Royal Exile

by Fiona McIntosh

  “No, you may not,” Valya snapped. Taking a slow breath, she continued. “Give him anything you wish him to carry and have my things brought over close to Legate De Vis’s former chambers.”

  Genrie made the mistake of hesitating, raising her eyebrows in query.

  “Now!” the woman snarled. “How dare you not curtsey and act immediately upon my words.”

  “Forgive me. It’s just that we were given instructions by the emperor to accommodate you in the chambers we’ve already settled you into.”

  “Well, unsettle me and do as I say,” Valya enunciated as though she were talking to an imbecile. “The emperor—just for your information—has barely an hour ago proposed marriage to me. Do you think he wants to be separated from me? I need to be close for all his needs. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Genrie said, noticing the blood spattered on the woman’s riding garb.

  “Good. And he will do precisely as you say,” she said, pointing to Belush, “or he knows his entire precious Greens will be punished on his behalf.”

  “I didn’t ask you to spare my life,” the man growled.

  “And I didn’t spare it for any other reason than my own amusement,” she replied. “You are my slave now, Belush…my toy, and as I promised myself when you were doing your best to humiliate me, I am going to make you pay every waking moment of your days.” She turned to Genrie. “Show him the way to my former quarters. And then have a bath drawn for me—in my new chambers. Don’t fill it with that essence of goat or whatever you’ve palmed off onto me. I can smell the oil of miramel up here so take a look in your former queen’s rooms. She has no use for it now. Make sure it’s poured into my bath generously. And wipe that defiance from your gaze or I’ll have you gutted. And since it’s now public, from now on you call me by my true title, princess.”

  Genrie lowered her eyes and heard rather than saw Valya stomp away, her boot heels loud against the stone stairs. Finally she looked at Belush. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to speak but her words were out before she could stop them. “We are enemies, yet we are bonded by our singular hatred for Valya, I’m sure.”

  He stared at her and for a few heartstopping moments she thought she’d read the warrior wrong. Finally he replied, “I shall see her dead as soon as it is politically possible and I shall dance on her bones before I scatter them to the six winds.”

  Genrie felt a flare of satisfaction burn brightly for just the shortest but sweetest of times. She knew that the enmity between her and Belush could not stifle their shared hatred. Perhaps here was their first ally in the enemy camp.

  “Follow me, Belush,” she said softly.

  They found Father Briar after a long search and much to Freath’s growing anxiety precisely where he’d hoped he would not be.

  “Father Briar!” he called, hoping his fear did not sound as alarming in his voice as it felt inside his mind.

  The priest turned from where he was buckling down a cartload of goods beneath a canopy. Upon catching sight of Loethar Briar instantly looked terrified—downright guilty, in fact—as far as Freath was concerned. The priest must have a Vested hidden somewhere under the goods.

  “Emperor Loethar, this is Father Briar, no doubt about to take a load of no longer needed produce to the needy.” Freath hoped his tone could urge Briar to agree, to do something other than look so very mortified, so hideously culpable.

  “Father Briar,” Loethar said, nodding politely. “You’re a difficult man to pin down.”

  Briar’s glance flicked conspiratorially to Freath before settling back on the emperor’s calm gaze. His chins began to wobble and Freath, against his own inclinations, closed his eyes with silent despair.

  When Briar remained silent, Freath pulled himself together. “Forgive him, sire. I think Father Briar is disarmed by your arrival,” he tried, begging Briar with his eyes to answer for himself.

  “Surely Father Briar has a tongue in his head and can speak for himself, Freath?” Loethar admonished.

  Once again the priest hesitated, once again glancing Freath’s way.

  “Are you scared of me, Father Briar?”

  The man nodded.

  “Hmmm,” Loethar murmured. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He looked over at the cart, moved closer to it. “What have you got under here, Father?”

  Freath held his breath.

  “It’s stale food mainly, my lord,” the priest stammered.

  “Stale, eh?”

