He knows nothing,” he whispered, venom in his words.

“Now I have another enemy.”

Gavriel nodded, unprepared for the ferocity of the youngster’s tone. He looked back into the king’s chamber.

“Are you really going to trust him?” Stracker was asking, surprised.

Loethar nodded. “Why not? He’s a fawning parasite with no loyalties. So long as he’s useful to me he does not trouble me.” The leader tipped his head slightly to one side, regarding Freath. “And who knows what information he may yet share with us.” Freath gave a gracious nod but said nothing.

“In the morning when the prisoners arrive, let him have his choice, as promised.”

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Gavriel could see that Stracker struggled to keep his anger in check.

Loethar continued in his curiously quiet but nonetheless intense manner. “Is my dinner ready?”

“Close, I imagine,” Stracker replied.

“If it is, have the queen sent down to join me. Good evening, Freath. Enjoy your sleep. I’m afraid Stracker will want to post a guard but you are free to come and go around the palace, providing you do not mind a shadow for the time being.”

“As you wish, sire. Thank you.”

Freath was led away, Stracker stomping ahead.

Gavriel finally let go of Leo. For the first time since arriving in the ingress he felt relatively safe, almost calm. It was now clear that no one knew they were here and it was unlikely they would be discovered by anything but their own stupidity. If they remained alert and smart about everything they did over the coming days, perhaps an escape plan could be hatched.

Loethar was glad to see the back of Stracker, whose penchant for violence simmered only barely below the surface of his skin. So far it hadn’t mattered; Stracker had been a boon, his naked savagery impressing the barbarian horde, inspiring it at times. But now that the realms were under their control, it was time for consolidation. The Set needed a chance to take stock of its own weak circumstances, to realize that there were no kings running their individual realms any longer, that there was now only one ruler . . . him. He had no plans for ruination but the people of the Denova Set must understand that their livelihoods and security depended entirely upon accep tance.

He stroked Vyk’s head as he spoke his thoughts aloud. It was only with Vyk that he could ever be entirely honest, fully himself. “They’ll be frightened, suspicious, angry at fi rst. I don’t doubt there will even be thoughts of rebellion in small 116

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pockets but we’ll search them out and stamp on them as soon as they flicker into life.”

The raven blinked and turned its head slightly as though listening carefully.

“And ultimately they’ll learn to do it my way—the way it should always have been, eh, Vyk?” The bird shivered slightly, flashing the almost metallic black-blue of its feathers. “Bloodshed was the only way.” Loethar looked around.

“We had to teach them the ultimate lesson . . . the truth behind the lies.”

Gavriel was yawning, only half listening to Loethar’s soft words. He glanced at Leo, noting that the boy’s eyelids were already heavy and he suspected the youngster would drift away in the next few minutes, for which he was grateful.

They had both seen enough blood and chaos, both felt enough hurt and experienced enough violence in the day gone to last a lifetime. He hoped Lo would spare Leo bad dreams this night and simply allow the boy his rest. And he, too, needed a quiet mind, free from the brutal images and his spiralling despair, to anchor him into some clear thought.

Plans had to be made. He’d ignored the barbarian for the last few minutes but his attention was arrested from his own thoughts by Loethar’s last comment to the raven. How odd that this man felt so close to a dumb bird . . . even a dog found a way to communicate with its master but no raven was ever going to share any emotional attachment or give anything back. Perhaps that was the point, Gavriel decided.

Loethar was surrounded by people keen to please. The raven might as well have been a stone wall for all it gave back, but it was a living creature . . . maybe that was all the barbarian needed for company, a silent companion that asked for nothing.

Gavriel frowned as he watched Loethar take the bird to the window, allowing it to launch itself from the palace. He heard the barbarian tell it not to get lost and then chuckle to himself.

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yawned silently again as he watched the lean man pour himself a goblet of wine and sigh after he swallowed the fi rst sip.

This was the first time he’d really focused on the leader’s appearance rather than his actions. For someone who was chief of the marauders he was not especially imposing. Yes, he was tall, but he didn’t seem to capitalize on his height by drawing attention to himself. Where Stracker displayed his rippling muscles, Loethar was doing a good job of hiding them—if they even existed—on a narrow, almost hollow-looking frame. Gavriel wondered what it was about Loethar that impressed his people, impressed the men of his land enough to go to war against the Set. Loethar didn’t possess the instantly seductive charm of Brennus. He bore none of the distinctive tatua that Gavriel had heard were common to the barbarian army. His black hair was lank and fl owing freely; his beard was long, unkempt, and covered most of his face.

He jangled as he moved due to all the silver rings and jewel-lery that hung from his ears, lips, and nose. He didn’t speak with a booming voice; he didn’t say much at all, in fact, and he certainly revealed as little about himself as possible . . .

except perhaps to the wretched raven.

But there was an intensity to the man, Gavriel had to admit. Something genuinely charismatic about him when he spoke in that restrained manner of his, and together with that uncompromising stare, he was compelling. He certainly seemed to have Stracker under control—but why? Stracker was almost twice Loethar’s build and could easily, Gavriel imagined, pound the man into a blob with his bare fi sts. What influence did Loethar have over these primitive people?

He glanced once again at Loethar, now slumped in a high-backed chair, his goblet empty and tipped aside in his lap, and watched the usurper scratch at his horrible beard. The quiet scene was disturbed by a knock at the door, followed by Stracker’s entrance with the queen.

Gavriel saw a glance pass between the two men. “Where is the boy?” Loethar asked as he stood.

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washed and tidied . . . and yes, his bloodied shirt is back on his body.”

Iselda winced. “What do you want me for?”

“I thought you might care to take supper with me. You must be hungry.”

She looked at him, astonished. “No, I think my belly is the last thing on my mind.” She gasped when Piven arrived, carried by Freath. “Why is he . . . ?” She didn’t fi nish.

But Freath guessed her question all the same. With a glance toward the barbarian leader he addressed his former queen. “Iselda, your son now belongs to Loethar. Pet Piven is his new title. He is to permanently wear the shirt that bears the blood of his father as a constant reminder.”

“Of what?” Iselda whispered, horror spreading across her beautiful, pale face.

Freath looked to Loethar.

“Of whatever the blood reminds him in his locked mind, madam,” Loethar replied. “But for me it will be a reminder that all that is left of the Valisar line is this pathetic, mad, bloodstained child.”

Iselda’s lips trembled but to her credit and to Gavriel’s everlasting pride, she held her head high, refusing the tears that threatened. “You suit your name, you know that? I don’t know what it means in your primitive culture but in our sophisticated one, the name Loethar—though so ancient as to be almost dead—means betrayer or evil one.”

“Ah,” Loethar said. A glimmer of a smile fl ashed. “That’s where I must correct you, Iselda. It means no such thing.

Your bastardization has tarnished what was once a very proud name of your people. In its original form of Lowther, it actually means ‘true.’ But over the centuries it was lost, changed, and somehow got itself corrupted to Loethar. Because of the old word ‘loe’ people believe it means to betray.

But it doesn’t mean betrayer, Iselda. Even in the more mod-ern form it means—”

“I didn’t come here for a history lesson, barbarian,” the queen sneered. “In any language it would mean the lowest Roya l Ex i l e

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of life to me.” She deliberately looked away from him to her aide. “Freath, you’ve had Piven in your care obviously?”

“I bathed him,” Freath answered and Gavriel noticed the aide no longer used her title.

“And you did not drown my helpless son? You did not save him from this . . . this animal?” she hurled at him.

“No,” he answered, seemingly unaffected by her emotional tirade. “Why would I?”

“Freath!” she gasped again. “For my sake, of course! And to save him any pain or humiliation at the marauder’s hands.” Her aide simply sneered and let the child’s hand go. Piven looked at his mother serenely but walked across to Loethar and smiled.

“You see, he even likes me. Perhaps because I don’t weep or shriek as you do, madam,” Loethar said softly. “Or perhaps because he knows that with me he has a chance at life, whereas left to his surviving parent, she would strangle him in a moment.”

“What kind of beast lives inside you?” Iselda said to Loethar, her voice turning deep, almost animal-like in its growl.

“An angry one, Iselda. Now quieten yourself. I despise noise, especially from a woman, and if you make any more I shall take it out on my new pet here,” Loethar replied, tapping Piven on the shoulder.

“I believe you,” she said, eyeing him with such loathing that Gavriel held his breath, begging her inwardly not to do anything rash.

“Good. You are very beautiful when you are calm.” She looked away from him, clearly determined not to give him any reason to hurt her child.

“I have a surprise for you, Iselda.”

“Another one,” she said, disdain dripping from her voice.

“I hate surprises.”

“Well, I’m not sure this one is much to your taste either but taste it you will. Here, come sit opposite me. Stracker, have the table set in the manner a queen would appreciate.” Servants were allowed to come in—Genrie approached 120

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with a very young serving girl Gavriel recognized. He couldn’t recall her name but he noticed that her face was tear- stained and she was shivering. Genrie deliberately noticed no one it seemed, other than the former queen, throwing her soft glances of concern. Iselda was ignoring everyone but Piven, who sat on the floor with Vyk, newly arrived through the open window at almost the same time the servants had entered. The raven had climbed onto Piven’s wrist; the boy made no sound as he stared gravely at the large black bird.

Gavriel’s attention was caught again by Genrie, who shooshed the other girl away, as her shaking hands were a detriment to setting up goblets and wine decanters. Genrie, by contrast, looked composed. He knew she was one of Freath’s favorites—perhaps that was why she had leapt to his defense when Gavriel made fun of him—but now he wondered if her defensiveness meant she was also his accomplice. Genrie was rather young for her se nior position in the palace, and setting tables was far below her but she went about her task with her usual crisp effi ciency.

When it was done she had the audacity to curtsey to the queen. “Your majesty,” she said. “I know you won’t enjoy the meal but I urge you—”

“Stop!” Loethar said, his voice quiet but angry. “You, girl.

What is your name?”

“I am called Genrie,” she replied, looking at him un-abashed and unable to hide the defiance in her eyes. Gavriel felt inspired by her courage, even though he feared for her safety. She must be able to see the fresh bloodstains on the rug, not far from where she stood, and imagine from whom they came.

“Apart from addressing someone you do not have permission to talk to, do you always ignore your ruler?”

“No, sir. I have never ignored him. Nor would I if he were in this room with us now.”

“Magnificent,” Gavriel breathed, even as he realized that this might be the last moment he saw Genrie alive.

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A chilled silence had descended upon the room. Gavriel could see Iselda pleading with Genrie through her stare not to inflame the situation any further.

“How old are you?” Loethar demanded.

“Old enough to hate you. Old enough to die for it.” Loethar stared at her, transfixed. Gavriel was sure most would have begun to tremble—or at least fi dget—beneath such intense scrutiny. Finally he spoke. “And do you want to die?”

“No, sir. I want to live long enough to see you die.” Loethar surprised Gavriel by laughing, and although it was soft, there was a rueful tone in it. “Perhaps you will, Genrie.”

“For what you’ve done to our king, you can be sure that people will queue to be your murderer, me among them.” Gavriel, amazed by her pluck, watched Loethar nod thoughtfully before saying, “I’m sure that’s true.”

“But it does not seem to frighten you,” she sneered.

“That is also true. Now, Genrie, I’ve tolerated your indiscretion because I can appreciate this is an upsetting time. I need you to leave quietly now and take your weeping companion with you.”

“You haven’t seen what Tilly has seen. She has every right to weep.” Genrie threw another concerned glance toward Iselda.

“Nevertheless, get her noise out of here or I’ll ask Master Stracker to take care of it. He tends not to be terribly gentle.

I’d recommend that you don’t anger him.”

“I have no fear. You control him like the dog on a leash that he is.”

“That feistiness is attractive, Genrie, and I’m going to permit you to live despite your disrespect—for now—but beware it doesn’t become your undoing.” The servant ignored Loethar. “Queen Iselda, whatever happens in the next few minutes, just remember, we are all loyal to the Valisars and no matter what this barbarian says to you—or shows you—”

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“Get her out,” Loethar said wearily and Genrie was instantly set upon by Stracker, who enjoyed twisting her arm painfully as he pushed her toward the door. She fi nally—and sensibly—remained quiet, although Gavriel wished he could cheer loudly so she knew someone appreciated her pluck.

The queen who was the recipient of all that courageous encouragement just stared at Genrie departing seemingly un-responsive.

“Ready to eat, Iselda?”

“I’m not hungry,” she snarled. “What did that girl mean?”

“Ah, so you were paying attention.”

“Explain it.”

“I’m not inclined to. Although I can show you, perhaps.” Gavriel heard cunning in the barbarian’s tone, and with it came a fresh wave of anxiety that froze him like ice. Fear coursed through his veins and he glanced down at Leo, taking in the slightly open mouth, regular rise and fall of the chest, and limbs scattered haphazardly. The boy was asleep; good.

“. . . I don’t like games,” Gavriel heard Iselda reply.

“Oh this is no game, Iselda. I am deadly serious. And whether or not you’re hungry I expect you to remain at my table until I have fi nished.”

“As you wish. You’re in charge,” she said dismissively.

Gavriel couldn’t blame her; he felt sure that taking this approach of complete disdain was the only defense left to the queen. He reminded himself it was only a matter of hours really since she had delivered a baby. And that baby was already dead to her, she had no idea where her eldest son was, but he was as good as dead the moment he was located. And Piven might as well have been dead for all the comfort he offered. Her king—everything the realm revolved around—

was also dead and, horrifically, by his own hand. It would be eating away inside her that Brennus would be remembered for taking his own life. It didn’t sound so heroic and yet Gavriel would attest that preventing Loethar from that fi nal Roya l Ex i l e

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gleeful blow was the most heroic of all acts. Perhaps with this scornful approach, Iselda was rather hoping Loethar would tire of her and have her killed or kill her himself.

Iselda seated herself as required. She ignored Loethar’s gesture for some wine. “Freath, am I to understand that you are in cahoots with this usurper?”

“Are you still so ignorant, Iselda, that you believe I would be on your side?” the aide replied.

At this the former queen leaned back sharply, as if struck.

Her voice was filled with shock when she fi nally spoke.

“You betrayed us?”

“He’s not that courageous, my lady,” Loethar offered, setting down the decanter and reaching for his goblet. “He is an opportunist. He has seen who rules the realm now—the Set, in fact—and has thrown in his lot with me.”

“Freath!” she exclaimed. “What have they offered that you could turn on us?”

Freath smiled grimly. “They have given me you, Iselda.

You are my prize.”

“Me?” she stammered, her voice tiny, disbelieving. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh come now, highness, don’t be coy,” Freath cajoled.

“You’ve looked in the mirror often enough. But more importantly, you have used me as a slave when I was glad to be your servant. You ignored me when I would have been happy just to have a passing smile of thanks from you. I have served you since you arrived at the palace as a young bride. I protected you from the detractors who said you were the wrong choice for Brennus and I made sure of your strict care for all your confinements. I have been a loyal, diligent guardian . . .

far more than a simple servant. But I do believe you wouldn’t even recall my first name, not that it was ever spoken between us.” His final words came out like a hiss.

“I . . . I . . .” Iselda stared at him, frowning, confusion clearly battling with her private thoughts.

“Go on, try and remember it,” he jeered.

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Iselda settled her features to banish the puzzlement and instead nodded as her composure returned. “You’re right. I don’t know it. Nor do I care to ever have it register in my mind again, let alone pass my lips. You are treacherous slime, lower than the dirt that clings to Piven’s boots. You’re not worthy of my breath so I shall not waste any more of it on you.”

“Excellent,” Loethar said. “I’m glad that’s settled. Freath, you may leave us. After to night I shall have Iselda sent to your chambers.”

Gavriel felt the bile rise to his throat. He forced it back down as Loethar continued.

“The Vested will be here by daybreak. You have the choice of two. Make it quick or I’ll renege on our offer. You’re not that important to me, Freath. I’m simply allowing that you may be useful.”

“I can be very useful, sire, if you’ll give me a chance.” Iselda sneered, muttered something beneath her breath.

“Leave us,” Loethar commanded. “Stracker? Have my meal brought in. Then you too may join the men.” Stracker nodded at Freath to follow him out. A few moments of tense silence followed during which Gavriel realized he was holding his breath. The door opened and he strained to see one of the large food wagons being dragged in by a near hysterical Tilly. She was shaking so hard she was struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

“Oh, save us,” Loethar muttered. “Where is the other girl?

Where is Genrie?”

“Refused to serve, now sporting a broken face for her trouble,” Stracker’s voice answered from the doorway. Gavriel felt his blood boil. Poor Genrie.

Gavriel didn’t hear Loethar’s reply because Tilly, in her hysteria and her clumsiness, had knocked over the huge silver dome that was covering a salver on the wheeled wagon.

