The Exiled Queen

by Cinda Williams Chima

  The bed took up most of the limited floor space. He could lie on his back across the bed with his head on one wall and his toes on the other. A trunk at the foot of the bed would easily hold Han’s worldly goods. The desk and straight chair tucked under the window would take best advantage of natural light for studying. There was a pitcher and basin for washing, and a braided rug on the stone floor.

  Han didn’t like that there was only one way in and out, via the stairs, but the window looked large enough to slide through. He’d test that once Blevins had gone. He pushed the sash open a few inches, admitting fresh, rain-washed air and a few drops of rain. He ran his fingertips over the real glass in the windows. A slate overhang kept most of the wet out, but might also make it difficult to get to the roof above.

  Han grinned, shaking his head. All in all, it was the plushest place he’d ever stayed. He was amazed that mere students were allowed to live in such a place, and sleep one to a bed, let alone one to a room.

  He pulled open the bag Blevins had given him. Inside were cotton sheets and blankets, a plump feather pillow, a hunk of tallow soap for washing, and two Mystwerk robes in deep crimson wool (one size to fit all, apparently). He stroked the fine fabric and set the robes aside for trying on later.

  Han returned to the hallway, where Dancer waited with Cat and Master Blevins, who, it seemed, wasn’t going anywhere as long as a girlie remained on the fourth floor.

  “Where can we get some supper?” Han asked Blevins, who looked all pinch-eyed, as though he still expected to take abuse about the rooms.

  “The dining hall is across the courtyard, next to the kitchens,” Blevins said. “Serves ever’body at Mystwerk and Temple. They’ll have your names. Meal times is posted down in the common room, and if you get there late, you go hungry.”

  Han turned to Cat and Dancer. “Let’s go back to the bridge tonight, after we go to the Temple School,” Han said, aware of the weight of clan money in his pockets. “I feel like celebrating.”

  “Lots of Mystwerk students like The Crown and Castle,” Blevins said. “They serve a hot supper and a fair jack of ale at a good price.”

  They descended the steps from the dormitory, leaving the covered galleries to shortcut across the quad toward the temple towers.

  Classes had dismissed for the day, and the campus now swarmed with students despite the steady rain. Most wore utilitarian boiled-wool cloaks over their scholars’ robes, their books and papers tucked underneath out of the wet. A few glowed with power—those drew Han’s eye. Most headed for the dining halls, but a few better-dressed students broke off and walked toward the bridge.

  The temple also looked to be one of the oldest buildings on campus. It stood next to the river, surrounded by formal gardens and pavilions that ran down to the waterside. The front of the building faced the temple quad, the arched doorway leading to the sanctuary and classrooms. If it was like Southbridge, the side wings with broad porches likely housed the dormitories.

  Students and dedicates sat on the porches, under the shelter of the roof. Some were curled up in wicker chairs, reading; others treadled spinning wheels or bent their heads over stitchery. A circle of students sat on cushions around a master, who smeared paint onto a canvas.

  The common room for the dormitory lay just beyond the side door off the porch. A Temple student sat at a desk under a wall of mailboxes, a cloth spread out in front of her, an array of tiny tools and bits of precut wood laid out on the cloth. She was doing marquetry—inlaid pictures made of exotic woods.

  She looked up and smiled at Han and his friends as the door slapped shut behind the three new students—a smile as sunny as Cat’s face was cloudy. She wore white robes, but her volume of hair was bound by a scarf in familiar brilliant colors.

  Han’s heart lifted. She was a Southern Islander, like Cat. A good sign, right?

  “Welcome to the Temple School,” she said, her voice carrying the lilt of the islands. “The Maker bless you.”

  “And you also,” Cat said automatically. She’d spent that much time at Jemson’s school.

  “My name is Annamaya Dubai,” the girl said. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m Cat. Um. Tyburn,” Cat said, poking at the rug with her toe. “Speaker Jemson, he put in a word for me.” She looked aside, distracted, as the notes of a flute floated in from the porch.

