Banished

by Liz de Jager

  He’s still unconscious on the couch where I left him, thank the stars. I watch his chest move beneath his armour and wonder what the hell he was doing in my forest in the small hours of the morning. I need to rest and recoup so that I can go join my cousins up in Scotland; I don’t need this. Whatever this is.

  It takes some doing, but I wrestle the prince’s breastplate off and dump it on the carpet to the side of the room. Next, I find the hooks of his chainmail shirt and manage to get that off without aggravating his wound too much, I think.

  Two pairs of scissors later I give up in my attempts to cut the padded undershirt off him and in the end I use my knife. His soft cotton shirt is a mess of blood and I easily get rid of that and dump it with the rest.

  I wince when I see how deep the cut is that goes from the top of his shoulder down the length of his upper arm. It looks painful and I wonder if I’ll be able to help or if my ministrations will make it worse. I bite my lips in an effort not to walk away and throw up in Aunt Jessica’s plants. I’m okay with most first-aid things, but stitching wounds is not my forte. Surprisingly, Kyle was the one for such delicate operations. I’m just the one that either gets wounded or delivers woundings.

  The prince lets out a short sharp cry and he grabs at my wrist. His eyes are open and a look of panic flickers across his undoubtedly handsome face. ‘Please,’ he rasps. ‘Help.’ He falls back against the cushions, out like a light.

  I prise his fingers away and sit back, hoping that someone else will turn up soon to tell me what to do next. My eyes roam over the rest of him to see if I can find any other cuts and in the process I get an eyeful of the sculpted smooth muscles on his chest. I flame bright red but I bend myself to the task I set myself. I’m relieved he’s not awake to see me hesitate or how my hands shake as I start the process of cleaning the injury and sewing it up. It takes ages but the stitches look neat and tidy and my hands have lost most of their hesitation. The rest of me, though, is shaking with fatigue. I sit back on my heels and wonder about giving him a shot of antibiotics. Will I give him some kind of illness if I do? I don’t know enough about Fae metabolism and decide that if he gets sick I’ll give him an injection. At the moment he’s got a bit of a temperature but nothing too serious. I hold my hand over his mouth and his breathing feels regular.

  I bandage the wound and carry the dirty water and bits of cloth to the kitchen and mentally apologize to Mrs Evans for destroying the tidiness of her kitchen. I find a shirt in the folded laundry that belongs to either Kyle or Marc and carry it with me into the small lounge.

  I start on his face, washing off the dirt and the blood. A cut seeps blood just above his eyebrow and I clean that out too, disinfecting it. It’s not deep and it should heal well, so I use small butterfly plasters to keep the cut together. I pull the shirt on over him, taking care not to jostle his arm too much.

  After I’ve done as much as I can, I manoeuvre him into a more comfortable position on the couch, using the bed linen I took from the cupboard earlier as extra padding and make sure the pillows support his head before I sigh deeply and sink down on the floor next to him. I am so tired, all I want to do is sleep for a week. My reserves are low and there’s a hollow ache in my stomach that I always connect to my tiny store of magic being depleted. The thought of trying to send emails to everyone, to let them know what’s going on – that the house is under siege by beasties and that I have the High King of Alba’s youngest son unconscious on our couch – is just a step too far. None of this seems real. The night stretches behind me like a surreal nightmare. Even after a year and a half, all of this still feels new, and insane, and impossible. I know I have to get in touch with my family. I haul my phone out. The screen’s cracked from where I sat down on it too hard. I leave my phone on the small table next to me. I lean my head back and close my eyes, intending only to rest them for a few minutes, but sleep folds me to her chest and I let her.

  The Citadel, Kingdom Of Alba, Otherwhere

  ‘Where is the boy?’

  As he spoke, the duke turned his gaze to the shadows crowding the map chamber. The coals in the brazier gave off only slightly more warmth than light. The room held an ornate bookcase; most of the contents of the shelves were spread across the monumental desk. Suspended against the wall behind the desk was a tapestry depicting all the lands of Alba, the rivers, forests, cities and larger towns and army garrisons.