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upright otter that was so pop ular for the royal feasts. The dome was sent clattering across the flagstones, making a terrible ruckus and Gavriel instantly looked down toward Leo, disappointed to see the child sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“What’s going on, Gav?”

“Nothing, go back to sleep,” Gavriel murmured, but to no avail. Leo was already yawning himself awake and stretching.

“Let me see.”

“There’s nothing to see, except—” And that’s when Iselda began to groan as though in the deepest of pain.

Gavriel looked back, unable to stop Leo, who he knew was now taking in the terrible scene with the same sense of horror and despair. Placed in the middle of the platter was the torso of King Brennus, roasted, his skin blistered and sizzling. His head was badly sunken into his shoulders, and his crown was placed lopsided on the cooked head, the eyes drooping while the mouth gaped, juices oozing from the bubbled, roasted tongue. Gavriel felt his stomach lurch. He dry retched, covering the sound as best he could.

“It would have taken too long to roast him whole, so I had him cut in half,” Loethar said conversationally above the din of Iselda’s keening.

Piven arrived at the table with what appeared to be a vague look of curiosity on his face. He was barely tall enough for his eyes to draw level but he tipped his head to one side, ab-sorbing the image before him. As usual he uttered nothing, and his face had already returned to its usual expressionless appearance.

“Why?” Iselda managed to growl through her sobs.

“Well, if you must know, my lady, it is my intention to consume your husband. Now as odd as that sounds, it has merit. You see, contrary to what history tells us, I believe all Valisars possess special enchantment—some more than others, I’ll grant you.”

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powers.” And then she gave herself entirely over to her grief, weeping, bent double as though in physical pain. Gavriel noticed that her breathing soon became shallow and rapid as her gaze turned suddenly unfocused.

“Well, just in case,” Loethar said quietly, “I think I’ll start with his heart, unless of course you feel that it belongs to you?” There was absolutely no mirth in his words and Gavriel did not know whether he meant it in jest or was genuinely asking her permission. He would never know, for as the barbarian king began carving away the cooked flesh of the royal, Gavriel gagged, running around the corner to bring up the stinging, acid liquid that burned his throat.

But one person kept rigidly watching the shocking scene.

Leo held his position, eyes wide, mouth agape, his expression hard to read as Gavriel returned, wiping his mouth.

“Leo,” he whispered, shaking with distress for the boy.

“Today I make a soul promise,” Leo uttered and his voice was so torn with savagery that no whisper could hide it. “But I will only carry it out when I am a man, old enough and strong enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with the barbarian who eats the flesh of my father. Until then I am a shadow, I am invisible to him. He shall never know my identity until the day I look him in the eye and tell it to him before I kill him. Witness my soul promise, Gavriel.” Gavriel was so taken aback he couldn’t even stop Leo’s blade. In a blink the boy was pushing it into Gavriel’s hand.

Gavriel shook his head, horrified. Again Leo didn’t hesitate. With his friend’s hand still closed around the hilt he grabbed the blade, opened his shirt and dragged the blade across his chest, slicing open his own flesh, blood blooming instantly in its wake. Leo winced but he did not cry out.

Gavriel opened his mouth in a silent groan, staring at the young blood on his hand, all over the knife.

The soul promise was the weightiest oath anyone could make. It required a living witness to perform the cut, achieve a deep wound across the chest to signify the scarring of the Roya l Ex i l e

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soul. Now Gavriel and Leo were bound in blood, through the most savage of oaths.

“I am a king in exile,” Leo muttered, uncaring of the blood that ran freely down his chest. “And he will feel my wrath.”

Nine

——————————————

Kirin nudged Clovis. “Look. What do you think’s going on up there?”

Clovis gazed upward toward the battlements as a tiny bowl of what looked to be dust was upended. The dust caught the soft late summertide breeze and was borne away.

“I don’t know. You’re the one who can get into people’s heads,” he grumbled.

“Ssh!” Kirin cautioned. “And you’re the one who sees things.”

“I see nothing other than a woman who could be the queen.”

“What?” Kirin squinted as he concentrated. “You’ve seen her?”

“Only from a distance and in paintings.”

“No, I don’t think so. That woman looks like she’s feeble-minded. Look at how her mouth hangs open.”

“I can’t see as well as you, Kirin. Your eyes are younger.”

“Well, what I can tell you is that Loethar’s on the rooftop and Stracker’s next to him. Promise me you’ll steer clear of him.”

“As if I have a choice,” Clovis commented absently. He’d never told Kirin that it was Stracker who slaughtered his family. Although Kirin seemed excited by their loose plan to work against the barbarian king, Clovis was tired from the enforced walk to Penraven, and anxious about what awaited them here.

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They were being herded through the vast main gates of Penraven, where in a moment of whimsy perhaps, Cormoron—

the original great king of the Valisar dynasty—had installed an impressive bell in one of the huge pillars and a shadow timepiece in the other. It was famous throughout the Set and attracted a lot of travellers. Clovis noticed that there were in fact four of these great dials in the massive pillar to the left and he quickly realized this meant that anyone, inside or outside of the palace, could know the exact time of day.

What a marvellous piece of ingenuity. It intrigued him that something so simple as light and shadow could inform people of something so complex as the hours of the day. He didn’t have time to appreciate the ornate, richly-colored artwork that adorned the face of the timepiece that pointed east, welcoming people to the city, although he’d heard much about its beauty and the brief glance he was afforded told him it was magnificent. He reminded himself to check on the opposing face which he’d heard was made of the stunning, creamy white marble from quarries to the northeast of exotic Percheron. The marble dial had been a gift from Percheron to Penraven on the occasion of the marriage of one of its princesses to King Brennus.

As Clovis passed underneath the gates he looked back to see that it was no lie—the marble was painted with special black inks flecked with gold dust. He had just a moment to take in that the timepiece split the day into the four tides—

the working day—and he wondered if he would soon hear the great bell boom noontide, for the sun was surely at its apex and the shadow timepiece told him so when he glanced back over his shoulder.

It was as if the man in the belltower heard his thoughts for at that precise moment the noontide bell was struck and a deep gonging sound rang out over the first courtyard, although Clovis was sure it would be heard throughout the complex that Brighthelm looked to be. Perhaps the man in the tower reads minds, he thought, and smiled mirthlessly.

* * *

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On the battlements, Loethar shook out the last of the dust from the bowl; watched as the wind dispersed it.

“Another Valisar heir gone,” he said, his tone satisfi ed. He looked down at Piven at his side and wondered if he should kill the halfwit too. And yet in just such a short time he’d grown rather fond of his shadow. The boy, strange and lost though he was, seemed to like Loethar. Freath had told him that Piven liked everyone because everyone was good to him. No one upset him—he was too hard to reach anyway—

and the only time the child showed any emotion was in response to heat or cold, pain or hunger.

“And even that he seems to grow out of,” Freath had admitted. “These days you wouldn’t know if Piven was hungry unless you heard his belly grind. And pain no longer seems to register as it used to.”

The child was harmless and although he was aligned to the Valisars he was not blood and Loethar felt sure this orphan could be used to his own ends. Humiliation was a very strong weapon and to be seen befriending one of the precious—and easily the most vulnerable—members of the family, especially turning him into a dumb pet, might help reinforce his power over the people.

“What is your intention for the Set?” Freath had asked him only that morning.

He’d decided to be honest. “I have heard of a great tyrant from the far northwest many centuries back who overthrew a particularly powerful king. To help reinforce his image and to make his conquered peoples feel more kindly toward him he had opted to rule with as little oppression as possible, throwing festivals, building infirmaries, and encouraging the scholars and thinkers to come forward with their ideas. It was a far subtler means of manipulation. Erecting statues of him surrounded by children, or riding a dolphin, or walking with pop ular gods, had a far keener effect on the psyche of the people than aggression could ever have achieved.” Freath had nodded. “I think you refer to Thorasius.” Roya l Ex i l e

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“That’s him.” Loethar continued. “Suddenly the tyrant became benefactor, and within two decades he was a father of the nation.”

“And you have learned from this,” Freath finished for him.

“I have no quarrel with the people of the Set, only its rulers, and especially its leading family, the Valisar dynasty.” Freath had made some inane remark but Loethar knew his candour had given the bitter aide pause for thought.

His mind came back to the present and he looked at Iselda, whom he noticed was quickly becoming a mere echo of the defiant woman he’d met. Pity. She’d impressed him with that disdain but seeing her husband’s roasted carcass had punched the fi nal fight out of her. The burning of her daughter’s corpse, which she insisted on witnessing, and the loos-ing of the infant’s ashes just moments ago might have been the final nails in the coffin. He took in her absent gaze, her silence—not even tears any more—and the total lack of any interest in anything around her. Perhaps it was all over for Iselda. This woman’s death—if it occurred—would especially please Valya, he was sure, if not himself.

“We are done here,” he said to Stracker, who nodded.

“The Vested have arrived,” his Right said.

“Remember what I said,” Loethar said, a hard gaze at the man, who glanced briefly at Freath and nodded.

Stracker departed and Loethar looked toward Freath. He shrugged. “She’s all yours, now. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, sire. Come, Iselda. I have long awaited this chance to be alone with you on very equal terms.”

“Leave Piven with me,” Loethar said, when he noticed Freath glance at the boy. “His new leash should be ready today.”

“As you wish, sire,” Freath said, bowing. “Do you need me for anything further?”

“Not right now, Freath. Go have some fun with the queen.

Although it will be like lying with the dead.” Freath’s lips pulled back over his small teeth. “It matters 132

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not to me, sire. Call me whenever you require me to attend you,” he said, before guiding the near catatonic woman from the top of the palace.

Alone at last. Loethar sighed. He was sure Valya would arrive soon and perhaps his mother might deign to enter Penraven. He hoped not, although he suspected a pride of mountain lions wouldn’t keep Negev from her chance to fi -

nally gloat over Iselda, or her corpse.

Stracker was waiting for them, and Clovis found him once again far more imposing at this closer distance; he no longer needed Kirin’s warning to give this man a wide berth. Even unarmed, the man was a mountain. Even with his fury of his family’s blood on this man’s hands, Clovis didn’t think he’d survive a duel against him.

He stole a glance at him now, though, because he felt relatively secure while the barbarian’s attention was fully riveted on the middle- aged man currently doing his utmost to impress his captor. Clovis looked at Kirin, who pursed his lips. They were both thinking the same thing. This man—

Clovis couldn’t remember his name—was apparently able to make things disappear and he was selling his skill with great gusto.

“I saw him once,” Kirin mumbled in the queue. “He was nothing more than a charlatan in a travelling show.”

“Well, if they believe him, he’ll be Loethar’s Left before he knows it!” Clovis said sourly.

“That’s my point,” Kirin whispered. “He has no idea that in his grandiose efforts he’s probably signing his own death warrant. They’ll discover he’s a small time conjuror and probably slash his throat for wasting everyone’s time.” Clovis shivered, even though death had sounded so attractive only the previous day. “So we stick to our plan.”

“Yes,” Kirin said, his tone firm. “Don’t deviate. I promise you it will save us but more importantly, it will give us a chance to help whatever rebellion force ever gets the courage to fi ght back.”

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“What makes you think your apparent lack of magic means they won’t slash your throat this instant for being of no use to them at all?”

“Well, Clovis, this is where we musn’t fully undersell our talent,” Kirin urged, slightly more acid in his usual optimistic tone. “It’s a fine balance, I agree. Ah, he’s been put into that group. I wonder what that grouping means?” Clovis shrugged. So far that group contained the fellow who claimed to make things disappear, a woman who apparently could understand the “mind of the sea,” another woman who was a healer—always handy, Clovis thought—a youth who claimed to control weather, a girl who used animal intestines to divine the future and a man who could talk to trees. He looked away, no longer interested. “I don’t know, Kirin,” he said, his voice heavy with weariness.

“Don’t let us down now that we’ve come this far.” Clovis shuffled another few paces further, trying to ignore Kirin’s pulling his shirt to hurry him along. Finally it was his turn to face Stracker. He glanced at Kirin, but his friend’s expression was suddenly and deliberately blank. Perhaps he was trying to suggest they act as though they did not know one another.

“Name?” the guard asked, well and truly bored it seemed.

Clovis was impressed that all the barbarians of rank spoke Set. “Er, I am Clovis of Vorgaven.”

“Ah.” Stracker took over, making a mark near what must have been a name against a list. “We are told you read the future.”

Clovis felt this throat close. He gave a nod and after a nervous glance sideways at Kirin, added, “Er, well, that is what people want to believe. Who am I to turn down a chance for a living?”

Stracker looked up from his list, surprised, and then frowned at Clovis. He fl icked the parchment. “Are you telling me this is a lie?”

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the throat and squeeze hard but wondered whether his hands would even fit around the bull-like neck. He knew Kirin was willing him to convince the barbarian but Stracker looked capable of immediate violence, as though he wouldn’t even wait for Clovis to form his argument. The dark green ink and its designs rippled over the ropey muscles and veins of the barbarian’s thick arms and shifted on his face as his puzzlement turned to a snarl. Clovis swallowed. “Forgive me. I am not lying but I also don’t want to make any grand claims. It is true that I see things now and then. But they are unpredictable readings. I actually tend to be a good observer of people and those instincts combined with the little sentient skills I do possess seem to impress the wealthy community in which I used to live.”

“I see,” Stracker said, his eyes narrowing. “So you admit to some magic?”

“I don’t want to mislead anyone,” Clovis reiterated, “but if it prevents an untimely death, then yes, it would not be a lie to admit to some sentient skill,” he lied.

“Stand over there,” Stracker said, pointing to a lonely corner of the guardhouse.

“But no one else is there,” Clovis observed bleakly. He’d ruined it for himself.

“How clever of you. Yes, I can see that you have sound observation skills, Master Clovis,” Stracker said acidly.

“Move!”

Clovis did so reluctantly and with the help of a shove from one of the guards. He let his mind go blank as he turned his attention to Kirin, who was pushed forward.

“Name?” the same bored guard asked in the same weary manner.

“Kirin. I’m from the Academy at Cremond.”

“A teacher,” Stracker snarled, striking off the name when he found it.

“No, not at all. I don’t know how best to describe my role other than someone who interviews students and divines their best study paths.”

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“Divines?”

Kirin nodded. “That’s how it was described.”

“It is magical?”

“Low level. We call it ‘trickling,’ ” Kirin said. Clovis was astounded by the younger man’s composure and ability to lie with such confidence under this sort of scrutiny. Kirin’s voice wasn’t even shaking, whereas Clovis was still sweat-ing from Stracker’s brief, angry attention. Kirin looked calm, almost jaunty.

“Tell me what trickling means,” Stracker growled.

“Well, although I don’t have a lot of power within me I can direct whatever I have toward someone and learn about . . .

how can I put this? . . . um, his mood, you could say.” Stracker frowned. “Mood?”

“Disposition. Is that a word you understand?” Now Stracker’s expression darkened, his eyes hooded.

“Be careful, teacher. I have the power to spill your blood right now.”

“Oh, I know that, sir,” Kirin said smoothly, censuring all cockiness. “My respect,” he added, bowing. “I meant no insult—I was just trying to find a word that was meaningful to both of us. My talent is unusual and I must say pretty useless in most situations, other than at the university. With its help I can place people into their right study area.”

“Any useful application at all that you can impress me with, teacher?”

Kirin puffed his cheeks, blew out the breath quickly. “Well, I suppose I can pick what might be the right tasks suited to people so they work efficiently; I can sense hidden talents, I can even get a good idea of whether a new marriage will be strong or weakened through discord. You see, quite odd and possibly pointless but there are practical benefi ts.” Kirin smiled easily.

Stracker considered him. “Why aren’t you scared like everyone else?”

“Another of my abilities is to hide my emotion, sir. I am terrified of you but I realize there is very little I can do should 136

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you decide to hurt me, torture me, injure me, kill me. I am, sir, as squashable, you could say, as an ant is to a mountain lion.”

Stracker gave a dark grin. “Mountain lion, eh?”

“You look as intimidating,” Kirin admitted.

“Over there, teacher, with the other useless one.” Kirin nodded and moved to join Clovis.

“Well that makes two of us for the executioner’s blade,” Clovis said.

“Don’t be too hasty,” Kirin replied.

The majority who had made the journey were interrogated and were put into a third group that was herded off almost immediately. Clovis felt instantly alarmed when he heard the guard leading them away discussing which accommodations they were to be given; it seemed those people had impressed and their lives would be extended. His own group’s motley number had swelled to include a woman who apparently could talk with animals, another woman who was a healer—again, handy—a water diviner, a youth who claimed to dream the future, a girl about the same age who used blood to divine the future, a wizened man who could make things grow, a silent girl wrapped in a headscarf, and finally a youngster who could dislocate all his joints and fit into a small wine barrel.