  Briar mercifully found his voice. He nodded. “Mainly bread, though also some greens, fruit, old cheeses, that sort of thing. People are starving, my lord. I am trying to offer families some respite now that the fighting is done. There are children who need feeding.” He glanced over to where the young Valisar, on his leash, skipped toward them. “Not all are as fortunate as Piven,” he added.

  “What does that mean?” Loethar said, absently lifting the corner of the canopy.

  Freath felt fear race up his spine. He deliberately tripped Piven, who fell down loudly, his wail strange and mournful. “I’m so sorry for the noise, my lord,” he said, reaching down to lift the youngster back to his feet.

  Loethar frowned. “That’s the first sound I’ve heard him make. I forget how silent he truly is.”

  “Nevertheless he is blessed by your favor,” Briar said.

  “That was not my intention, Father Briar.”

  “If you mean that it humiliates our people to see the Valisar child as nothing more than a pet dog, you are right, highness.” He hesitated, then, much to Freath’s astonishment, continued. “But don’t ignore the effect that not killing him may have, er…highness.”

  Loethar looked at Freath, equally bemused. At least the cart was forgotten for the time being, Freath thought. But what was in Briar’s head to goad the barbarian king like this?

  Briar seemed to have found his voice fully. “And although you didn’t mean for this effect, my lord, it cannot be a bad thing. The realms are in turmoil. The emotional state of the people is at the lowest ebb. Perhaps this small mercy of yours will give them hope. Perhaps this food should go out to the needy under your name?” Freath couldn’t believe it when Father Briar actually shrugged nonchalantly. “We have no royalty to challenge you, sire. Your rule has to start somewhere and it doesn’t necessarily have to continue with bloodshed. It could start with mercy.” He looked up, finally raising his eyes to Loethar’s.

  Freath couldn’t breathe.

  “It could,” Loethar replied softly and Freath sensed the barbarian had not entirely rejected the priest’s counsel. “But first we need to impress upon these same people my terms.”

  “Which are?”

  “No Valisars.”

  “But Piven—”

  “Piven is not Valisar by blood, Father Briar,” Freath censured. “He could not wear the crown even if he were of sound mind.” His stern look warned the priest to rein in his personal thoughts.

  “Who are Piven’s parents, do we know?” Loethar suddenly asked.

  “They were not even from Penraven, as I understand it, my lord. Isn’t that right, Master Freath?”

  “Indeed. They lived in Barronel.”

  “And how did this adoption come about?” Loethar gestured for Father Briar to hook up the mule to the cart. “Carry on.”

  Freath let out a silent breath of relief. “The queen was passing through Barronel on a goodwill visit to the royals of that realm. She was grieving over the loss of yet another baby—a son, this time dying at the moment of birth—and obviously every child she saw tugged at her heartstrings. But Piven won her attention because she learned his parents had drowned in an accident during a flash flood. He had no other living relatives, and was barely a day or so old. She offered to take him from the woman who was caring for him alongside eight other children.”

  “I didn’t think any royal cared that much. There is plenty of suffering around them. To single out one peasant child seems rather extraordinary.”


  “I agree. I think it was hypocritical,” Freath said, suddenly realizing he must have sounded too admiring. “And selfish too. Iselda was thinking purely of her own hurt when she offered Piven a home.”

  “If she was as uncaring as you make out, Freath, I would have thought she’d have adopted a healthy child, not this strange creature.”

  Freath shrugged. “Iselda was conniving. She cared very much about presenting the right image even if she didn’t live up to that image in real life.” He glanced over at Briar, who nodded to say he was ready. “You see, my lord, in the same way that you hope to mock the Valisars using Piven, I think they mocked their people through him. He was a symbol of their caring and yet people like me were made to suffer right under their noses.” He spat, refused to even meet Father Briar’s gaze. “Piven made them look every inch the generous royals. He was a showpiece of their magnanimity.”

  “I had no argument with our royals, sire. I have no argument with you other than the killing must stop,” Briar spoke up, rather courageously, Freath thought.

  “For someone who was scared of me, priest, you seem rather brave in telling me how to run my conquered realms.”

