempt beard. That smile was what she loved most about him; it was hard to win, and all the more precious because he gave it so reluctantly.

  “To you, my lady,” he said, arriving to stand before her, hair wet, eyes shining with what she suspected was some special knowledge. He held out an elegant pewter goblet. “It is very good.”

  She took the goblet, ensuring her fingers touched his hand—just lightly enough to send a message of affection. “Thank you. This is an unexpected treat—and I don’t mean the wine.”

  He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. Another good sign. She raised her glass. “Sarac, Loethar!” she said, wishing him fine health in the Steppes language.

  “To new beginnings,” he replied before drinking.

  “All right. Do you mind my saying that you look very…er, handsome today?”

  His brow crinkled. “Why would I mind such a compliment?”

  Valya sipped before she spoke, then regarded him carefully, her head cocked to one side. “I am wary around you. I no longer know what is the right thing to say.”

  He scoffed gently. “Say only the truth. That is all I ever want to hear.”

  She nodded, sipping again. “Whose clothes do you wear?”

  “Freath tells me they belonged to Regor De Vis. It seems we were of a similar size. I shall have my own made soon enough.”

  “This style suits you,” she said, careful to see how Loethar would react before fully committing herself.

  “This is how I mean to dress from now on. If I am to be emperor of the region, I must fit in.”

  “Getting rid of all the metal hooked into your face is sensible too, as is your new astonishing neatness.” He said nothing but he didn’t seem angered by her comment and she took that as encouragement. “So, it is not your intention to change the conquered people into—”

  “No,” he said, firmly. “They are Set. They remain that way. Any changes I implement will be gradual and subtle.”

  “Wise,” she said, sipping again. “I’m amazed. You look like you’ve always belonged here.” She walked around him, admiring how well the garments were cut, and how closely they fitted his body. “The legate was important to the king.”