“Hardly magical,” one of the Vested standing with them commented.

“Well, you try it,” the young contortionist replied. “It’s a unique skill. Almost as impressive as your ability to know which plants will yield good harvest.” The youngster was right, Clovis decided; each of them had talents that were unique but, to all intents, relatively useless. He hoped Kirin had made a wise choice in leading them down this path.

Another group, of which there were at least twenty, maybe more,

were left standing opposite his small clan. They looked nervously around, probably muttering the same anxieties as his group, Clovis assumed.

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young lad probably eleven summertides. “They’re all lying or of no aid to us. Kill them,” he announced casually, then added, “except the boy. Send him to my chambers.” Collectively the larger group quailed. Some of the women began to scream; others who had clearly tried to protect family members through lies gathered their weeping children around them. One man stepped forward to protest and Clovis had to suck back a cry of shock when he saw Stracker slash his blade across the man’s face. The wound opened, spilling blood in a torrent before Stracker gutted the man in front of the horrifi ed onlookers.

“Shut up!” he roared above the dying man’s guttural noises.

“I had intended to go easy on you so don’t make this any more complicated for yourselves. Go quietly. You have no choice. You have tried to pretend you have skills, or your claim to sentient skills are of no use to us. Either way, we do not need you.”

“Turn us loose,” a woman begged, clutching the arm of a man next to her. “We can’t hurt anyone.” Stracker smiled. “But you have insulted me. Did you think we from the Steppes are such imbeciles as to be taken in by your pathetic attempts to present yourselves as empowered?” He paced before them. “Each of you,” he said, “offered yourselves to us.” He pointed behind him. “The group over there, and the group that have gone, were all named by others as having powers that can’t be explained. You are all irrelevant but you have sold yourselves as important. You took the risk, you gave it a good go, but you have failed. I have no use for you and I certainly don’t want to feed your hungry bellies.”

“Please,” voices begged him.

Clovis was trying desperately not to look up from the ground where his gaze had been firmly directed but he glanced up helplessly and saw the fatally wounded man keel over, saw the desperate expressions on the doomed faces, and was reminded that this was how Leah and Corin must have sounded, 138

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pleading for their lives from the same brute. He gagged.

Though he didn’t want to vomit, he couldn’t help himself retching and he raced to bend over in a corner, losing the pathetic bread and thin gruel they’d been given this morning.

The squeals intensified as the guards corralled the group into another courtyard and Clovis blocked his ears, unable to bear listening to their cries. He felt a steadying hand on his back.

“Be calm.” It was a woman’s voice. Clovis wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked up. “You can do nothing but pray for a speedy despatch for them.”

“How can you be so heartless?”

“Heartless? My husband of nine years is with them,” she said, giving him a hard, unblinking look. “I can’t save him.

I can’t even say goodbye to him. Do you think screaming, clawing at him, begging that animal will change anything?” Clovis shook his head dumbly as he straightened, glancing briefly at Kirin, who was staying well out of this exchange.

“So I’m using every ounce of my body to force myself to stay calm, as you must. We will only fight back if we keep our minds clear and on one goal only.” Clovis closed his eyes. Another rebel!

“I am Reuth,” she said. “And I will have my revenge.” She looked up and he saw her convey a message with her eyes as the last of the group was fi nally shuffled away. He could see the deep sorrow in one man’s face; he had to be the husband.

Clovis turned back to the woman. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I too lost my wife and child to the same brute. My wounds are still too raw. Are you the one with visions?” She nodded and he saw her eyes were wet. Clovis couldn’t imagine what it was costing her to be so brave, knowing the man she loved was about to be slaughtered. He should con-sole her, he thought, but he did nothing, said nothing, and she continued, “Not that they believe me and it’s a very contrary skill. It chooses when and where, how and why. But it may save my life. We must stay alive, as best we can.” Roya l Ex i l e

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“I’m not as brave as you,” he said.

Kirin joined them. “Then we’ll all be brave for each other.” Everyone else could hear their discussion and murmured agreement although every face looked as pale and traumatized as the other.

Fresh screams began outside. Reuth visibly tensed and reached for someone, anyone. It was Kirin who hugged her, pressing her face close to his chest to stifle any sobs. Clovis felt sick for being unable to offer any comfort to this courageous woman.

“What will he do to the boy?” someone asked.

“He will use him to feed his perverted sexual appetite,” Kirin replied. “At least until he gets too bored with the boy.”

“How do you know?” Reuth asked, wincing at the shrieks.

Kirin shrugged hastily. “I have to get out of here,” he said, not answering her.

“It will stop soon,” Reuth said to him quietly. “And then we will know what they plan for us. Let us say a prayer for them.”

Obediently, everyone joined hands, though each kept his prayers private.

“It is over now,” Kirin fi nally said ominously, and Clovis began to believe in his friend’s abilities for the cries stopped upon his last word.

Stracker strode in, sheathing his sword. “What are you lot talking about?” Then he grinned maliciously. “As if I couldn’t guess.” Everyone straightened.

It was Kirin who spoke. Clovis had to wonder from where the young man drew his confidence. “We were wondering what you had in mind for us, sir.”

“Come with me and you shall fi nd out,” Stracker replied.

“Single line, hands on each other’s shoulders.” Clovis shuffled behind Kirin. He could feel Reuth’s hands on his shoulders and could smell the blood in the air as they headed to their fate.

Te n

——————————————

Gavriel had no choice but to risk it. Leo needed food. On cue, his own hunger pangs gave a low grind, reminding him that the situation was urgent.

How clever, he thought, as he dragged his hand softly against the various areas of the wall that were false. To all intents it looked like any other thick stone slab but the false panels’ cunning design allowed voices to be heard clearly and spy holes to be drilled with ease.

At first he’d thought there were only a couple but Leo had shown him that many areas of the wall facing into the king’s salon were indeed fake, giving them this ability to eavesdrop.

Leo was currently distracted, drawing up a rough map for Gavriel to show him the network of corridors as Leo understood them. The chalked maze that had taken shape on the wall astounded Gavriel, despite its amateurish scrawl.

“This many?” he said, impressed by just how many corridors there were.

“These are the ones I know, the ones father allowed me to play in now and then.”

“Your mother doesn’t know about them?” Leo shook his head. “I told you, Valisar fathers and sons only. Piven came in with me a few times but . . .” The king shrugged.

“I know,” Gavriel said, feeling an intense sympathy for Roya l Ex i l e

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the boy. He knew what it was like to have a brother to play with. Gavriel looked up at the drawing. “This is impressive, Leo.”

“Father insisted I memorize my way around this region of the ingress. I really don’t know the rest at all or even how extensive it is.”

“So he was teaching you?” Gavriel suddenly understood the con ve nient chalk.

“Yes, we’d come in here, the three of us, and father would get me to walk through the ingress with him. Then he’d test me, getting me to scribble on the walls. He’d rub it off though so that I could memorize my way. He was planning to take me much further when . . .” Gavriel saw the young king’s face darken.

“Yes, well, he’d be so proud of you now,” Gavriel quickly said. “Because it’s doing just what it was intended for.”

“It was intended as a means of spying,” Leo said.

“I don’t doubt it but I’ll stake my life on the fact that Cormoron built it as a final secret means of escape.”

“I’m hungry, Gav. I’m feeling sick I’m so empty.”

“Right, that was what I was going to suggest I do next,” Gavriel said brightly.

“I’ll show you,” Leo said, immediately putting down his chalk and wiping his hands on his clothes.

“No, Leo. That’s too dangerous now. You are now king and my father and your father—Lo keep their souls—made me your keeper.”

“My champion,” Leo corrected.

“That’s right. I am your protector and guardian.”

“They picked the right twin, then, because you are the better fighter, aren’t you?”

Gavriel smiled. “Not sure Corb would agree with you there but I do. He was never good enough to best me and I know it galled him, although he didn’t say much.”

“Where is Corbel, anyway?”

This was the question Gavriel had been dreading. “Er, I’m not sure. He was sent on a task before the barbarians arrived.

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Hopefully he’s had the good sense to get away completely.” Returning to the matter at hand, he said fi rmly, “Right, food. I’m going to follow your map to the kitchen and Leo, you’ve got to be prepared to eat whatever I find. You can’t be fussy and it could be raw.”

“Not raw meat?”

“Probably not meat at all. I’m hoping to find some bread, perhaps some cheese.”

“That’s fine. Get some milk if you can. Hopefully someone’s remembered to milk the cows. Oh and—”

“Don’t even mention honeycakes,” Gavriel warned, winning a grin from the king.

“I suspect after last night’s dish, no one will want to use the oven again,” Leo said and Gavriel thought him brave to even mention it. He knew he should say something about the former king but was lost for appropriate words.

“If I see them and can balance them, they’re yours, I promise,” he said instead. “So, down this corridor, past four openings, then the one on the right, turn left . . .” Gavriel screwed up his face, thinking hard, before saying, “left again?”

“Right,” Leo corrected with a sigh. “Don’t get lost. Here, shall I give you the string that father used to teach me with?

It’s somewhere back here where he left the chalk and other things.”

“No, I need to remember and I’ve got it straight now. Past four, right, left, right.”

Leo nodded. “How long before I should be worried?”

“Don’t worry at all. I have no idea how long it’s going to take, especially if I have to wait for someone to turn his back or leave the kitchen.”

“Let me at least come part of the way with you,” Leo begged.

“No. This way if anything goes wrong, you have a chance to get out. If you hear voices, Leo, run. Make your way around the ingress as you know how and go to the opening you’ve spoken about. Take whatever chances you have to but Roya l Ex i l e

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get out of here if the ingress is discovered. All right?” Leo nodded. “No, you have to promise me aloud.”

“I promise.”

“Right. Keep an eye on Loethar. I have no idea what the time of day is but I reckon it’s got to be close to dawn, if not already, and he’s bound to make an appearance. Listen to what he says to the damn bird. He talks to it as if it’s going to talk back!”

“I think he talks to Vyk because he’s not going to answer back,” Leo said, frowning. “Perhaps the raven is the only creature he truly trusts.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Gavriel, said, shaking his head at Leo’s fanciful thought. “Talking to a bird,” he muttered with disdain as he loped off.

It was almost dawn and Clovis found himself standing in what looked to be an unused yet simply furnished chamber alongside his companions. Understandably there was tension in the room and specifically a sudden wariness about each other. He stole a glance at Kirin, who was ignoring everyone, staring out of a tiny window, and then looked toward Reuth, who sat quietly on the fl oor, her arms wrapped about her knees. In fact even the few whisperings had ceased and all were immersed in their own thoughts, a grim silence hovering around each.

Apart from Kirin, about whom no one knew anything anyway, Clovis was sure that all of them were only mildly Vested. The truly Vested of the land didn’t often admit to it.

Seeking fame and fortune from sentient power seemed to be the realm of the mildly afflicted only. He smiled ruefully as he acknowledged that he fitted this description adequately.

The door suddenly creaked open, disturbing his thoughts.

People stood warily, unsure of what was going to happen.

Clovis melted back to join Kirin at the window.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispered, immediately nervous.

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Kirin looked bored. “Stay calm, stay true. You become instantly more interesting by being silent, unruffl ed. Watch the others’ anxious expressions and keen desire to please. It can work against them in this situation.”

“What are you, some sort of oracle?” For some reason—perhaps it was their internal distress—

they both found Clovis’s comment amusing and actually laughed quietly with each other.

“You two! At the back. Yes, you jokers.” Stracker’s voice interrupted their humor. They straightened their expressions. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing much at all,” Kirin answered, “but I’ve found keeping a sense of humor—even about impending death—is probably wise when you don’t have any control.”

“And so you’re laughing at me?”

“Not you,” Kirin added. “Just our own wretched bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And to be Set people, rather than from the Steppes,” Clovis added, desperately trying to mimic Kirin’s manner.

He wasn’t sure he’d managed it but he did notice that the stranger who had arrived behind Stracker twitched what might have been a suppressed smile.

Stracker glared at them both, then turned to the stranger.

“All yours, for what they’re worth. Take your time, they aren’t going anywhere fast.”

The stranger nodded. “In here?”

“Where else?”

“Interview them in front of each other?”

“Keeps them honest,” Stracker said, grinning maliciously.

“Anyone gives you lip or trouble, have the guard take them out. They’ll have their throats slit immediately—Vested or otherwise. Do you all understand?” he asked, suddenly taking them all in with a fresh scowl.

People nodded or mumbled their assent.

Stracker pushed a scroll of parchment into the stranger’s hand. “Here, you’ll need this,” he said, before striding out.

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The man who’d been left behind turned to face them all, slightly bemused.

“Well, it seems we’re to be in each other’s company for a short while. Let’s see what it says here.” He walked over to a table where a single chair had been placed. No one had dared sit but the man did so now. “Er, everyone is welcome to make himself as comfortable as he can. Let’s begin with the two ‘jokers’ at the back, shall we?” Kirin pulled a wry expression as Clovis glanced his way.

“Us, sir?” Clovis asked.

“Yes,” the man said, evenly. “Over here, perhaps, so that we don’t have to talk across everyone else.” They joined him at the table, standing before him.

“Names?”

Kirin put his hand against his chest. “I’m Kirin,” he said.

“From Cremond.”

“Clovis,” his companion replied.

“Are you relatives?” the man asked, consulting his paperwork.

They shook their heads, sharing a quizzical look.

“Oh, it’s just that you seemed friendly enough with each other.”

“Would it help if we were related?” Kirin asked.

The man grimaced. “I’m afraid not. Master Clovis, it says here that you have an ability in telling fortunes . . . is that right?”

Clovis nodded. “I used to live in Vorgaven and I mainly worked for the wealthy seafaring traders. I could give them an insight into buying/selling, weather patterns, what to invest in, that sort of thing.”

“And how accurate were you in your predictions, Master Clovis?” the man asked, eyeing him directly.

“No one complained,” Clovis replied, deliberately vague.

He felt Kirin’s body weight shift next to him. Kirin wanted him to underplay his talent.

“Are you a rich man?”

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“No, sir.”

“Do you own your own dwelling?”

“I do, er, did, yes.”

“Where exactly?”

“Do you know Vorgaven?” Clovis asked.

“Indeed.”

“Our house was on a small piece of land on the peninsula that looks out to Medhaven.”

“That’s old Jed’s land isn’t it?”

Clovis was impressed. Roxburgh was one of the more powerful of the sailing merchant dynasties and no one called old Master Roxburgh by his first name. “Yes, I was able to secure a small holding on it.”

“Then you are not poor, Master Clovis.”

“I didn’t say I was. You asked if I am wealthy, which I am not.”

The stranger smiled. “It seems to me that your predictions, however ordinary you think them, obviously pleased enough of the right people. You’ll do.”

“Do what?”

“Just wait over there, Master Clovis,” the man said. “Now you . . . what is it you do?” he asked Kirin, effectively dismissing Clovis, who had no choice but to shuffle away, his clanking chains noisy in the thick silence.

“I am from the Academy at Cremond.”

“And you are a teacher?”

“No. I’ve explained this all before.”

“Then take a moment to explain to me, Master Kirin. It seems your life might depend upon it.” Kirin quickly summarized his position at the Academy.

“I see. At the Academy did you know Scholar Shuler? He was part of the administration so I’m sure you would have run across him.”

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felt sick when Kirin shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no recollection of this person.”

“Good, because he doesn’t exist,” the man said smoothly.

“I was simply testing you. A desperate person agrees to anything.” He twitched another attempt at a smile, failing again.

“So, you can sense aspects of people—is that a fair way of putting it?”

Kirin nodded.

“Can you sense what they may do next?” Clovis believed this was a trick question. The stranger was leading Kirin somewhere and he was sure Kirin was damned either way he answered.

“Master Kirin?” the man prompted.

“Er, sometimes I can get a feel for what they believe their alternatives are, and I can on occasion guide them in making a decision. Of course, this is not a precise skill, sir. How I interpret something is likely to be very different to how you might, for instance. It’s all very subjective.” Now the man did smile, genuinely. “You’re a slippery character, Master Kirin. Intelligent too. You do want to survive this . . . well, shall we say trial?”

“Why don’t we say that? It’s such a convenient word to hide behind, with the nice suggestion that there’s anything fair or even remotely objective about this interview.” The stranger sat back and regarded Kirin with a hard stare. Clovis was sure if a pin dropped you could hear it anywhere in the room, such was the intense, heavy silence that surrounded his friend’s remark.

“You’re a brave man, Master Kirin,” the stranger fi nally said softly.

“I am young, I have only really just begun living the life I want. I have a mild talent for essentially what amounts to little more than being a good judge of character, perhaps being able to get to the truth of someone. That’s all. I am tired of trying to use it to barter for my life. So if it’s as worthless as I feel it is, let’s stop this charade. If I’m to be killed, let’s get it 148

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over with. I’m sure far better people with more meaningful lives have already gone to Lo on your leader’s whim, although why a man of the Set would join these barbarians for any other reason than pure cowardice, I can’t think of one.” Clovis gasped, along with the others in the room.