  Annamaya rose in a rustle of fabric. She was nearly as tall as Han—big-boned and sturdy. She rushed forward and flung her arms around Cat as if she were her long-lost rich cousin, even though Cat was soggy from the rain and filthy from the road.

  Cat stood frozen, too stunned to move.

  “Caterina! Thank the Maker! We’ve been so worried.”

  Caterina? Han looked at Dancer and raised an eyebrow. Who knew?

  “Dean Torchiere will be so relieved,” Annamaya bubbled, words pouring from her like water from an open spigot. “Your room is all ready for you, though you can change it if you like. It’s right next to mine, with a garden view. We’re so excited to have you here. We can’t wait to hear you play. Perhaps we can schedule a recital once you’re settled in. I see you brought your own basilka. Do you play anything else?”

  Cat stood immobilized, like a fellsdeer trying to decide whether to flee a hunter or hope to go unnoticed.

  Annamaya rushed on, not waiting for an answer. “I’ll show you your room. This is the girls’ wing, so it’s right upstairs.” She slid Cat’s bag off her shoulder and onto her own, then took hold of Cat’s arm. Han could tell Cat wanted to snatch it back.

  Annamaya started up the stairs with a stunned Cat in tow. Han and Dancer hesitated at the bottom, but Annamaya looked over her shoulder and waved them up. “Come see where Caterina’s staying.”

  Han and Dancer followed the two girlies up the broad, shallow staircase to a gallery that ran toward the back of the building.

  “This is like a palace,” Han whispered to Dancer. Actually, he’d never been in a palace, but he guessed it would look like this—with marble floors and carved banisters and high ceilings and glittering crystal sconces on the walls that burned continuously. It was like Southbridge Temple, only bigger and fancier. Much bigger and fancier. Still, it seemed soothing, not intimidating, with its cool surfaces and large open spaces.

  They turned the corner into a back hallway, walking between rows of doors. Annamaya chose one on the right and pushed it open.

  The room was larger than the ones assigned to Han and Dancer, though still cozy, the walls painted a deep blue. The large bed had a roof on it, covered in brilliant striped fabrics. Music stands and a desk and drawing table filled a windowed alcove. A large bookcase stood against the left wall. At the rear, two tall doors stood ajar, leading to a balcony overlooking the gardens and the river beyond. A breeze came in through the doors, carrying the scent of rain and flowers. In good weather, the sunlight would pour in.

  Han had thought his room was plush. It was nothing next to this.

  Cat stood frozen in the doorway, staring. Then spun around to confront Annamaya. “This some kind of a joke?” she demanded. “This how you fun the riffraff? Because it an’t funny, it’s mean.”

  Annamaya’s face scrunched up in dismay. “You don’t like it? I know it’s small, and the washrooms are down the hall, but — well, to me, the garden view is worth it.”

  Han walked to the rear doors and looked out over the gardens. Then turned to look at Annamaya. “You’re serious, right? This is her room. No fooling.”

  Annamaya nodded, practically wringing her hands. “You could stay here for now, and at least freshen up. I can ask the dorm master and see what else is available.”

  “What I got to do to have this room?” Cat asked, drawing her brows together suspiciously. “What kind of place is this? Who else lives here?”

  “Just you,” Annamaya said, looking puzzled. She glanced at Han and Dancer for clues. “We—we aren’t allowed to have anyone stay in our rooms. Just so you know.”

  She bustle
d around the room, pointing out its features like a trader at market, while Cat stood chewing her lower lip, saying nothing.

  “If you need more linens, there’s a closet down the hallway. And when you’re ready for your bath, just see the dorm master, and she’ll—”

  Cat held up a hand to stop the pitch. “It’s good,” she croaked. “The room’s good. It’s all good. I like it. Thank you.”

  Annamaya tilted her head, looking unconvinced. Afraid Cat was just being polite.

  “All right. If you’re sure. Now, the schedules for first years are posted in the common room. I’ll fetch you in the morning and take you to see Mistress Johanna. Do you need directions to the dining hall or—?”

  “We’re going to go to Bridge Street tonight,” Han said.

  As they crossed the quad toward Bridge Street, Cat slumped along, looking miserable.