  Briar flinched. “You terrify me, my lord. But because you could have me killed at the mere glance to one of your henchman, I realize I have nothing more to fear from you. I might as well be true to my god and behave as he would want.”

  “The killing will stop when the people give me what I want. And what I want is the Valisar heir. He was here all along, did you know that?”

  The priest paled. “Here? No, my lord, how could I? I thought he must have been sent away just before the palace was taken.”

  “So did I. But Freath saw him and one of the legate’s sons running back into the palace.”

  Briar looked at Freath, genuinely astonished. “It’s true,” Freath said, his tone as uncaring as he could achieve. “If he’s still here we’ll find him.”

  “He won’t be found in the palace,” Loethar cut in.

  “Oh? Why’s that, my lord?” Freath asked, a chill spiking through him.

  “He’s been spotted, we think. Slinking away from Brighthelm with his friend.”

  Freath felt his throat tighten. So they’d made their dash for freedom. “Really? Who saw them?”

  “Valya did, when she was out riding. I’ve already sent out a hunting party, but in the meantime I shall press ahead with my plan to flush him out using his own people. Father Briar?”

  “My lord?”

  “When you return please send word and I shall meet you in the library. I require your assistance.”

  “Very good, sire,” Briar said. Freath was relieved he resisted glancing toward him in enquiry. “I shall make my deliveries and be back before the next bell, my lord.”

  The forest was cloaked by darkness. A fat new moon loomed inordinately large overhead, throwing a watery glow between the leaves. Leo had always thought of the moon as being silvery white but when it was full like this, he could swear it possessed a golden hue. He preferred it silver and far away—this yellow felt somehow sinister. He wondered if Vyk was watching them from the treetops. As the sounds of night erupted Leo was convinced the space beneath the trees became noisier than by day. Crickets sang loudly, an owl hooted mournfully and somewhere not too far away various animals were scrabbling through the undergrowth.

  Gavriel pointed. “Badger,” he whispered, as though dropping in on his thoughts.

  Leo nodded. It could be the bleaching effect of the moonlight but he felt sure Gavriel look paler than was safe. The blood-soaked fabric at his arm looked black. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” his friend replied, pushing Leo forward.

  Leo halted suddenly. Caught in a trap in front of them was a hare, large enough to be a buck. It stared at them, glassy-eyed and frantic, and judging by the blood, it had already begun tearing at its own leg in an attempt to free itself. As it gave a low squeal of fear, Leo re-lived his father’s gutting, his mother’s terrible plunge, the knowledge of his baby sister’s ashes being blown into the far corners of the realm, and then Piven’s ever smiling face turned sorrowful. The hare reminded him of himself. Trapped, helpless, lit up in the clearing where it lay defeated and breathing hard from its exertions at escape.

  “What are you doing?” Gavriel said as Leo approached the animal.

  “I’m cutting him loose.”

  “Are you mad? That animal could feed a family.”

  “He’s a fine beast. He shouldn’t die like this.”

  “How should he die, then?” Gavriel asked, irritated.

  “Bravely, fighting in spring for his territory, for his mate.”

  “Leo, you old romantic! And you’ve never even kissed a girl.”

  Leo blushed, glad of the cover of night. “Give me a blade.”

  Gavriel obliged. “Keep it,” he said, sounding suddenly weary.

  Leo tried to calm the wild animal but the hare was suspicious, angry and injured. A bit like Gavriel, he thought, smiling. “Be still, won’t you,” he begged it and finally was able to cut through the braided string that had held its leg so effectively. “Count yourself lucky we didn’t bring beagles,” he said as he watched the hare dart, not so nimbly, off into the trees and safety.

  “Not even a thank you, Leo,” Gavriel said.

  Before Leo could reply a new voice startled them.

  “You bastards! Don’t even move.” They both looked up in surprise to see a woman, her arrow trained on Gavriel, the bow held taut between long slim arms. Instinctively, both raised their hands.

  “That was our meat!” she snarled at them.

  Leo kept his hands raised but began to rise. “Miss, I’m sorry but—”

  “Be quiet, boy! You. Who are you?”