“You may move over to stand with your friend, Master Kirin,” the man said firmly. “Next, Jervyn of Medhaven, where are you?”

Kirin retreated, glaring at the stranger, who ignored him, Clovis noted.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled under his breath as Kirin arrived to stand alongside him.

Kirin turned his back to the stranger and winked at Clovis. “We’ve got nothing to lose. Trust me, my friend.” Then he staggered, clutching for the wall.

“What’s wrong?” Clovis asked, grabbing at Kirin’s arm.

“Nothing. Tired, I suppose.”

“Tired? You’ve got a dozen years on me!”

“I meant tired of all this artifi ce.”

“Well, it was your idea,” Clovis reminded him. “Now you’ve got him fired up and probably in a mean mood.”

“I don’t think so,” Kirin murmured. He took a deep breath and stood straight again. “I think he liked us.” Clovis sneered but he noticed Reuth had been called. For some reason he held his breath. The conversation went much the same way as all the others. The man interviewed all of the people slowly, deliberately, never raising his voice or threatening. He simply listened, prompted and made a few notes.

Finally he sighed and looked up from his desk. “Master Kirin? Come here, would you? You too, Reuth.” Clovis frowned, nodded at Kirin who looked a bit pale, he had to admit. Perhaps the young man’s bravado was failing him?

“Yes?” Kirin said, moving once again before the interro-gator.

“I’m going to give you a second opportunity to fi ght for life.”

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“I told you, I’m not interested in bargaining for my life any longer.”

“Not yours, Master Kirin. His,” the man said, pointing at Clovis. “Tell me what I want to know and I will save his life.

Continue treating me with contempt and I shall have him brutally tortured and killed in front of you. Now, come stand here beside me, please.”

Kirin moved slowly, a look of disbelief on his wan face.

He glanced toward Clovis who could do nothing but stare back.

“Good,” the man said. “Now perhaps you’ve already met and spoken with Reuth Maegren.”

“Briefly and for the first time today,” Kirin said.

“That’s fine. It matters not. Reuth tells me she has visions but like you and your companion, she chooses not to make much more of her talent. If anything she is reticent about it.

Do you understand what I mean when I say reticent?”

“Yes, curiously enough for this peasant, he does understand,” Kirin said in a cutting tone.

“Careful, Master Kirin. I want you to use your skills—the ones you think so little of—and tell me if she lies.” Kirin looked at him, aghast. “I can’t—”

“I’d like you to try, Master Kirin. Remember, your friend’s life depends on your candour. Do your best and you’ll save him a lot of pain.”

“May I know your name?” Kirin asked.

“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, satisfi ed?

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“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?” Roya l Ex i l e

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“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 confi rmed.

“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 fi nish mumbling their agreement.

* * *

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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 con-tinuously 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.

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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 fi ngers 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 catas-trophe 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 154

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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 Roya l Ex i l e

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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 fl ask’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 fl ask 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 infi rmary. 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 pep-permint 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.

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“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.”

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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 stare 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.

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“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 fi ne.”

“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.”

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better and finally pulled on his boots, his most precious belongings. He’d spent almost a moon’s wages on having them crafted by Cremond’s cobbler to the nobles, and he felt reassured to have them back on his feet. He stepped out of the infirmary and into the sunlit morning where Freath awaited him. The aide was right. It was a day to lift anyone’s spirits. The fragrance of roses was on the air, not a cloud could be seen, joyous birdsong combined with the sound of bees buzzing excitedly around the wild darrasha bushes that grew in a haphazard fashion around these out-buildings.

“It’s criminal that a day could dawn so bright when the world itself is so very dark,” Kirin said, for the fi rst time feeling the complete helplessness of their situation. Of all the Vested, he’d been the one that kept everyone’s spirits up, had determined to personally stay strong and optimistic.

And now almost all of those innocent people had been slaughtered. He hated Loethar for that but he hated Freath, a man of the Set, so much more. “It feels as though there is no reason to breathe,” he added, the despair that he had kept at bay since Loethar had first entered the Set spilling over.

“You’re alive, Master Kirin,” Freath said. “I hope I don’t need to remind you again.”

“For whatever good that will do me,” Kirin muttered.

Gavriel’s and Leo’s mouths were stuffed full of ham and bread. Amazing what feeding a starved belly can do for the spirit, Gavriel thought. Leo was grinning, chewing hungrily.

Gavriel swallowed. “Mmm, even the plainest food tastes like a feast when you’re hungry, doesn’t it?” Leo nodded enthusiastically. He took a gulp from the milk flask but still couldn’t speak for his full mouth.

Gavriel pushed the last of his bread and cheese into his mouth and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Right!” he said, giving a soft belch that amused Leo. “It’s time to make some plans,” he continued.

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Leo had finally swallowed his last mouthful too. He mimicked Gavriel with a quick but suppressed burp and a fi nal swig of the milk. “It’s time to go,” he said.

“Pardon?” Gavriel had not expected this reaction. If anything he had thought Leo would be frightened about leaving the security of his home and the ingress.

Leo shrugged. “We can’t stay here much longer. You got lucky with the food, Gav, but what about later this eve ning when we’re hungry again, or tomorrow morning when we’re cranky because of it or tomorrow night when we feel starved?

It may be impossible to get food again.”

“Water’s our real problem,” Gavriel added gloomily. “I guess King Cormoron didn’t plan such a hasty retreat into the ingress, or he would have made provision.” Leo shrugged. “He probably believed he would stock it with necessities if he ever needed to use it to hide from enemies. Anyway, we have to leave. My father is dead, my mother looks like she’s given up, Piven is lost. There’s nothing to stay for.”

“We can learn everything that Loethar’s up to.”

“But why? We’re helpless here. It’s not like we can do anything with that knowledge.”

Gavriel nodded. “You’re right.” But he had no plan.

“Gav, I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Gavriel joked.

Leo grinned sadly. “I was thinking about what it is to be Penraven’s king.”

Gavriel sighed. “Leo, you’re suddenly so much more. From what we’ve heard, seen and can work out, all of the Set Kings have fallen. In every other realm’s palace so have the families. Everyone is either dead or incarcerated. It might be that you are the only heir who is currently alive . . . but more importantly, the only one who is potentially free.” Leo frowned. “The thing is, no one who should know is aware I’m alive, are they?”

Gav shook his head.

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“So even being free is useless to the Set unless . . . well, unless I declare that I’m alive.”

“And we won’t be doing that! It’s not safe yet,” Gavriel replied, taking a high-handed tone.

“No, but don’t you see, I might as well be dead along with my father and sister, or lost like Piven and mother, if I don’t fulfill my destiny. Just keeping me alive isn’t enough.”

“Destiny?”

“Father talked about it all the time.”

“Did he?”

Leo nodded. “He would always try to see me before I had to go to bed and there’d always be some little jest or mention between us of the day when I would be king.”

“All fathers do that, Leo, especially royal ones,” Gavriel comforted. “He would not want you risking death now.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Gav. I think that’s exactly what my father would want from me. To him the Valisar dynasty was everything. He would have risked everything, including the lives of our family and his people, if he thought there was a slim chance that I might escape Loethar’s arrival. And I think that’s just what’s happened. He knew the barbarian was coming. He probably never thought Loethar would succeed but just in case he’d gone to great lengths to teach me about the ingress, to start including me in conversations about the running of the realm.”

“You never mentioned that to Corb and myself.” Leo gave a sheepish shrug. “I was not supposed to. He probably never thought it would come to it either but I do know he would expect me to risk my own life for the realm, for the Valisar crown.”

“He protected you—that’s why we’re in this tiny corridor!

And I’ve sworn to keep you safe. We cannot do anything yet.” Gavriel felt as though they were standing on opposite sides of a fence.

“He protected me so that the crown always had its Valisar king—no other reason. I’m not saying he didn’t love me, or Roya l Ex i l e

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any of us. I’m simply saying duty was fi rst with father. The crown was everything.” Leo kicked at the wall, suddenly looking angry at his admission.

“What are you saying, Leo? I’m losing track of why we’re arguing.”

“We’re not arguing. I want Loethar to suffer for his sins. I want him humiliated and his barbarian horde devastated and banished from all lands in the Set.”

“All right,” Gavriel said slowly, unnerved by the sudden passion that was sizzling off the youngster. “What are you proposing here?”

“We have to make use of our one advantage. Hiding here was necessary so we could plan. But now we have to be daring. We must get out and allow anyone who is willing to make use of me.”

“That’s very brave, Leo. It—”

“It’s what’s expected of me, I imagine.” Gavriel stared at his new king and felt a wave of pride rush through him. Leo was young but he was right. Penraven would need its surviving heir to be the catalyst for rebellion. “You’re talking about fighting back, Leo. But I doubt anyone there is feeling terribly rebellious just now.

The realm—all of the Set, I imagine—is bleeding, reeling from the onslaught of the barbarian horde.”

“I disagree,” Leo said, almost loftily. “I think now is when our people will be feeling the most outrage. I know I do, you do. If we leave it too long they might get used to the new ways. We have to tell them how our king died, how our people have been slaughtered mercilessly. We must let them know that the Valisar crown has survived, that they must rally to the Valisar heir . . . king!” Gavriel paused, impressed by Leo’s fighting talk. “Who do we tell? How do we do it?”

“As I said, I’ve been thinking. I was with both our fathers when they were discussing a renegade. They called him a highwayman but from what I could tell of their conversation, 164

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his thieving had become more serious. He was regularly robbing from the crown. And they said he was well or ganized. I presume that means he had friends.”

“And you think this is the man who could start a revolu-tion against the Set’s enemy?”

Leo looked abashed. “Well, to be honest, I was simply thinking that someone like this highwayman might have a reason to support the old ways, especially if I promised him freedom from prosecution for his past.” Gavriel stared at the king. “You have thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Well, you were gone a long time fi nding food.”

“I couldn’t have been. It was too easy—I didn’t even have to sneak into the pantry. I told you, witless Genrie made it all easy.”

“Witless? I think she notices too much. She’s really curt and obviously hates me simply because I happened to be born royal. Be careful of her.”

“Oh, she’s not that bad.”

“She all but scowls every time she sees me.”

“She’s ambitious.”

“And so that gives her a right to sneer at someone who couldn’t help being born a royal?”

“Spoken like a true king, your highness,” Gavriel said.

“Well, I don’t like her.”

“You should. If not for her we wouldn’t have been fed today.”

“You obviously like her, Gav, but we shouldn’t trust her.”

“She is the only one, save your father, who stood up to Loethar. You should see the beating she’s taken for speaking up. I can’t help but think she’s to be admired.”

“She treats everyone as she did Loethar. She’s always ar-gumentative; that’s her contrary manner. Everyone but Freath feels the bite of her tongue. She seemed to get on well with him, of course. Nasty birds of a feather fl ock together!”

“Don’t be cynical—it doesn’t suit you. He’s her superior.”

“So am I!”

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Gavriel knew he couldn’t win this one. Switching tactics, he asked, “Anyway, are you talking of the highway man from the north?”

Leo shrugged. “He was only just becoming a real problem for the crown. His name is Faris . . . Kilt Faris.”

“Ah, that’s right!”

“It’s an option, I suppose, and one we’ll have to consider when we’re ready to make a move.”

“It’s time for us to leave now.”

“We can’t just—”

“We can. I told you. I know a way out.” Gavriel took a slow breath. So much was riding on his decisions now. It was all very well for Leo to suddenly feel kingly and twenty feet tall, and instantly courageous now that they’d eluded Loethar with such cunning. But Gavriel knew that the new king’s life and thus the future of Penraven and in turn the Set, depended on his every move.

“I know we can’t remain here indefinitely. Just give me another day, Leo,” he said calmly. “I need to think things through.”

“One more day? Fine. Then we go. Come on, I’ll show you how.”

Leo pushed past him and Gavriel had no choice but to follow.

Kirin stood in the hallway, being introduced by Freath to an extremely pretty but unnervingly serious, brisk woman called Genrie. He was just saying his hello’s when Stracker interrupted the introduction.

“He wants to see you,” Stracker snarled with no care for the others standing by.

“Of course,” Freath replied, looking briefl y toward the woman.

“Your chosen has recovered, has he?” the barbarian replied, his sneer lifting the tatua around his face into a ghastly pantomime of sharp shapes.

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Kirin didn’t contradict Freath. He didn’t care which of the enemy lied to which, or why.

Stracker smiled in his devious way. “Feeling a bit vulnerable, are you, Freath? Better make sure you get all that magic up and firing around you.”

Freath said nothing but Kirin choked back a gasp of understanding. So he and Clovis were to be shields of some sort? He wanted to laugh aloud. They weren’t warriors who could throw up some sort of magical barrier around people.

What was in these people’s heads? They’d been interviewed enough times for their captors to know they were akin to seers, nothing more. He wished he could risk a pry but just the thought of it brought a fresh wave of nausea so he ignored the temptation.

Freath was suddenly pushing him toward the woman.

“Genrie will take you from here to rejoin your friend. I shall see you soon enough, I imagine.”

Again Kirin said nothing in reply. Instead he summoned his best look of disdain for Freath and in turn directed it at the woman who now gripped his upper arm and pulled him away as Stracker led Freath in the other direction.

“What happened to your face?”

“I annoyed someone.”

“That bastard Freath, I suppose.”

She glared sideways at him. “Don’t make assumptions.”

“Where are we going?”

“Freath told you,” came the curt reply.

“He explained nothing, though.”

“Then neither will I.”

Kirin sighed. “What is a young, lovely-looking woman like you still doing here?”

“I worked for the queen, Master Kirin. I wouldn’t abandon the royal family.”

“What family?” he sneered. “As I understand it they’re all dead or daft.”

Genrie bristled but said nothing and kept marching him onward.

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Kirin tried again, apology in his tone. “Help me and my friend Clovis get away, Genrie . . . if you care about the Set.

Come with us, in fact!”

She stopped, looking at him as though he were insane.

“What do you mean?”

“People like us should be helping each other escape.”

“Please don’t ask such a thing of me again. If you do, I will tell Master Freath.”

“But, Genrie, surely you can’t—”

“Master Kirin, please don’t presume to know me or my motivations. If you were in my shoes you might know the dangerous path I tread. Now, please, let me show you to where Master Freath ordered. He is in charge and I don’t disobey his orders.”

Kirin’s heart sank.

“This is your idea of a joke, I presume?” Gavriel said, feeling dizzy as he poked his head out.

Leo looked back at him quizzically. “No. Why?” Gavriel’s dizziness turned instantly into fear. “I . . . er . . .

this is the only way out that you know of?” Leo shook his head in bemused wonder. “Oh, wait a minute, I’ll just list all the choices we have,” he offered.

“All right, all right, no need for contempt.”

“Well, Gav, what do you expect under the circumstances?

I’m offering us a way out.”

“Not a very happy one,” Gavriel replied, grimacing at the rising nausea.

“The only one. I’m tired of cringing in the ingress, Gav.”

“We’re not cringing!”

“We’ve got to risk escape. We’ve been lucky so far but it can’t last.”

“And so your answer is to climb down from the highest point of Brighthelm?” It was Gavriel’s turn to be acerbic.

“This is not called the gods for nothing, Leo.” The young king stared back at him and couldn’t quite mask the disdain in his gaze. “Not climb down, no. That would be 168

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suicide, if not from a fall, then from all the enemy arrows that would strike us on the way.”

Gavriel blew out his cheeks with relief. “Good. But there is no other way.”

Leo pointed.

“I see a tree,” Gavriel said. “So what?”

“That is where we climb down.”

Gavriel stared at the king as though he had lost his wits.

“How, pray tell, my king, are we going to get from here,” he said, his finger stabbing the stonework of the tiny opening they’d clambered through, “over to there? Or is that a minor ruffle in your amazing plan that we still have to smoothe out?”

Leo actually grinned, infuriating him.

Loethar had expected the visit, but he hadn’t anticipated that it would be so soon. But he shouldn’t have been surprised when Stracker woke him just after dawn and told him of the impending visitors. Now he was back in the salon. Vyk was glaring balefully upon them.

“Why does that wretched bird always have to be around?” the older of the two visitors lamented. It was a rhetorical question, spoken purely in complaint.

Loethar yawned. “I warned you not to come until I sent for you.”

“I was bored.”

“More like you couldn’t wait to gloat.”

“That may be. But this is my rightful place. What are we waiting for, by the way?”

There was a soft knock at the door and then it opened.

“Him,” Loethar said. “Come in, Freath. Ah, Piven too.

Good.” Stracker arrived after the child, who took no notice of the present company. Instead he scampered up to stroke Vyk, who looked unimpressed by the attention.