  “You all right?” Han asked. “Annamaya seems — friendly.”

  “Why they put me in a palace?” Cat said. “I’ll never sleep a wink in that place. I’d be afraid of getting the sheets dirty.”

  “They must get students from all over,” Dancer said. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Cat groaned. “What you suppose Jemson said to them about me? I don’t want to have to live up to whatever tale he told.”

  “Knowing Jemson, he told the truth,” Han said. “He wouldn’t set you up.”

  “He’s a dreamer,” Cat muttered. “He always think you better than you really are.”

  Han shrugged. “He is a dreamer. But he’d say you got to have dreams.”

  The Crown and Castle, the tavern Blevins had recommended, stood at the near end of the bridge. It did seem to be a popular place—the common room was crowded, and wonderful smells emanated from the kitchens. The patrons were mostly Mystwerk students; Han spotted several red robes draped over chairs.

  Han claimed a corner table. “I’m buying,” he said, remembering that he had a specific reason to be celebrating.

  “You’re buying?” Dancer tilted his head. “Why is that?”

  “It’s my name day,” Han said. “I’m seventeen today.”

  Dancer’s confusion cleared. “Right. It’s September. I forgot.” He grinned. “Happy name day, Hunts Alone,” he said, clasping his hand.

  Han didn’t want his name day to go by unrecognized this time. His sixteenth had passed without celebration, his last with Mam and Mari. There’d been no money for the traditional name day parties. Since then, he’d chatted with death too many times to count.

  Han looked at Cat, and again thought of all the dead Southies and Raggers. He’d be an old man on the streets now. Most streetlords never reached seventeen.

  “From now on we’re celebrating all our name days,” he proclaimed. “When’s yours?” he asked Cat.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t know how old I am neither, so don’t ask.”

  “Pick a day, then,” Han said. “After solstice, maybe. We’ll need a party then.”

  They ordered up bowls of ham-and-bean soup and black bread all around, with great mugs of cider. The soup was delicious, with bits of meat and a rich, oniony broth. Cat and Dancer toasted Han multiple times, slamming their mugs down on the table for emphasis. With each round, the toasts got sillier, more extravagant.

  “To Han ‘Deatheater’ Alister, Scourge of the Seven Realms!” Dancer proclaimed.

  Han raised his mug, but couldn’t help looking about to see who might have overheard. No one seemed to be paying attention to their little party.

  Though most of the other patrons were no older than Han, they had the blueblood look, with finely tailored cloaks, soft leather boots, and too much fur for the weather.

  The rich handle money differently than the poor. They use it carelessly, slapping it down as though it came from an unlimited supply. They kept the server on the run, fetching pitchers of ale.

  Han glanced over at Cat, who surveyed the scene over the rim of her cider mug. There’d be easy money to be made here for a street runner with skills.

  But this was a chance for Cat to be something different. Han knew from experience how hard it was to leave the game. When he’d given it up, he’d been threatened by his enemies. They either didn’t believe he’d changed, or hoped to take advantage of it. He’d been tempted by his friends, made edgy-jumpy by his rejection of the Life and the void he’d left behind him.

  The serious drinkers soon arrived from dinner in the dining halls, the rain driving them off the porch and inside. They churned through the throngs by the door, bellying up to the bar. As the tavern grew more jammed, there were no more tables to be had. Newcomers leaned against the walls, juggling mugs of ale and plates of stew and roast beef.

  Han ordered another round of drinks and a cinnamon cake for them all to share.

  He felt at ease in taverns—they’d been his second home growing up, a place to get away from whatever squalid place he was living in. There was always action in taverns—warm marks and natty lads, streetlords and fancies who worked the trade.

  Han would have to develop new habits if he was going to succeed here. He’d have to learn to sit in the library come darkman’s hour. So his seventeenth name day felt like an ending as well as a beginning.

  Han glanced over at Cat, who’d been stuffing herself with seconds. Though her bowl was still half full, she’d stopped eating to stare toward the door, fingering her curls the way she did when she was agitated.