  The duke stood before the map. He was a tall man with patrician features, a carefully trimmed goatee and neatly tied-back hair. His clothes were plain, but clearly no expense had been spared.

  A cluster of sputtering stubby candles bravely fought the gloom in the room, lighting the amber liquid in the glass he carefully placed back on the desk beside him. A moonstone ring, cunningly carved to resemble a lion, glinted in the sparse light as he turned to regard his visitor.

  ‘My troops are hunting him as we speak.’ The man’s voice was deep yet unpleasant. ‘There were complications.’

  The newcomer was not quite as tall as the duke and moved with a swordsman’s grace. Like the duke he wore no visible weapons but he carried a slender silver-topped cane that seemed more an affectation than a necessity.

  The duke turned to look at the man, taking no care to hide his surprise. ‘Complications? What kind of complications could possibly prevent your troops from bringing a pampered princeling to heel?’

  The stranger hid his annoyance at being questioned, but poorly. And as he shifted his weight under scrutiny, shadows seemed to cling somehow to his form, blurring his outline.

  ‘The boy received helped from one of the Blackharts.’

  ‘I thought we’d taken care of the Blackharts.’ The duke’s tone was unforgiving. ‘Istvan, this is no longer a chess game to be played into the night. It has progressed from a game of “what ifs”. There is a price for failure.’

  ‘My lord, the girl . . . we don’t know why she is at the Manor. She was supposed to be with the rest of her family in Scotia.’

  ‘Destroy the Manor.’ The duke made a small gesture. ‘Do everything in your power to stop her helping the prince. Bring him here.’

  ‘Everything in my power, my lord?’ Istvan’s dark voice held both amusement and threat. ‘The consequences of what you’re asking will alarm everyone not already with us.’

  ‘I no longer care, sorcerer. Do as you are told. Bring him to me.’

  Istvan bowed his dark head, once more the servant. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

  The duke was suddenly alone in the map chamber. He drew a deep uneven breath and reached for his drink, shuddering as it burned its way down into his stomach. But even after the third glass a chill remained. He moved unsteadily from the tapestry, his ears tuned to voices only he could hear.

  Chapter Seven

  Alba: The part of the Fae Realm in the Otherwhere that geographically covers the UK, Europe and Eastern Europe. Ruled by High King Aelfric the Wise, Alba has long been renowned for fostering ties between Fae and humans, not always to great success.

  From an archived report filed in HMDSDI HQ, 1994

  I wake up with a start and, after a quick check on the still-breathing prince, I move to stand in front of the windows. The forest lies quiet and enigmatic at the edge of the park and there is no sign of the redcaps or their cronies from earlier.

  I check my watch and mutter a curse under my breath. It looks as if it stopped just after four, probably taking a blow during my frisky fight with the redcaps. I undo the strap and pocket it, wondering what else I’m going to lose of Kit’s Life As It Once Was. The watch belonged to my mum, and my nan gave it to me when I turned twelve, shortly after we moved back to the UK. It’s literally the only thing, apart from me, that survived the fire that night.

  Feeling irritable, I swing around to check on my guest, only to find that he’s standing a few paces behind me, looking uncertain on his feet and keeping a steadying hand on the back of one of the over-plush leather chairs. Although he’s pale, he looks bet
ter than he did when I half-carried, half-dragged him in here a few hours ago. His damp hair has dried out and instead of a dusty dark blond-brown it now looks a rich honey blond and it’s come loose from its leather tie and rests on his shoulders. His features are strong, masculine, with a firm jaw and great cheekbones, but it’s his eyes that hold your attention. Framed by ridiculously long lashes, they are a deep midnight blue and seem fathomless. For a few seconds I stare at him, allowing myself to think that he is utterly deliciously lovely, but then my common sense takes over and I catch myself before I gurn at him like an idiot.

  I mentally shake my head to clear the fanciful imagery. The house is in peril, we’re surrounded by gribblies (a non-technical term we use in the family to denote any kind of creature) and yet here I am, making moon-eyes at the person who is no doubt the cause of the current mess. I pull myself together and offer him a rather stiff smile.

  ‘Prince Thorn, how are you feeling this morning?’