“Stracker said you asked for me, sire?” Freath bowed before turning and also bowing graciously to Loethar’s company.

“I did. Freath, this is my mother, Negev. But she has a title.

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She is known as Dara, which I suppose could be very roughly translated to mean king’s mother in your language.” Freath bowed low. “It is an honor to meet and serve you, Dara Negev,” he said in his most polite Set.

The woman did not hide her sneer as she tipped her head to one side, studying Freath before replying. “Is it? I’m sure you’d be more honored serving your queen.” His response was careful. “I have no queen, my lady. She is as lost as her child, who you see here.” Negev smiled, not even looking at Piven. “Slippery,” she commented instead, throwing a glance toward her son.

Loethar did not miss her message. “And this is Valya,” he said carefully, glancing at the woman.

Again Freath nodded, having already bowed to her. “I’m sorry Penraven gives you a wretched salutation but let me be the first to offer a warm welcome.” Valya stared at him with distaste. “He’s a traitor, is he, Loethar . . . has he swapped his allegiance?”

“Apparently,” Loethar answered, amused, but eyeing Freath with a steely look.

“No, madam, there was nothing to swap,” Freath said, obviously deciding to speak up for himself. She arched an eyebrow in query at him. “I was never loyal to the Valisar clan. I was simply its lowly paid servant.” At this Loethar laughed. His mother and Valya took his lead, appearing equally amused. Freath’s expression remained somber, unchanged. “Is Iselda not giving you what you want in the bedroom, Freath?”

Both women turned surprised expressions to Loethar.

“You gave him the queen?” Valya asked, aghast.

“I gave him a broken, ordinary woman, stripped of her former title, in return for his services. A small price to pay for a man who knows everything there is to know about the Valisars and this realm. He was as close to Brennus and Iselda as Stracker is to me.”

“But Stracker should be. He is your brother, Loethar,” Negev admonished.

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“Half-brother, mother,” Loethar corrected, looking at Freath.

The servant showed no outward sign of surprise at this news. Instead he moved briskly to the banal. “Can I organize some refreshments for your guests, sire?” Loethar sighed although he tried to cover it by turning away. “I take it you’ve come to stay, mother?”

“Darling Loethar. You are amusing,” Negev replied with undisguised condescension. “I’m home, my son. This is my rightful place now.”

“As I thought,” he said stiffly, looking at Freath again.

“Give my mother the queen’s old suite of rooms.” Again not so much as a flicker in the man’s expression told him Freath was in any way alarmed by this order. “Very good, sire. Just give me an hour to have everything removed.”

“No, leave it,” Negev said. “It will amuse me to rifl e through her things.”

Freath nodded at the woman. “As you wish, Dara Negev.

Is there anything specific I can have sent up for you?”

“I’ll need a servant, of course,” she said, a slight tone of irritation in her voice.

“Of course. You shall have Genrie.”

“The defiant girl?” Loethar asked.

“The very one, sire.”

“Well suited. You’ll like her, mother.” Loethar found himself glancing toward Freath and enjoying a shared conspiratorial look. The feisty maid and the overbearing Dara would make an explosive pair. “I’m sure you can find a comfortable chamber for Valya?”

“Loethar, I’ll be happy to share yours,” Valya chimed in.

He was both relieved and grateful when Freath without a blink of hesitation answered for him.

“Er, my lady, do let me have a beautiful suite made up for you. You deserve your privacy and I will organize someone to wait on you.”

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Loethar leapt in to reinforce the point. “Thank you, Freath.

I think Valya would enjoy being pampered a little, wouldn’t you?”

Eyeing them both, Valya replied, “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” Freath said, coming as close to a smile as the man obviously could. Loethar’s gaze narrowed. Freath was proving more than helpful. He was sharp; he already understood plenty, which was impressive, considering he’d hardly had more than a collected hour or more in Loethar’s company. He couldn’t forget that the man was a traitor but he’d already decided that Freath would live, no matter how much Stracker wanted him gutted. Refocusing on what Freath had been saying, he noted that the aide was casting quiet glances his way, as though he knew Loethar’s thoughts had been wandering. “. . . draw and heat some water for a bath for you,” he was offering Valya.

“I, er . . .” She hesitated, looking at Negev, who simply shrugged her bony shoulders.

“You should, Valya. Can you remember the last time you enjoyed a hot soak?” Loethar asked. She shook her head.

“Then enjoy yourself. This is what they call the spoils of war.

It doesn’t always mean riches. Sometimes it simply means the peace and leisure to enjoy life’s pleasures.”

“At someone else’s expense,” Freath fi nished.

Negev’s eyes turned hard but Loethar saw the jest behind the dry words and tone and laughed. “Exactly. Go, Valya, be pampered. Mother, I shall see you later, I’m sure. Why don’t you . . .” He paused, unsure of what to suggest.

“Make myself at home?” she asked.

He let out a sigh. “Yes.”

“I intend to. And when will we meet Iselda? She’s all there is left, I gather, having heard of Brennus’s demise. Pity.”

“Er, well, no, there is Piven, here.”

“I was wondering when you might explain the boy’s presence among us.”

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looked as though she could smell something bad. No mater-nal instincts simmering there, Loethar noted.

“Freath knows more about him, if you care to listen to him.”

Both women glanced Freath’s way and the aide took up the thread of conversation easily. “Of course, sire. Piven is the middle child of the Valisar royals. He is adopted and, as you can probably tell, not of sound mind.”

“He’s a halfwit,” Loethar stated.

Freath acquiesced with a tight expression that Loethar assumed was an attempt at a smile. “The only heir is Leonel and he has gone missing, although I’m sure your son will hunt him down soon enough, madam,” Freath assured, a small nod toward Loethar. “Piven’s half- sister was born a weakling just a day ago and she died, predictably, within hours of her birth.”

“Her ashes were cast to the winds,” Loethar added.

“Was Iselda present?” Negev asked, and there was an ugly eagerness to her tone.

“She was. I insisted upon it,” Loethar replied.

“Excellent,” Negev breathed. “I hope she suffered.”

“She still is, madam,” Freath answered. “She has become catatonic.”

Negev frowned.

Loethar explained, knowing his mother would expect him to. “She has withdrawn entirely, I gather, and is now as unable to communicate with the outside world as her invalid son.”

“Why is he still alive? A simple drowning in a bucket should do it.”

“He is alive, mother, because I permit it.”

“Why? Look at the imbecile! What use is he?”

“I have my reasons. And it’s his very idiocy that makes him harmless as much as interesting.” Valya touched his arm. “He is attached to the Valisar, Loethar. That should be cause for his death.”

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will ask for it. The child lives until I decide differently. Besides, watch this. Piven!”

“How clever, he knows his name,” Dara Negev commented quietly to Valya. Loethar heard her acid remark nonetheless as Piven turned from Vyk and ran toward Loethar, beaming. Loethar lifted him easily with one arm and Piven threw his arms around the man’s neck.

The two silent watchers grimaced at the sight.

“I have never enjoyed such blind adoration,” Loethar quipped, setting down Piven.

“Have you not?” he heard Valya mutter under her breath but he chose to ignore it.

Leo, recently returned from the roof, rolled away from the peepholes. “I can’t take any more of this.”

“Stay calm,” Gavriel soothed, despite his own anger. “We mustn’t lose our heads now.”

“I’m not going to stand by and watch them hurt Piven.”

“Leo, listen!” Gavriel said, grabbing for the king’s arm.

“Loethar said he has no intention of doing so—”

“Were we watching the same scene? He didn’t say anything of the kind. All the barbarian said was that Piven would live for as long as he permitted him to. He could order my brother’s death tomorrow if he tires of him. Any why wouldn’t he? Piven’s affection and smiles can interest a stranger for only so long before his vacant ways become irritating.”

Gavriel turned away, angry. “It’s that wretched Freath.

Look at the way he keeps burrowing his way deeper into the good books of the enemy. I can’t believe we had such a snake in our midst all these years. He’s making it so easy for them.”

“He’s a traitor. And that Genrie is right there alongside him in treachery.”

Gavriel growled his despair. “All right, all right, Leo. We go. But we don’t just leap off a roof in broad daylight. We need a plan. We also can’t take Piven. I have to say that, in 174

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case you’re hatching some audacious notion about rescuing your brother.”

“No, I realize I can’t get to him but so far it looks as though he has the barbarian’s indulgence.” He gave a rueful shrug. “Typical Piven. Everyone loves him, even our enemies.”

Gavriel said no more about the invalid boy. “We need to assemble some things and we need some food to get us by.

Yes, I know what you’re going to say,” he said, lifting his hand to prevent Leo’s leaping in. “Rabbits will sustain us but I don’t know when we’ll be in one place long enough to lay traps and catch them. If we’re on foot we need food we can eat on the run. At least enough for a couple of days.” Leo groaned. “Not back to the kitchen.”

“We have to. Let me do this my way, I beg you. I know you’re anxious to be gone. I am too after watching those hideous women’s arrival and that sodding Freath sucking up to everyone.” He didn’t say that he had an awful sense of doom on behalf of Queen Iselda, but Leo’s thoughts were apparently following his own.

“I want to see my mother before I go,” the king said.

“You mean talk—” Gavriel began, his tone fi lled with disapproval.

“No, I mean simply to see her once more.”

“It will upset you.”

“Yes, it will. But you must understand, my father raised me to be king and taught me not to tolerate fools, or cowards. I have no control over my mother’s situation—or Piven’s. Father wouldn’t want me bleating over my family’s fate. He would want me to spend my time exacting revenge over it. Has it occurred to you that he knew we would be watching when he killed himself?”

Gavriel nodded. He felt as though Leo was maturing at triple the normal rate of someone his age. “I imagine he had to accept there was a good chance but went ahead anyway, no matter how much it might upset you.”

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to see it, Gav! That’s why he did it! That’s why he made it so gory.” Gavriel frowned as Leo continued. “There are moments when I feel I can never forgive him for doing that to my mother, to me . . . even to Piven. But my head tells me it was a show, specifically for my benefit. He wanted me to feel sickened and enraged. He was deliberately pushing me into making a soul promise to exact revenge.” Gavriel suddenly knew Leo was right. He knew the former king well enough to know that was exactly how Brennus’s mind worked. His father had told him often enough that the king would always, always put the throne fi rst. “I hate him for doing that to you, Leo.” Suddenly, and despite all his brave talk, the young king crumpled, finally weeping. Gavriel could do nothing except hug the boy, mourning an entire family lost within the space of a day. He would see Leo sit the Valisar throne one day, he swore silently. Even if it took him his entire life, to his fi nal breath.

Finally the trembling stilled. The boy king pulled himself away with an embarrassed sniff and what seemed to be a new resolve.

“You will never see me shed tears again over anything or anyone,” Leo whispered and the threat was spoken in such quiet rage it chilled Gavriel, who could say nothing in response. But he didn’t need to; the king was already moving.

“Get the bow we discussed. We need nothing else except our cloaks—food be damned. We go farewell my mother.”

Twelve

——————————————

Freath had stealthily moved up the stairs, well in front of the two women, just in time to intercept Genrie. He knew he had only moments. “I didn’t want to ask earlier in front of the Vested. Did it happen?” he murmured.

She nodded once and he saw the bruises on her beautiful face had darkened to purple. “Exactly as you said it would,” she replied, self-consciously touching the spot where his gaze rested.

“Don’t be too brave, Genrie. I couldn’t bear—” But time ran out on him. “And see to it that fresh linens are provided immediately,” he ordered as Valya rounded the staircase.

“Who is this?” Valya demanded.

“Madam, this is Genrie. She will attend to Dara Negev personally and will also supervise your attendance. Genrie will organize a maid for your hour-to-hour needs. I hope that will suit you.”

“Do you beat your servants?” she sneered, glancing at Genrie’s bruised face.

“I don’t, no. Your friend Stracker does.”

“Freath? Is that your name?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I couldn’t give a hog’s arse about you servants but I want you to be sure that Stracker is no friend of mine. Is that nice and clear for you?”

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“Perfectly,” Freath replied and could tell his composure irritated her.

“Good. You girl!”

“Yes, mistress?” Genrie asked.

“Call me that again and I’ll order your tongue cut out. You may address me as Lady at all times. Only speak when spoken to and do not raise your eyes to me like that, you slut.” Freath noticed Genrie bite back a gasp. “Apologies, my lady,” she murmured, eyes appropriately downcast.

“It’s nice to see you making friends already, Valya,” Negev said, her tone so dry it made Freath want to cough.

Valya immediately changed approach. “These Penravian peasants need to understand who they’re dealing with,” she said, in an injured voice.

Freath winced privately.

“And now they do, thanks to you,” the older woman commented, turning away. “Show me my suite, Master Freath. It is of no consequence if Iselda is still there. I shall take immense pleasure in having her thrown out.” He said nothing, simply nodding. Looking at the younger woman he said deferentially, “Genrie will show you to your chamber, my lady. Please let us know if there is anything at all we can do for you.”

She didn’t acknowledge him, but simply turned on her heel. “Show me!” she said, scowling at Genrie, then throwing a glance over her shoulder at the older woman. “I am going for a ride, Negev. I need to clear my head of its anger.”

“I think that’s a very good idea. Don’t get lost,” Negev replied. Somehow Freath wasn’t sure Loethar’s mother was being sincere.

“This way,” he said. “The former queen’s chambers are in another wing.”

“Good. I find Valya quite tiring.”

With his back turned to the older lady, Freath could raise his eyebrows slightly at her admission. “She is probably feeling odd and unwelcome.”

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“That’s because she is odd, Freath, and she is most unwelcome. She is as much a foreigner to me as you are.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I think so. I shall be careful to minimize your contact with her if you wish, Dara. Just guide me in what it is you desire.”

She had drawn alongside him and was staring at him.

“Oh, you are good, aren’t you, Freath? And there I was simply putting you down for a crawling coward. Slippery really doesn’t sum you up well enough, does it?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

She chuckled. “Yes, you do, Freath. I can see why my son likes you. Very strange. My son doesn’t let anyone close—his closest companion is that wretched bird. Not even I take pre ce dence.”

“Oh, come now, Dara, I’m sure—”

“I speak the truth. My son is a very lone individual, Freath.

For him to allow you to live is extraordinary enough but to allow you into his inner sanctum has me puzzled. He obviously sees in you what I do.”

“Which is?”

“A far more complex mind than you’d like us to believe.

You want us to see only the obsequious servant. But I know rat cunning lurks behind that expressionless façade.”

“Really, Dara Negev, I think you are getting me wrong. I am truly no more than a formerly wronged servant getting his due. I have been completely honest in my desires. But I will give my loyalties to your son, if he’ll allow it.”

“Well, incredibly, I think he already has, considering what he has permitted you so far. Beware of my other son, though, Master Freath. He lacks Loethar’s finesse and subtlety.”

“I plan to stay well out of his way, Dara.” She laughed again. “Wise words.”

“This is the entrance to the former queen’s suite.” Freath motioned to the double doors at which they had arrived.

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“Lead the way, Freath,” she said and he heard the hunger in her voice once again.

“Just give me two moments, Dara.” At her look of surprised enquiry, he hurried to add, “Indulge me, madam.” She nodded, a look of disdain on her lined face, her lips pinched into a scowl. “As you see fit. I shall sit here. Do not test my patience, Freath.”

Clovis and Kirin were still none the wiser as to their purpose. They were currently being held under guard in a small chamber with only a small window, more for air than for seeing much through.

“Where are we?” Kirin murmured again.

“I told you I don’t know. I was bundled up here after you’d collapsed and I was so worried, I didn’t really pay attention.”

“And they told you nothing about Reuth? Nothing at all, no clue to her whereabouts?”

“No, I tell you,” Clovis replied, irate. “I thought she was behind me. I thought they all were. But we were separated. I ended up alone here with that creepy Freath fellow.”

“What did he say . . . exactly?”

Clovis sighed. “He said I was to wait here and not to make a noise and not to draw attention to myself. And if I listened to him I would be safe.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, he said he was going to find you and discover what had happened. So what happened?”

Kirin leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.

“I pried.”

Clovis’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Kirin waited, and finally the bigger man asked the inevitable question. “Who?”

“Who do you think?”

“Stracker?”

Kirin nodded wearily.

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“And?”

“I couldn’t do it for very long. I actually only glimpsed within him because it’s dangerous. As I told you all, he likes men, preferably boys. Killing brings him pleasure, so he usually combines both preferences.”

“I fear for that boy he took,” Clovis said, shaking his head.

“You should.”

“What else?” Clovis asked hurriedly.

“I felt his darkness. The man is evil, angry, cruel. I couldn’t dwell in his mind—as I say, it was dangerous. But then when Freath got me to look into the minds of the others, it pushed me over the edge.”

“It made you sick.”