  Gavriel pointed at himself. “I’m Jon, this is my brother Mat. We’re—” Gavriel suddenly stopped talking, slumping over in a dead faint.

  “Ga—, er, help!” Leo yelled, leaning over Gavriel.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s bleeding, can’t you see?”

  “Get back. I know this is a trap,” she warned.

  Leo looked at her, anguished. His temper, already well and truly frayed, suddenly snapped. “Oh sod off, would you! Go back wherever you came from. I’ll pay you for your damn hare but just leave us!”

  She lowered the bow, astonished. “How dare—”

  “Listen, either help me help him or get away from us. Do we really look that dangerous? Damn him, I knew he was lying when he told me the cut wasn’t so bad.” Leo had already turned away from the woman. Gavriel was conscious, groaning softly.

  “Well how you do think you look with all those weapons? How safe do you reckon I feel?”

  “I couldn’t give a hog’s arse. Please either help or just leave.”

  “What happened to him?” she said, flicking dark hair out of her eyes.

  Leo looked up at her wearily. “We ran into the wrong sort. He fought them off but he got hurt. I think he’s burning with fever. Can it come on that fast?”

  “Oh, get out of the way,” she said, irritated, pushing Leo aside. She laid her hand on Gavriel’s forehead. “Yes, big fever. Help me get him up. Neither of us can carry him alone.”

  Impossibly, Gavriel appeared to rouse as they hauled him to his feet.

  “Where to?” Leo asked, genuinely glad of her help.

  “My father’s hut.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Not until you tell me yours. I know he was lying.”

  “Mine’s Lewk. His is Gaven. And we don’t mean you any harm and I am sorry about losing you your hare.”

  She nodded. “I’m Lilyan…Lily.”

  “Thank you for your help, Lily.”

  “Neither of you deserve it,” she replied, still clearly angry, but nonetheless bearing the greater burden of Gavriel’s weight as they half walked, half dragged him through the forest. Almost impossibly Gavriel beg
an to sing deliriously at the top of his weakened voice. Leo recognized one of the soldiers’ favorite ballads—comparing a woman’s arse to a ripe peach. He didn’t know whether to grin helplessly or blush even more furiously, for Lily certainly had a delicious arse.

  Finally a small hut came into view. Leo dropped Gavriel as they approached and his sudden letting go dragged Lily down with his friend. She landed on top of De Vis but Gavriel made no protest.

  “I think he’s unconscious,” she said, alarmed.

  “What’s all this, Lily?” asked a tremulous voice from the doorway. Leo looked up to see a robed figure, illuminated from behind by the glow of a single candle. He was pulling on a hood, though it really wasn’t that cold. His voice sounded old and fragile; perhaps he felt the cold more, Leo thought.

  “It’s all right, father. They’re no danger.”

  “What’s happening?” he asked, walking out toward them, suddenly sounding much stronger, much younger.

  “I came across these travellers. They’d been set upon by thieves. This one’s wounded. This other one’s name’s Lewk.”

  “Lewk,” the man acknowledged.

  Leo couldn’t see his face, shrouded beneath the hood, but he held out his hand. “Lily’s been very kind to help us. I’m afraid we owe her for the hare we let go.”

  She shook her head. “Let’s not worry about that for now. Let’s just get your friend inside. Here, father, you take the other arm.” The father and daughter hauled Gavriel into the hut, leaving Leo to trail behind.

  “Onto the bed,” the man said.

  Leo wondered what he meant. He saw no bed. They laid Gavriel down onto a rug beneath which was strewn some straw on a pallet. Ah, the bed, he thought, surprised, suddenly acutely aware of how unfamiliar he was with life beyond the palace gates.

  “Get the candle, Lily,” her father said, ripping Gavriel’s sleeve open. “This young man’s lost quite a bit of blood, I think.”

  Lily placed the candle on a small shelf just above Gavriel’s face. The man pulled back his hood and Leo reared back, unable to stop himself. His reaction drew their gazes and though neither looked embarrassed—they were obviously used to this—he read a fleeting pain in Lily’s eyes that made him feel instantly contrite.