  He clears his throat and inclines his head a bit, almost like a small bow in my direction. ‘I’ve felt better. Like when my horse threw me and dragged me several yards through a lot of undergrowth and a hedge before it stopped to eat some moon meadow grass,’ comes the frank answer. His accent is definitely foreign, making me think that English is not the language he learned growing up in Alba.

  His voice is lovely and deep and I find myself fascinated by his mouth with its slightly fuller lower lip. How is it possible that he can look so attractive, even when wearing bruises and cuts from the battle just a few hours before? I find myself leaning closer to him. Is it my imagination, or does he smell ever so slightly of cookies?

  I pull back and tut under my breath in annoyance. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m as susceptible to a pretty boy as any warm-blooded heterosexual girl my age, but something about the warm feeling I can feel blossoming inside me is not natural. I feel my magic twist uneasily in my core in answer to my anxiety.

  Another wave of warmth and the smell of cookies hits me full force and I can imagine us kissing under moonlit skies with a soft breeze lifting my hair from my neck. The imagery is so strong and real that I jerk backwards while pulling my attention back to the here and now. I palm my knife and hold it up, between the two of us.

  I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose in an attempt to stop smelling him so vividly. And, as I stand away from him, the knife still between us, I ignore the shocked expression on his face and let my magic surface inside me. It happily dances along the edge of my blade and shoots across the small distance between me and the Fae prince.

  It takes seconds for the pulse of magic to flicker back to me after it has done a brief inventory of the young prince. He has something on him, a piece of jewellery that compels people to like him and help him, deflecting negative energy away from him. It’s a small thing, usually overlooked by his enemies, and I spot it when I focus on what to look for. It’s a slender gold ring on the pinkie of his left hand.

  It pretty much sucks as a magic item because I vividly remember having to rescue his butt from being eaten earlier this morning.

  ‘Your ring,’ I say, gesturing with my blade. ‘Take it off. I’m sure you’re breaking a host of hospitality rules by wearing it in my presence,’ I tell him, keeping my voice cool. His eyes, dear heavens, who has eyes like that in real life? ‘Please, don’t argue. Just take it off.’

  Thorn holds up both his hands towards me in a gesture of surrender and hastily wiggles the ring from his finger. He drops it onto the small table that holds some of the bandages I used the night before.

  ‘I apologize, Blackhart. It was a token from my mother, to keep me safe. I did not realize you would react to it so strongly.’

  As soon as the ring breaks contact with his skin and drops onto the table I feel the compulsion to fling myself at him fade.

  ‘That was really not the way we do things here,’ I tell him, flushing to my roots at the thought of my own emotions being toyed with. I have never lost my cool like that over anyone. ‘Dangerous too. And rude. Let’s not forget rude. The laws are clear, Prince Thorn. No magic, persuasive or antagonistic, is to be used in your host’s home unless the host first uses magic against you.’ I make a show of looking around the room and gesture with my blade. ‘No magic aimed at you! You broke that rule. I have a right to throw you out on your ear and let you fight those redcaps and ogres all by yourself.’

  The prince has the decency to look embarrassed enough at my tirade and I know I’m laying it on thick but, dammit, I just saved his butt and he’s not playing by the rules. I know the Fae rarely do toe the line but there are just some things that count as important enough to cause a fuss about.

  I draw a deep breath and exhale, and with it I let go of my annoyance. I give him another once-over to see if I’m free of the silly glamour and I’m unlucky enough to notice that, yes, he’s as pretty as before, except now I see the state we’re both in.

  ‘I am grateful to you for coming to my rescue. It was a generous gesture and one I appreciate.’ His look is wry as he glances at me, his gaze taking me in. I stand my ground, refusing to blush or to drop to the floor and crawl behind a couch to hide from his frank inspection. ‘Do you often attack parties of goblins and rescue people from imminent death?’

  I favour him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

  ‘Only when I’m bored. Last night I was bored.’

  His own grin is real now, and he has laughter lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes. It makes him look mischievous and I wonder if he is my age or older. I know there are some Sidhe Fae, nobles, who have rituals to keep them looking in their late teens to early twenties.