Kirin pushed away from the wall, frustrated. “It’s not just my health, Clovis. If that’s all it was I’d risk it. To pry properly and to make it yield meaningful information I must have quiet. I need to be sitting still in a dim, peaceful situation with no interruptions. It’s usually best if I have a bed nearby and pail at the side!” he said, giving a mirthless smile, “because I need both immediately after even the shortest pry.”

“And for long ones?”

Kirin shrugged. “I’ve not tried since childhood. I have no idea of the extent of the injuries should I attempt it. The only reason I did it today was because I was frightened for all of us. I can’t be completely sure because I haven’t done it for so long, but I think the person I’m prying into can feel my presence.”

Clovis was taken aback. “Truly?”

Kirin shrugged. “If I had the courage to feel sick again I’d test it on you but I seem to recall that someone who is well attuned to the spiritual is more likely to feel me prying.”

“You’re losing me.”

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know what that time span is or whether it differs from person to person. That’s why I pried into Stracker for only a moment or two.”

“But we still don’t know what he wanted!” Clovis said, not disguising his own frustration.

“No. But I do know he wasn’t being honest. We were picked for different reasons. The first group was useful to Stracker and he’s sent them somewhere, who knows where or why. The third group was destroyed for being pretenders or generally useless. Us in the middle? Well, he is using us for subtle purposes but I don’t know what. It has something to do with Freath but I . . .” He trailed off, feeling angry, dejected.

“It’s all right, Kirin. We’re alive,” Clovis calmed.

“Coming from you that’s meaningful. I thought you wanted to die.”

Clovis closed his eyes for a moment, before wandering across the small chamber to try and catch a gust of air from the small space serving as a window. “I thought so too,” he said, breathing out loudly. “Until death beckoned. Then I realized how frightened I was. And someone who welcomes death isn’t scared of it. I heard those people screaming and I knew I wanted my life to go on.”

“Who could blame you?” Kirin said softly. “If we’re going to remain alive we have to fight. We can’t just become barbarian puppets or we make a mockery of your family, of the royals who’ve lost their lives right around the Set, and of all the innocents whose lives have been snatched.” Clovis was nodding. “I agree. I’ll fight with you in the subtle way you suggest.”

For the first time it seemed that Kirin had something to smile about.

Gavriel had followed Leo for a long way in silence. Now he gave a low whistle and the king turned in query.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

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Gavriel’s expression turned droll. “I’m much bigger than you, Leo. King or not, I can punch you senseless, and no one will ever know.”

“Except you won’t. You and Corb were always an empty threat.”

Gavriel ignored the taunt. “So we’re close, are we?”

“Mother’s suite is just up ahead—that small fl ight of stairs will bring us behind it.”

“I can’t believe your father allowed you here.”

“He didn’t.”

“But you know it so well.”

Leo smiled sadly. “I always wanted more time with her.

Once I was Piven’s age, father felt it was time for me to ‘leave my mother’s skirts’ as he put it. I followed his wishes with gusto but sometimes I’ve looked at Piven playing fi ve sticks or ‘stalk the donkey’ with mother and . . .” He shrugged.

“What?” Gavriel asked gently.

“I felt jealous,” Leo confided. “And the really silly part is they’re not even playing the games properly. Piven just moves the pieces around randomly but I see how mother loves to watch him playing and how much pleasure he brings her, even though he’s so unreachable. I imagine she would have felt like that about me when I was younger. My best days with mother took place when I wasn’t really aware of it.

I can’t imagine how she’s coping.”

“We all cope in our own way, Leo,” Gavriel said. “You are withstanding all this sorrow in the best way you can and her way is to withdraw within herself. Like Piven, in a way.”

“Yes,” Leo said, “but I would see her once more and say goodbye in my own way . . . even if she doesn’t know I’m there or that I’m farewelling her.”

“It doesn’t have to be for keeps.” Leo looked up at him, their tiny candle flame casting an eerie glow onto his darkly golden hair and Gavriel saw an old man’s expression in the young king’s face. “I think we both know that it is. I am here to say goodbye to my mother because I know I’m never going to see her again. He’s already Roya l Ex i l e

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forced her to lose herself and I imagine her death at his hand, or by someone close to him, is not long away. I don’t want to be around to watch both my parents die.” Then he looked ashamed. “Gav, I’m sorry. I realize I’m not the only one suffering.”

“I’ll save my grieving until I’m re united with Corbel.”

“When we get out of here, the first thing we must do is fi nd him.”

Gavriel smiled. “That may not be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have absolutely no idea where he was sent.

Only our two fathers knew and they have died with the secret.”

“Why a secret?”

“Ask me that another time, Leo.”

The king frowned and, as if grasping that the subject was too tender to press Gavriel further on, he simply nodded.

“Let’s go,” he murmured and Gavriel gratefully fell into step.

“By the way, we can’t hear anything in mother’s room. We can only watch.”

“Why?”

Leo stopped. “We’re here,” he whispered. “I don’t know, probably because even old Cormoron must have felt it was vulgar to eavesdrop on the queen. This suite has always been the royal apartments for the king’s women.” Gavriel nodded. They found a series of peepholes, but no thin walls so they couldn’t hear anything through the thick stone. Set in the wall was a small old timber box that looked like it had been there a while.

Gavriel put his face close to the wall, blinked to focus properly through the small openings and immediately saw Queen Iselda standing and staring blankly through her tall open windows. He tried to imagine what her view would be from this part of the palace and decided it would be very beautiful, overlooking the royal private gardens and the northwestern tip of the

Deloran—the great forest that

stretched south, tapering to a straggly thicket by a town 184

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called Minston Woodlet. Between the gardens and the forest Gavriel imagined Iselda could see across to the jagged, ruggedly beautiful coastline.

“Mother loves the view from that window,” Leo whispered.

“I was just imagining how lovely the scene that she’s looking out upon must be. Makes me want to see it, too.”

“Someone’s here,” Leo murmured.

Gavriel flicked his gaze to the door and felt his breath catch. Freath had just entered the queen’s chambers.

Thirteen

——————————————

Freath knew he had only a minute or two. The queen was standing at the window, her back to him. He hoped she was lucid. Her grief and confusion had plunged her into such a state of silence and loss that most hours he could not reach her.

“My queen, forgive me, but the crone of the Steppes comes. It was all I could do to keep her outside for but a minute more.” He held his breath, only releasing it when he heard her beautiful, sad voice respond.

“It is over, loyal Freath. You have done all you can. Let her and her son do what they will. There is no reason for me to take another breath.”

“But, your majesty, think of Piven and—”

“Piven is already lost. And from what you say he is a nov-elty for the barbarian. Perhaps that will save my little boy’s life.” Her voice carried away thinly into the soft wind outside.

“But there is Leo to live for, highness,” Freath pressed, mindful of the seconds he had left.

“Are you sure? Give me proof.”

“I grow weary, Freath,” called an ominous voice from behind the door.

“Just making her presentable for you, Dara Negev. A moment more,” he begged, quickly turning back to Iselda. “I have no proof, your majesty,” he whispered across the room.

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“Why?”

“Genrie said that food she left out in the kitchen disappeared.”

“Is he alone?” she asked fearfully.

“I feel sure Gavriel De Vis is still with him. Prepare yourself, majesty, she comes. Lose yourself if you must and say nothing. Pretend you hear nothing for I know she will take pleasure in punishing you.”

The Queen of Penraven turned and gave Freath a heartbreaking smile that arrived and left within a blink of an eye.

“She can no longer hurt me. I don’t want to live, Freath. Do whatever you must do to preserve Leo. Don’t let me be used against him.” Then she turned away.

Freath opened the door to be confronted by a slit-eyed Dara, the line of her mouth equally thin. “I’m sorry, Dara Negev. She is lost to us this hour—as she is most hours—but I have made her presentable for you. Please come in.” Negev pushed past, strutting in, looking every bit like the fantailed farla hen with her bright array of colored skirts peculiar to the people of the Steppes.

“Ah, Iselda, we meet at last,” she said, ignoring the royal title and any protocol. She laughed. “I’m sure Valya is actually looking forward to meeting you more than I but I am pleased to look upon the common slut that this kingdom once called its queen. And from Galinsea, no less. Pah! And they call us barbarians!”

Although Freath hid the wince he felt at the cruel words, he noticed his queen did not react at all to the baiting. She didn’t even turn from the opening through which she stared out mournfully across the Penravian vista. He moved to stand behind her.

“As demented as her son!” Negev spat.

The words of bait seemed to snap Iselda into the present and back into her normally dignified disposition. Finally straightening her shoulders, she turned to focus on the barbarian woman. “Perhaps, but from what I hear there still remains a Valisar heir at large. I believe he will one day Roya l Ex i l e

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return as a man to cut you and your barbarian spawn into pieces and serve you to the palace dogs . . . for that is all that you are worth, you hag. Go back to your beggared life while you still can.” She glanced at Freath, pointing angrily at him and he realized what she planned to do, what she demanded of him. “I hope you burn in Lo’s pits for your treachery. Do your worst, traitor, for you can no longer hurt us. May King Leonel deliver your death in most hideous fashion,” she said in a dark voice he never thought he’d hear from his beloved Queen Iselda. “I will not be used by the usurper for his cause or for his amusement.” That was his cue. Freath closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, forcing back the sob that wanted to escape his throat, before he grabbed the back of the queen’s garments and, letting out a roar of anger, lifted her easily onto the ledge of the window and flung her out.

She screamed lustily as she fell—no doubt for everyone else’s benefit, for her courage was never in question. He leaned against the wall near the opening, pretending to watch her hit the ground, but surreptitiously closing his eyes. Let her die immediately, he beseeched Lo.

Behind him he heard a gasp and he took a long, steadying breath while he pasted a look of disdain into his expression and turned back to face Negev. He even found the where-withal to brush his hands as though the job were well done.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish, Dara.” He could hardly believe his savagely sardonic tone, nor his composure. It wouldn’t last. He needed to get out of this chamber as quickly as he could. “My apologies if my actions startled you but I’m sure you agree she had outlived her use to any of us? She was turning into a harridan in her lucid moments and your son was right: she was a mere lump of flesh otherwise and absolutely no fun at all.” Before Negev could form a response, he pressed on, in the same uncaring tone, even fi nding a bitter smile. “I, for one, could not put up with another moment of that bellyaching and cursing. Excuse me, please.

I’ll make sure someone cleans up the mess of what’s left of her.”

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Dara Negev still seemed to be catching her breath. “My son will not approve of this!” she hissed as he passed her.

It took all of his courage to pause and face her again.

“Well, with all due respect, Dara, she was mine to do with as I pleased,” he sneered. “That was our arrangement—and I have chosen to end her pathetic life. I think I’d decided as much earlier this morning after I raped her to the sound of her hideous, idiotic babbling. I suppose we should be grateful that at least she made sense just now—it would have been a bit of a letdown to have killed her when she wasn’t aware of what was happening, don’t you think?” He banished the vision that kept swirling through his mind of the queen sprawled on the gravel, her lifeblood leaking beneath her. “Maybe something you said gave her a moment of clar-ity.” He gave a soft mirthless chuckle.

“What did she mean about her son?” Negev demanded, gathering her wits again.

He had begun approaching the door again and had to get out now. “I can’t imagine, Dara Negev. She probably still believes he’s going to make it to his thirteenth anni. I doubt it, don’t you?” He pulled open the door, praying this was the last parry he’d have to make.

“My son must be told. Go about your business, Freath, but let my son know what has occurred fi rst.”

“Yes, Dara, as you wish.” Freath managed to bow and was surprised to find he could still ask, “Shall I escort you—”

“No!” she growled, as he had hoped she would. “I must let Valya know.”

Freath fled the chamber, hoping he could continue to mask his grief and wondering if he would ever—could ever—come to terms with his part in Iselda’s death. As he walked, almost trotting with his desire to begone from the queen’s apartments, he made himself appreciate that the Valisars were brave to the last and silently reminded himself that he needed to show the same resilience and courage. Stopping on a flight of lonely stairs, he made himself take some Roya l Ex i l e

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steadying breaths. As he leaned back against the cool stone he felt a welcome composure gradually settling over him.

Now only the two sons remained—one mad and useless to their case, while the other was still far too young to have such responsibility heaped upon his small shoulders. He wondered where in the castle Leo and Gavriel were at this moment.

Genrie had heard the commotion outside, and had looked down out of one of the windows to see with horror the remains of Queen Iselda. She pulled back, filled with despair, almost unable to believe that her queen had jumped to her death. The woman called Valya had already gone for her ride, hurling insults within orders over her shoulder that a bath should be readied for her return. Genrie knew she needed to find Freath and quickly before any sneering member of Loethar’s people told the queen’s aide. She went looking and fi -

nally found him leaning against the wall halfway down a stairwell.

“Master Freath, the queen, she’s—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly. “I did it.” Of all the responses Genrie could have anticipated, this would not have been among them. She stared at the man she admired more than any other. Loved, even. She hadn’t admitted her true feelings to herself until this minute but the fear, the atrocities and intensity of the last couple of days had brought all sorts of things to the surface, making her behave recklessly. The pain at her cheek was testimony to that.

“You . . . ?” She couldn’t finish her sentence. “Why?” His beautiful blue eyes wouldn’t look at her. “They would have killed her. She wanted her death to count, to achieve something. She forced my hand.”

“What was the point?” Genrie asked, horrified that Freath could sound so calm.

“The point was to protect my disguise. As long as they believe I am a traitor, I have the opportunity to work from 190

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the inside to help our new king. Iselda did this for Leonel, no one else.”

She stared at him, lost for words, using the time instead to gaze at the features she found so strangely handsome. Was it only her who found him charismatic and irresistible? Master Freath was so distant, so measured that most of the other servants found him unapproachable, hard to judge. She didn’t though. To her, Freath was wise, safe.

Freath pushed away from the wall, rubbing his head wearily, and now she could see how ashen he looked, how suddenly hollow and broken. “Genrie, I think we must get you away from here. It’s going to get even more ugly.”

“What will they do to you?” She hurried down the stairs to join him, now gravely worried for him.

He shrugged. It was an unusual gesture; Freath was always so in control, so sure. “If not for Leonel, I’m not sure I’d care.

Have you got somewhere to go if I could get you out?” How could he know how much those words hurt her, for she had never shown him, never given him any inkling of her feelings? Hesitantly, somewhat frightened by the intensity of the moment, she leaned toward the man and kissed him gently, not lingering, afraid of a rebuff. It would be polite but it would be firm. She pulled away, awaiting his reaction.

Freath cleared his throat. “Well, that wasn’t the reply I was expecting.” His voice was gruff.

“I’m sorry, Master Freath, I—”

He surprised her by pulling her back toward him, looking deeply into her face. “My name is Herric. Just moments ago I had never felt so adrift. You kissed me and I’ve never felt so anchored. Please, Genrie, do that again.” He kissed her back this time and tears threatened to squeeze from her closed eyes.

Freath shook his head when they finally parted. “Did it show?” She looked back at him quizzically. “I tried so hard to hide how I’ve felt about you these last two anni.” Roya l Ex i l e

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His words made her catch her breath. “No, you hid it very well, Master Freath.” He smiled briefly at her formality.

“I’m sorry about that, Genrie. I’m forty-four anni. I gave up on romance a long time ago. And although I’ve been captivated by you since the moment you started, I didn’t for a moment imagine you could ever return my feelings.”

“For someone so brave that is a cowardly admission.” He smiled more easily now. She’d never seen such softness in his face. “Where you are concerned, yes.” He kissed her tenderly again before his expression darkened. “And now I have more reason to fear for you. I want you to leave. It is getting too dangerous, this fine tightrope we are both walking.”

“I agreed to follow your lead before they stormed the palace. Nothing has changed.”

“But you are taking the greater risk. I have some protection through Loethar’s favor. Now the queen’s courageous death has added to my disguise. You are too vulnerable.”

“I’m not leaving you, certainly not now. Don’t ask me again.

I love you, Master Freath. I’m staying come what may.” He touched her face gently. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. I’m probably going to have to ask you to repeat it sometime later when I’ve convinced myself I dreamed this.” She hugged him tightly. “I love you. Remember that always. Now where are you meant to be?”

“With him.” She nodded. “But tell me quickly about Leonel,” he added, his voice dropping.

“I arose just prior to dawn, laid out the food as you asked—everything I could find that was easy for them to grab. Then I yelled out for help so that they’d know there was no one else around and made a big show of going down to the cellar. I gave them ample time and as you predicted some of the food had been taken when I returned. I’d left a flask of milk but I wish I’d thought to leave water in the same fashion—they must be thirsty.”

“That poor boy. He’s lost everything, and now to be in exile in his own palace.”

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“How can he survive?”