  Han followed her gaze. Three wizards had walked in together, their auras illuminating the gloomy taproom. They stood with their backs to Han, shaking the rain from their expensive cloaks and looking around.

  “This is the best tavern in town?” the tallest one said, freeing a mane of black hair from his hood. “It’s going to be a long year.”

  The cold, blueblood voice struck a chord in Han. His feeling of well-being evaporated.

  The other two snickered. “Maybe the food is good,” the stockier one said hopefully. He pulled off his hood, revealing russet hair.

  Han’s skin prickled. He squinted at the newcomers, fingering his amulet, wishing they’d turn around so he could see their faces.

  “At least the help here is more attractive than at the Four Horses,” the tall one said, turning to ogle a server threading her way through the crowded room. He spoke with the precision of someone who knows he’s had too much to drink, and is accustomed to managing it. “I think the Four Horses was named for its barmaids.”

  “Naw,” the more slender one said. “It’s named after what they put in the cooking pot.” His slurred speech suggested he was deep in his cups, too.

  The pretty server swept past with a tray. The tall wizard seized her arm, nearly spilling the ale she carried. “You, there,” he said. “We need a table for three.”

  She swung around to look at him, scowling. “Do you see a table for three anywhere?” she snapped.

  “Clear someone off, then,” the wizard said. “We don’t mean to eat standing up.”

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, like everybody else. Now let go my arm and keep your flaming wizard hands to yourself.” She struggled unsuccessfully to pull free.

  The wizard half turned to Han, and the light from the lantern washed over his face, the hard planes and angles—familiar, graven into Han’s brain. Memory shuddered through him.

  It was Micah Bayar and his cousins, the Mander brothers, Miphis and Arkeda. That was who’d set fire to the sacred mountain of Hanalea and launched a train of events that had ended with the deaths of Mari and Mam and the destruction of his old life.

  Micah was the son of Gavan Bayar, the High Wizard of the Fells, who likely still hunted him. Micah was brother of Fiona Bayar, who’d chased him and Dancer across the border into Delphi. Han took hold of his amulet, gripping the intricately carved stone. It hissed against his damp palm.

  “I’ll let you go when you find us a table,” Micah said, yanking the server toward him. The tray went down, ale splattering waist high
and tankards rolling across the floor.

  Magic flooded through Han, making his head spin. He shook his head, trying to clear it, then surged to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Dancer said, “Hunts Alone! Wait!” in a low, urgent voice, but Han ignored him. Han pushed forward, and the crowd parted in front of him until he stood in front of Micah and the server.

  “Let go of the girlie, Bayar,” he said.

  Micah’s bleary black eyes swept over him with disinterest, then widened and focused. Startlement splashed over his face. He looked down at the knife Han clutched in his right hand. Then back up at Han.

  “Alister,” he whispered. “But — it can’t be. You can’t — you’re not —”

  “Bayar,” Han said. He did not smile. Anger blazed in his gut like brandy. He could hush Bayar, here and now. It would be easy. No one in this place would stop him. He’d be well away before they even reacted. The trick was to make eye contact with any would-be heroes, then walk away slow until you got outside, then—

  “Blood of the Demon! You’re burning me! Let go!” the server said, ripping her arm free from Micah’s grip. She stood, blinking back tears, staring at the blistered handprint on her upper arm.

  Micah seemed as surprised as she was. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean—”

  “Just shut it,” Han said. “She don’t want to hear it. You Bayars like to go after them that can’t defend themselves. Like barmaids and ragpickers and lytlings.”

  His words rang out loud in a sudden quiet, and the apology drained from Micah’s face. Micah’s cousins moved up on either side of him, though they stayed a step behind.

  They won’t go down on the bricks for him, Han thought. Micah Bayar wouldn’t last long as a streetlord.

  The crowd rippled as the server turned and fled, forcing her way to the door.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Micah said. His eyes strayed to the departing serving girl, then wrenched back to Han. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Why don’t you try me instead?” Han said, waving his knife slowly back and forth in front of Micah’s face, a blademan’s trick. He kept his other hand wrapped around his flash as the patrons melted back.