  ‘I doubt anyone else in Alba has the skill to frighten away an entire pack of redcaps by yelling at them.’

  He’s being charming, reminding me I saved him last night so that I don’t toss him out as I promised earlier. He plays a good game. But I’m filthy and I’m starving and I’m keen to get hold of my cousins.

  ‘It’s a Blackhart skill. One we get paid for very well by those from the Otherwhere.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember that.’ His face suddenly looks grave. ‘I owe you a life debt, Kit Blackhart.’

  I force my jaw not to drop. A life debt for a Fae was serious business. It was like being handed an IOU slip that can be used to cover any eventuality. Not sure how to respond to this massive open promise, I wave my hand to show it was okay and edge past him carefully, picking up the mess of first-aid stuff from the floor.

  ‘I think we could both do with some breakfast,’ I say. ‘Then we can try and figure out how to get you back to your travel party. Where are your bodyguards?’ I ask him as I stuff everything I’d left lying out into a bin bag. ‘I didn’t see any sign of them in the clearing. They didn’t leave you to cope on your own?’

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth I know I’ve hit on a delicate point. Even without looking at him, I sense the congenial repartee we have going disappearing.

  ‘I had a patrol of soldiers with me. We were attacked when we came through the gateway.’

  I frown at him.

  ‘I saw no other bodies,’ I say as I turn to look at him. ‘Why were you out there by yourself?’

  Uncertainty spreads across his face. ‘I’m not sure. So much happened, so quickly.’ He touches his eyebrow, his fingers sliding across the cut I’ve bandaged, and frowns at me. ‘We were heading for the gateway, all of us, ready to ride through. We kept tight formation the entire time we were being chased. Within sight of the gateway my horse threw me. I was flung to the ground and, the next thing, the men with me had me surrounded.’

  ‘They turned on you?’

  Thorn’s nod is brief. ‘There was something, though – something as we came near the gateway.’

  ‘What?’ I forget what I’m doing and watch him. The bandages and first-aid kit I have been gathering lie abandoned for a moment.

  ‘A darkness. Thick black shadows and so mu
ch noise. We raced to get to the clearing and, although the noise was that of a huge battle, we found no one in the darkness. What did change were my men. I looked up at them and they were no longer the people I knew. They were different. Their faces . . .’ His gaze becomes distant. ‘They had turned into ravening beasts fighting each other and then they seemed to become aware of me. I had to defend myself against my friends.’

  ‘That can’t have been pleasant.’ I realize it’s an inane thing to say, but – really – what else can I say? I rub my face and stand up with the black bag in my hand. I think my expression reflects the horror he must feel because he nods to himself.

  ‘The magic I felt in the air, in the shadows all around me, was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It was cloying, sickening. It smelled like something dying. I don’t know how many of my soldiers fell to my blade. I lost count. When I got through the gateway alive I couldn’t believe it. I looked up but found myself surrounded by the redcap welcoming committee, who looked as surprised to see me as I was to see them.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to make it through,’ I say and he nods. ‘That’s very interesting. Who would want you dead?’ I ask him.

  The look he throws me is dark and I hold up my hands. ‘Sorry. Just thinking out loud.’

  ‘No,’ Thorn says and his voice is very tired. ‘You’re right. Something is definitely going on and we have to figure out what it is.’

  ‘We?’ I say, feeling my mouth twist into a grin. ‘You’re asking a Blackhart to help you sort out Alba problems?’

  The smile he gives me is bleak. ‘Perhaps we can talk about that after breakfast.’

  In answer I can feel my stomach rumble. ‘Of course,’ I say, gesturing with my hands full of bandages. ‘The kitchen is just through here.’

  Chapter Eight

  He follows me as I lead him through the quiet house. We get to the kitchen and I install him at the well-scrubbed farm table that can seat a dozen people. I dump all my mess in the bin and go into the utility room to wash my hands. I’m aware of the state I’m in so I rummage in the clean washing that’s not been sent up to our rooms yet. I find a T-shirt and pull that on. There will be time for a shower later on, so I scrub my hands thoroughly and agonize for a moment over what looks like a spot coming out on my chin.