“The same way we must. Using his wits. He has the advantage of being hidden, plus he has Gavriel De Vis with him. Under the circumstances, we couldn’t have asked for a finer champion. King Brennus chose well.”

“De Vis is just a young man,” Genrie said.

“Leonel trusts him, and that short age gap will keep them close. If you knew Regor De Vis as well as I did, you’d know the breeding is there—we can all trust his sons. Gavriel would lay down his life for Leonel, or for Penraven, for that matter. We can’t ask for more.”

“De Vis asked me to kiss him just a day or two ago,” Genrie said playfully.

“You’ve only kissed me twice and already you’re trying to make me jealous,” Freath sighed. “He’s youthful. I would expect nothing less than his wanting to kiss every beautiful woman he comes across.”

“Beautiful, eh?”

“And brave. Stay brave, my Genrie. No heroics, please promise me.”

“I promise,” she said and kissed him farewell. “Go. The two witches will be looking for me too, I imagine.” Freath reluctantly let Genrie go and hurried away down toward Loethar’s salon. He had refused to tell her how the king and De Vis would be watching or where from in the kitchens and fortunately she was astute enough not to press him. He blessed his luck that he’d had those few moments with King Brennus before the royal was dragged before Loethar. Captive and already guessing his fate, Brennus had refused Freath’s words of sympathy, telling him instead of the existence of the ingress. Freath realized that his ear was not a desperate option either. He knew the king had absolute faith in him. He must not lose his nerve now. Newly determined, he continued his descent toward the salon where he would fi nd Loethar. He was not looking forward to seeing the queen’s Roya l Ex i l e

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smashed corpse but as he knocked on the barbarian’s door, he hoped with all his heart that Leo would never learn the method of his mother’s death.

In the ingress a terrible silence lay between its two occu-pants. Gavriel had attempted to say something into the shock of the void but Leo had raised his hand and uttered a single word, “Don’t!”

Gavriel waited anxiously, watching the young king’s chest heave as he battled to wrestle back a hurricane of emotion.

The luminous glow of the candle revealed the dryness of the royal’s mouth as Leo licked his lips nervously, his forehead creased into a vertical line at its middle, as he concentrated hard on breathing steadily, no doubt talking himself back from the precipice of despair that Gavriel was sure he tee-tered on. He himself was still in shock over what they’d witnessed and now he knew they had to leave immediately.

There would be no time for food, no time for any supplies.

What they already had and what they could pick up on the run through the secret corridors up to the roof was all they would have. He imagined the feel of the fresh air on his face; that might help Leo remain steady. He tried not to think about what came beyond that. Surely to lower themselves from this height was close to suicide. Why not suicide?

Gavriel wondered. Everyone’s doing it, he thought bitterly, echoing the sort of dark humor that Corbel would appreciate. But Corb wasn’t here to help him. Blood was pounding through his veins, urging him to take the king and fl ee.

Again his mind helplessly returned to Leo’s audacious idea to lower each other down on a rope.

“We slide down it, of course!” he’d said, incredulous that Gavriel had had to ask. “We move silently from the palace to beyond the castle gates.”

“How do we anchor it precisely?”

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the ingress with weapons, ropes, cloaks, candles—all sorts of supplies, just in case. You know he checked them annu-ally, had the weapons oiled, sharpened?”

“No, I didn’t,” Gavriel had replied, somewhat petulantly.

How could he!

Leo’s plan was the stuff of boys’ daydreams. Gavriel knew there was a good chance they would fall to their deaths, or at best suffer nasty injuries.

More splattered bodies to be cleaned up, he heard Corbel’s somber drone in his mind.

The king’s voice was wintry when it came, interrupting Gavriel’s bleak thoughts. “Piven’s fate is in the lap of Lo now but I must survive if I am to see Loethar and Freath answer for their sins. If I do nothing else with this life, I will claim their last breaths; my face will be the last they see.” Gavriel could only nod. He knew the king needed this fury in order to survive. Perhaps—dare he even think this?—the deaths of the king and the queen were the very triggers needed to turn Leo from crown prince into King Leonel. The boy standing before him now was certainly no child but a genuine King of Penraven and instinctively Gavriel knelt.

“King Leonel, as my father did to your father, I pledge myself wholly to your ser vice and to your protection. I will follow you wherever you go, I will lay down my life for you.” The words were rote but he had never meant anything more deeply in his life and to prove it he snatched the knife from his belt and without hesitation slashed open his palm.

Leo remained silent, listening gravely, watching somberly, as Gavriel offered up the most primitive of the Valisar blood covenants, first performed on King Cormoron by his brother.

Dipping the fingers of his uninjured hand into the blood pooling in his palm, Gavriel reached up and smeared his blood onto the face of the king.

“I offer you my blood covenant, King Leonel.” Clearly moved, Leo nodded. “And though we have no witnesses except ourselves, let it be known that I accept your Roya l Ex i l e

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pledge and from this day you will be called Legate Gavriel De Vis.” Mirroring Gavriel’s actions, Leo took the blade, opened his own palm and painted the resulting blood onto Gavriel’s cheeks and forehead. New king and new legate solemnly clasped bleeding hands together. “The Blood Covenant of the 9th is sealed,” Leo pronounced.

Fourteen

——————————————

Loethar was not sure what to make of this latest and rather incredible development. Iselda had needed to be dealt with and he was privately relieved the matter was already taken care of but it was nevertheless a bold move by a mere servant.

His mother was still ranting. Why do women always harp on about something that cannot be changed and always when a matter should be left alone!

“But, Loethar, could we not have made more use of the royal wretch? Imagine the punishing effect it could have had on the people. This traitorous servant to the Valisars has usurped your authority, surely?”

“I have spoken with Freath. I did agree that Iselda was his property to do with as he pleased,” Loethar answered. “If I didn’t want him to ill-treat her, I should have made that more clear.” He shrugged. “As it was, I gave him no instructions regarding Iselda.”

Stracker arrived and, without waiting for permission to enter the discussion, announced, “She’s being scraped off the cobbles now.” His amusement was evident.

Loethar didn’t share it. “There you are, mother. She’s gone to her god now. Nothing more to be done about it.”

“And still you allow this man into your bosom.”

“Bosom?” Loethar turned on Negev. “Where? Where is he that he is so close to me, so deeply involved in my thoughts and actions? I’ll tell you where he is, mother. He’s piling the Roya l Ex i l e

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remains of the woman he just murdered into a slops bucket.

Hardly the work of my right hand man, wouldn’t you say?” She refused to answer him, turning instead to her other son. “Is this true?”

Stracker nodded, then laughed. “He horrified onlookers by refusing the wych elder chest as a coffin. He insisted that she was not worth the cost and instead tossed her remains into a couple of crates. I’m beginning to like your servant, brother.”

“Are you satisfied?” Loethar growled.

Negev didn’t look chagrined but had the good sense to fi -

nally leave the subject be, instead turning to her next axe for grinding. “Well, now that you ask, no. I have helped you get to this point—both of us have,” she said, touching Stracker on his broad chest.

“And?” Loethar said, keen to get this out of the way now.

It had been building for months.

“Well, son, we have given you more than simply a throne.”

“You didn’t give it to me, mother. I took it. And my half-brother has certainly played his part and your cunning mind has also played its role, but please never flatter yourselves that you handed me any of the Set thrones on any platters.”

“Forgive me, Loethar, that was wrongly spoken. What I meant,” she soothed, “was that we’re here now. You are on the throne. You are the emperor already, if I’m not mistaken.

So what is the next step?”

“We arrived only two days ago. We have since slaughtered any number of important people, including the Valisar king and queen. What else would you have me do in this time span, dear mother?” His last two words were spoken so acidly, Negev took a small step back, a movement that was not lost on him.

Her reply, nevertheless, lost none of its bite. “I want to understand your intentions, Loethar.”

“I see. So crushing the last of the great family dynasties of the Set is not enough?”

“Except you haven’t!” she levelled angrily at him.

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and it was true that she’d been a formidable woman alongside his warrior father—equally brave, far more conniving and ambitious. Even in old age, she was a force that he had to reckon with. In his quietest, most private moments, he often dreamed of ending her angry, bitter life. A blanket over her face, a poison, a stray arrow. But think it though he did, he could never follow through. It was not a matter of courage—he had that in droves. It was a simple promise given to his dying father that he would forgive his mother her overbearing ways and protect her until she took her fi nal breath. He’d sworn he would as the older man took his own last breath and if there was one person he would keep faith with in life, it was his tribal father.

“You haven’t!” she repeated and he despised her in that instant.

“What do you mean?”

“The crown prince is alive. You admit it yourself. And that Valisar whore got to rub my face in her dirt, reminding me that Prince Leonel lives, that he will emerge to slaughter you, slaughter all of us!” Her voice had built shrilly as she spoke until she was near yelling.

Stracker broke the tension, laughing as her voice broke on the last word. “He could only be about this tall!” he cut in, his incredulity at her howling claim obvious. “I could snap the life out of him with one hand, even if he were capable of lifting a sword with any menace.”

Negev visibly calmed herself, her nostrils pinched as she inhaled a steadying breath. “Stracker, dear, you’re my flesh . . . my blood runs thick through your veins. But you should never believe that you are more imaginative than I. I am well aware of the boy’s age and I can guess at his height—

I did raise two sons of my own. This is not about strength or fighting capability. This boy is no longer a prince.” Stracker frowned at her and Loethar sighed inwardly.

His half- brother was not dumb—not by a long shot—but he could be obtuse when his arrogance overrode everything.

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“You haven’t grasped it, have you, son?” Negev cajoled.

“Look to your brother. He will enlighten you.” Stracker glared at Loethar, who regarded him with a small measure of sympathy. He, too, had been on the receiving end of their mother’s sharp tongue all of his life. “As soon as Brennus breathed his last, his heir became king. Our mother is simply making the point that the boy is now King Leonel in spite of his youth, and as long as he remains alive, he becomes a symbol of hope for Penraven.” Negev couldn’t contain herself a moment longer. “He is a symbol of freedom, a rallying point, a hook upon which to hang an entire region’s hope! Faith is an incredibly powerful force, especially among those who have been crushed. As long as King Leonel is at large, the people of the Set will endure. As long as the stories of his survival race like a plains fire out of control from realm to realm, his stature and his presence will grow, whether he’s this tall or this tall!” she said, mimicking a child’s height and then a man’s with her hand. “And as long as he continues to grow, any rebellious element within the people will have their fi ery dreams of vengeance stoked.”

“He’s a child!” Stracker hurled back at them, incredulous.

“You’re scared of a child?”

“Only what he represents,” Loethar said patiently. “Leonel the boy is, at this moment, irrelevant. It’s the fact that he lives that matters. The blood of the Valisars pumps strong through him for he is the rightful heir. Did Iselda give any indication that she knew where he was?” Negev shook her head. “No. But she believed him alive, revelled in the knowledge. She must have known something.”

Loethar’s expression darkened. “She could have just said that out of maliciousness.” He shook his head, thinking of the dour manservant’s actions. “I still can’t believe Freath was so brutal. He seems so very conservative and contained.”

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mother grudgingly admitted. “The look on his face.

Animal-like fury.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t solve the issue, Loethar,” she added pointedly.

“No,” he said, noncommittally.

“So, we hunt him down. Destroy him,” Stracker said.

“Send me. I’m done here.”

Loethar nodded to himself in thought, cast a glance absently at Vyk, who was as still as a statue. He looked back at Stracker and his mother.

“May I?” Negev asked. He nodded. “I think you should take your brother up on his offer. Let him get together a group. Keep it small. You’ll move more easily around the realm that way,” she said, turning to her eldest son. “He’s had a couple of days on us and perhaps he’s getting help. He is only young so he’ll be scared, no matter how courageous he is. He also won’t be as resourceful as you or Loethar. Try and think as you did when you were his age, Stracker. At twelve summertides your belly’s needs overrode everything—trust me on this. He’ll stop often to eat, not thinking so carefully about cover of darkness. He’ll take risks when he’s famished—perhaps try and steal food from remote homes or from other people’s traps. Put the word out. Put a reward up.

Make it generous. Someone with a grudge against the royal family might just speak up. I would urge—”

“Stop, mother,” Loethar said wearily. He rubbed at his eyes. “There is a far more simple solution, one I believe will not only win the entire Set’s attention but will satisfy my half- brother’s lust for bloodletting.” Stracker grinned with sinister anticipation. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

Negev, clearly unhappy at being interrupted but unable to wipe her curiosity entirely from her expression, looked to him expectantly.

“There are times to win hearts and other times to impress one’s control. Stracker, get your Greens on the march. Surround the realm. And then you may kill every male child aged between eleven and thirteen summertides. If there’s Roya l Ex i l e

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one skill Penraven possesses, it’s excellent rec ords. The Valisars are notorious down the ages for it and, according to Valya, one partic ular aspect they loved was the census. Ask Freath to help—in fact I’ll tell him to. He’ll know where to find the books that will give you names, locations and ages.

Make it swift and brutal. No torture, Stracker. Behead each publicly; leave the families nothing but the headless bodies to bury. You will make it known that every one of these boys is being slaughtered because the

prince—and you must

never call him king, Stracker—is a coward. Put up notices for those who can read, send out criers for the majority who can’t. It is summertide now. They have until the fi rst leaves begin to fall before the next wave of killing begins. We will be merciless if the prince is not given to us. Are you confi -

dent the armies are quelled?”

Stracker nodded. “Totally, in all realms. All weapons have already been confiscated, all se nior members are dead. There will be no opposition. They’re still trying to clear their dead!”

“Good. Then begin with the army sons just to make sure they understand that it is our rule now. You will move in one rolling cull, starting in Penraven and moving into the other realms until the prince is found. Once that is done, the numbers of boys in the prince’s age range will be all but annihi-lated. Those remaining will stick out like a pimple on the nose and can be dealt with swiftly. Stracker, remember that people are extremely resourceful. Once word gets out of the slaughter, they will do everything to protect their children. Some boys will be turned into girls overnight; others will be sent off into remote areas, certainly to the coast to find any seaworthy vessel. They will wear false beards or will miraculously age. Our men need to be vigilant, so lead by example. We cannot expect you to catch all in your net but those who remain will have to go to ground and then we can begin to hunt him more methodically with a lot less chance for him to disappear into the cities or villages posing as some peasant.”

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Stracker nodded. “I get you.”

“Heed me. Don’t waste time making these boys suffer.

We’re using shock tactics. We need this to be a hard, fast strike to do away with as many potential King Leonels as possible. The less you play, the more vicious it will feel. You must put the fear of the barbarians into these people once again, so that they have no dreams of rebellion to cling to.” Negev was frowning. “But the prince could simply hide.”

“Yes he could,” Loethar replied. “But he will need to be awfully patient and at his age he probably won’t be. Not unless he receives a lot of help from others. And that’s how we will catch him. If others are involved, the secret is shared.

And we all know what happens once a secret is shared.

Tongues will wag. Information can be bought.”

“You want me to put a price on his head?” Stracker asked.

“No. Money only goes so far when it comes to betrayals of this nature. I am talking about a blood price. The killing of the Set’s young males will be the first warning, will set the scene, shall we say. After that, we will threaten to kill every male child over the age of eleven and under the age of eighteen summertides if Leonel is not yielded by the thaw.

The people will already be mourning a lost son and the thought of losing another will very quickly loosen tongues.

Believe me, someone somewhere will have knowledge of something—a chance sighting, a whispered rumor here, an overheard conversation there. The moment Leonel declares who he is to one other person, we have a chance of catching him.”

Stracker exploded into delighted laughter. “Never let it be said that your mind wasn’t capable of great evil, Loethar.” His mother’s eyebrows arched and she looked suitably admonished. “Inspired. A way to completely terrify the population as well as make the boy feel utterly conspicuous simply by remaining alive. Those with family will yield the boy without hesitation if it means their precious sons will survive.”

“Exactly,” Loethar said, satisfied. He turned away to Roya l Ex i l e

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scratch Vyk’s head. “Incidentally,” he added, “if the prince is found, the killing stops. It’s important we keep faith. I want the people to feel the ruthlessness when called for, but also the fairness of my rule if they obey.”

“You see, Stracker, this is why Loethar is emperor, and you are not.”

Negev’s eldest son didn’t seem offended by the insult. “So long as he keeps giving me tasks like this, he can remain emperor.”

Loethar paused at his half- brother’s words but almost immediately returned his attention to the raven. The wording of Stracker’s reply was revealing, he thought.

His mother interrupted his quiet moment. “And what will you do, Loethar, in the meantime?”

He sighed, turned back to face them. “I’m not sure. I’m half tempted to take a lone and very unannounced ride around this realm, possibly the Set.”

“What? But that would take months, at least!” He shrugged. “This is my empire. And there is not much to do in these early days of settling the realms down—the Set will probably run itself easily without me, with you supervising.”

At this her expression became smug. “Please take that endlessly grinning creature with you. He is too strange for my tastes.”

Loethar pulled on the leash and Piven turned his grin on his new master, then strained toward Vyk.

“Perhaps I will.”

“And Valya?”

“Where is Valya?”

“Riding,” Stracker answered.

“I have no idea what to do about Valya. Marry her, I suppose—it may shut her up.”

Fifteen

——————————————

As the barbarians were plotting his death, the king and his legate were running.

“Do you know your way?” Gavriel asked, worried.

“I’m taking us to where the weapons are stored. There aren’t many but there’s a selection. We can grab the bow, rope, arrows, swords—enough for two people certainly,” Leo said quietly over his shoulder.

“Wait, Leo. I need to say something.” The king turned. “You can’t talk me out of it. I know what you’re going to say.”

“It’s a flawed plan, your majesty.”

“It’s all we have. I don’t intend to spend another night in this forsaken ingress. I suppose you want me to watch Piven die next?”

Gavriel knew the youngster didn’t mean to hurt him but his words stung all the same. “Then you have me all wrong.”

“Gav, I—”

“No, you must listen to me. You are king. But you are not in charge here. I admire your courage but we are not going to make a suicidal attempt to—”

Leo’s expression adopted a new set of shadows as his face darkened. “Maybe you are not going to make that attempt but I intend to, with or without you, and you can live with the knowledge that you were too cowardly.” Gavriel refused to rise to the bait. “Leo, I swear if I have Roya l Ex i l e

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to sit on you or tie you up, you are not going to climb down from the rooftops. I’m sorry to be so blunt about this but your father and your mother have died to keep you alive and—” He stopped, his attention momentarily caught.

“Have we been down this part of the ingress before?” he suddenly asked, frowning and reaching for the candle that Leo was swinging rather angrily, its fl ame fl ickering dangerously.

“No. I have brought you down a new corridor to get to the weapons.”

“Give me the candle,” Gavriel asked.

Leo did so sulkily. “You’ll have to tie me up, then.”

“With the deepest respect, shut up, your majesty,” Gavriel replied as he swung the light toward the wall, squinting as he bent to look. “What’s this?”

The king turned and reluctantly bent to look as well. His head twisted on a slight angle as he considered it, their disagreement forgotten for a moment. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“Whose drawing is it?”

Leo shook his head. “It must be father’s but it doesn’t look like his markings.”

“It doesn’t look aged enough to be Cormoron’s, or even from recent history. And why is it drawn so low on the wall?” Leo shrugged. He rubbed at the markings. “The chalk is reasonably fresh, definitely not Cormoron’s or any of our ancestors. Father preferred charcoal. And I never used yellow chalk like this. I always had white chalk from the Garun cliffs.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. So you don’t recognize even what it signifi es?”

Leo blew out a breath. “Well, let me see.” He bent closer, scrutinizing the drawing. “Actually it’s very good, very clear. Here,” he pointed, “is where we’ve spent most of our time.”

“Your father’s salon,” Gavriel said, to be sure.

“Correct. And here,” he traced a line with his finger, “is a 206

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branch of the ingress I don’t know but we can fi nd easily enough if we commit this pathway,” he traced it again, “to memory.”

“But what is it a map of?” Gavriel said, waving his hand across the clearly marked channels. “It doesn’t look like the ingress any more.”

“No, you’re right.”

“Can we take a look down that pathway?” The king gave him a long hard look of unbridled exasperation.

“I know. But you’d agree it appears authentic, whatever it is.”

Leo nodded. “It looks very genuine. But look at these signs. I don’t know what they mean.” Gavriel squinted. “Those blobs?”

“Yes. I count four of them.”

“Let’s go find out. How long do you imagine it would take us to get to this point once we’ve grabbed some weapons?” Gavriel asked, his finger resting on what looked to be the ochre blob closest to the king’s salon.

Leo pulled a face of uncertainty. “I honestly can’t tell you.

I can’t imagine this map is drawn to any sort of scale. None of them are. They are meant to be simply a directional guide.”

“Then we must commit it to memory. How about if we try this and if we fail then we work out a way to go off the roof to night.”

“De Vis, I’m going off the roof to night come what may.”

“We’ll see. Indulge my curiosity for now.” Leo sighed. “Follow me.”

Freath stared at the two men, still ashen from his most recent task. Beside him stood Genrie.

“Why are we here?” Kirin asked, looking around nervous ly.

“The chapel is the most private place I could find at short Roya l Ex i l e

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notice. Father Briar has offered to keep watch,” Freath replied.

“What for?” Clovis asked, worried.

“For anyone loyal to Loethar,” Freath answered softly.

At his words both Vested balked. They regarded him with fresh suspicion and each looked reluctant to say anything.

“You’ve met Genrie. She is loyal to us,” Freath continued.

“Us?”

“Those who would see King Leonel on Penraven’s throne.”

“What?” Clovis roared. “Wait, this isn’t making sense.

Kirin, it’s a trick.”

“It will make sense if you’ll keep your voice down. In fact, stop talking,” Genrie said, irritated. “Just listen to what Master Freath has to say.”

“You’re loyal to the Valisars?” Kirin asked, obviously stunned.

Freath nodded. “We’re all there is. No one else—save Father Briar—can be trusted. And I mean no one but Genrie and myself.”

“But you . . .” Clovis began, frowning. His voice trailed off as he glanced between the two palace servants.

“I had to,” Freath said quietly. “It was the only way.”

“To what?” Kirin demanded.

Freath straightened. “To infiltrate our enemy. King Brennus demanded it of me; the queen refused my offers to help her escape before the barbarian took her captive. I was given very strict orders by the king to give the impression that I was a traitor.”

“You’ve been lying?” Clovis said, aghast.

Genrie sighed. “Well, that took a while for the trent to drop. We’ve both been lying, Master Clovis.”

“But all those people who died?” Clovis continued.

“Could not be helped,” Freath said, genuinely disturbed.

“I tried to save those I could.”

“Such as whom?” Clovis sneered. “All I saw were innocents being carted off to be murdered.” 208

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“Whatever you think, Master Freath is walking an incredibly dangerous path and no one is safe, least of all him,” Genrie said sharply.

Clovis opened his mouth to reply but Freath held up his hand. “Master Clovis, believe me when I say that I have many lives on my conscience—Lo forgive me for her majesty’s death—but I need to explain—”

“Wait!” Kirin demanded. “What do you mean? The queen is dead?”

Genrie nodded miserably and Freath sighed audibly. “Not long ago.”

“How?” Kirin asked.

“I killed her,” Freath replied, his voice raw with anguish.

“There was no choice—I had to in order to save her any further degradation at the hands of the barbarians. She made me become her executioner in order to preserve the fragile shield I currently have.”

“She asked you to kill her so that it looked right?” Kirin repeated, incredulous.

“Queen Iselda wanted to die, Master Kirin. But she wanted her death to aid our cause.” Freath felt the weight of his grief settle around his shoulders once again.

“Listen to me, both of you,” Genrie snapped. “Our queen bought us security in a single courageous act . . . and don’t for one moment think it didn’t take an equal amount of courage for Master Freath to hurl her from the window of her apartment!”

“Hardly equal,” Freath muttered sorrowfully. “The bravery was all hers. I threw her to her death feeling only fear.” Clovis spun away to bang his fist against the wall. “I don’t believe he’s lying,” Kirin said. “Although I have barely touched him.”

“Did you—?” Freath asked, horrifi ed.

“I used barely a dribble,” Kirin grumbled, a mixture of distress and anger mingling in his voice. “If I pry I can tell a lot more about you than you’d perhaps want. I sense, however, from the trickle, that you are being straight with us.

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Although a good liar can elude me if I don’t use my full power.”

Freath’s brow creased to form a single angry vertical line just above the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t need to level your magic against me, Master Kirin. I give you my word I will always be straight with you.”

“That is as may be,” Clovis said, indignation spicing his tone, “but you have given us nothing with which to trust you. So far we have only seen you be a puppet for the barbarian.”

“Open that door, Master Clovis,” Freath said gruffl y.

“Why?”

“Just do as I say.”

Kirin moved more quickly, wrenching back the small oak door to reveal a huddle of people in the tiny adjoining chamber. “Clovis!” a familiar voice called.

“Reuth! You’re all alive,” Clovis breathed.

“The few of us that Master Freath could save,” she said, smiling tentatively at the former royal aide. “Thank you again.”

Freath gave a small shake of his head. “I didn’t do enough,” he muttered and he turned away, ignoring Genrie’s reassuring touch on his arm.

“Where’s the girl? The blood diviner?” Kirin asked, frowning.

“We lost her,” the boy said. “The soldiers wanted her. He offered her,” he said, scowling.

Kirin glanced at Freath who nodded, eyes closed momentarily in prayer for the girl’s memory. “I had to let them have her in order to save this many. I’m sorry. None of my choices have been without their cost. They think all of you have perished.”

“Why, though?” Kirin demanded.

“Stracker believed his men dealt with everyone here but I told one of the se nior men I’d take care of it, offering them the girl as a plaything. He didn’t even hesitate and I’m taking the chance that he won’t even mention to his brute of a 210

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superior that he left the killing to me. They’re burning bodies to night and I’ll just say I threw all of you into the pit if asked.”

Everyone fell momentarily quiet. Finally, Kirin spoke into the awkward silence. “Perhaps we should all introduce ourselves?”

“Good idea,” Freath agreed. “Everyone’s been sworn to silence in that cupboard until now.”

“I’m Tolt,” the boy said, looking around. “I dreamed some of this—not quite the same—but it had many similarities. If I had more experience at it, I’d probably have been able to interpret it.”

“Hello, Tolt,” Kirin said, smiling gently. “And you?” he said, pointing to a woman.

“I’m Eyla,” she replied softly, nervously. “I do my best as a healer.”

Kirin gave her an encouraging glance. He looked at the old man next to her. “Ah, you are the one who can help things to grow.”

The man nodded self-consciously. “Torren is my name.”

“I’m Kes,” a young man said. “I can change the shape of my body.”

“The contortionist,” Freath muttered. “Is that magic?” The boy grinned. “I’ll say.”

Everyone found a sad smile at his confidence. “You are the woman who can talk to animals, if I’m not mistaken?” Kirin continued.

She shrugged. “I understand our creatures. They seem to understand me,” she answered cryptically. “I am called Hedray.”

Kirin turned to a willowy young woman with her face partially covered by a shawl, her head wrapped severely in a scarf. “What is your power?” Kirin asked gently.

The woman remained silent.

“She hasn’t said anything to anyone,” Tolt explained.

Kirin reached for her hand but she pulled hers back, afraid. “I won’t hurt you,” he assured. “We are here because Roya l Ex i l e

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we trust each other and we will have to look after one another. All of these people are your friends. I am your friend.

I am Kirin and I can see things in people. Over here,” he said, pointing, “is Clovis. Clovis can see things too but not about people so much as events—how situations may turn out.”

The girl looked up at them all through large, soft gray eyes. “I am Perl,” she finally said, allowing her gaze to travel briefly around before resting on Kirin. “I don’t wish to say any more.”

Kirin nodded. “In your own time, Perl.”

“And I am Reuth,” the final Vested spoke up. “I suffer visions of foreboding. I never know the details, only that something bad is going to happen. It is a contrary gift, revealing itself in strange ways that I can’t really explain. But it is accurate.”

Freath frowned. “Have we also lost the boy who reads runes?”

Everyone frowned, trying to remember him.

“You’re right,” Clovis admitted. “He was in the holding place when we were first grouped. I don’t remember his coming to the chamber when Master Freath interviewed us.” The others seemed to agree, shrugging and nodding.

“And this is Genrie,” Freath said. “Without her none of you would be alive. She is my eyes and my ears whenever I cannot see or listen. She is loyal to the crown, loyal to all Penravians—as am I. Our king and queen are both dead, as is the legate.” He ignored their gasps, knowing he could not spare them the shock. “The newborn princess is dead, and already cremated, while the youngest prince, Piven, is in the custody of Loethar. We have no idea what the barbarian’s plans are for him. But—”

“Is Piven the deformed one?” Tolt asked.

“Not deformed. He is simple, that is all. He is a very special child and much beloved,” Freath admonished gently.

“Is he completely trapped by his condition?” Reuth asked.

“Perhaps we could use him.”

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Freath shook his head. “He is entirely imprisoned. He will be no help to us. He has become the barbarian’s plaything.” At everyone’s immediate distress, Freath held up a hand.

“Not in a sexual sense. At present the emperor—as he plans to be known—finds the child intriguing. We believe the eldest child is alive.” A murmur greeted his words. “And he is what this is all about: preserving Leonel’s life, working toward putting him on the throne.”

“Us?” Tolt asked, looking around at the others, pointing at them. “Him . . . and her, you mean?” he jibed, stabbing a finger toward Hedray. “Me? I don’t even know how to hold a dagger, let alone throw one.”

“No one’s talking about weapons here, young Tolt. We are talking about something infinitely more subtle. Each of you has practical skills. Some in addition possess magic; perhaps one or two of you have untapped potential. Whatever the specific case, you are Vested and you are alive. It is your duty to make those skills and powers available to the crown.

Unless you’re happy with the barbarian and how he runs a realm, by all means, take your chances with him.”

“Master Freath,” Reuth began, “I gladly pledge myself to your cause—you don’t even have to ask for my loyalty, to tell the truth, but I do understand Tolt’s confusion. What can our odd little group possibly achieve?” Freath shook his head. “I don’t know, Reuth. I’ve never organized a rebellion before.” Though the words were honest enough, his tone was dry. “We must do our best, as best we can.”

It was Clovis who asked the most pertinent question.

“What now, Master Freath? You cannot hide these people indefi nitely.”

“No, I can’t. Father Briar and Genrie are going to fi nd a way to get you all out—one by one if we have to and over several days, depending on how closely we are watched. I mustn’t be seen here again other than in duties for Loethar.

He does not trust me so please no one make an error and Roya l Ex i l e

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betray me. Hopefully you all will be gone, save Kirin and Clovis, over the next few days.”

“But to where?” Reuth persisted. “Where can each of us hide or be safe?”

“Scatter,” Freath advised. “Get away from here. Hide your skills entirely. Do not be tempted to earn money from your talents because it is my guess you will be hunted down by Loethar’s people. We have a mark—a tiny blue moon crescent. Ink it onto your skin. Choose a place that is mostly hidden—between the fingers, behind an ear. Somewhere you can bear for a needle to mark your skin and that you can hide from everyday glances, but, that you can also readily show if you need to prove your loyalty.”

Silence greeted his speech. Freath cleared his throat. “I realize there is nothing to stop your simply disappearing, blending in with the rest of the survivors and knuckling down to life under barabarian rule. Nothing, that is, other than the memory of how innocents were slaughtered just a few feet from where you cowered. Nothing, perhaps, other than knowing that your king killed himself in front of the barbarian to prevent Loethar being able to humiliate Penraven further with a public death. Or that the legate whom we have revered for a score of years had his head cleaved in half by the cowardly barbarian during what was supposed to be a parley for peace.

Or even that your queen bravely sacrificed her life so that I could keep my cover of traitor and save all of you. There is nothing more I can think of to say to persuade you other than the reminder that somewhere not far away runs a lad, just twelve, who is now king. As long as Leonel remains alive and out of the barbarian’s reach, he is the reigning royal of Penraven. And as long as we have a Valisar king alive, we have something worth fi ghting for.”

“How do you know he lives?” Kirin asked.

Freath glanced briefly toward Genrie. “I know. You will have to trust me on this.”

“You’ve seen him?” Clovis persisted.

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“I saw him escaping the warriors. I know that Loethar is furious that he has not yet been found.” Father Briar suddenly entered the chamber, a look of urgency on his face. “There’s movement outside. You four should get out of here,” he said to Freath, glancing at Kirin, Clovis and Genrie. “The rest, back into the crawlspace. I will get fresh water to you later.”

Everyone groaned softly.

Freath straightened. “Our time has run out. We will not speak together again like this. Genrie will give you needles and ink for those who wish to take the mark. She will also give each of you a homing pigeon. When you are settled and feel safe, no matter whether you are in the realm or beyond, let your pigeon go. It will find us and tell us where you are.

You will hear from us. It may take months, possibly years, but stay strong, stay loyal to the crown. Help us by seeking out other Vested. They will have deeply hidden their talents but some will have escaped the barbarians. Find them, conscript them. Good luck, everyone. Come, Kirin, Clovis. Remember, as far as the barbarians are concerned you are now my servants and you need to act accordingly.” The pair nodded and followed him. To Genrie Freath cast a backward glance. “Be careful,” he whispered and she nodded, her gaze flicking to Kirin but darkening at his enquir-ing expression.

The king’s salon was deserted as they passed through the part of the ingress that had been home to them these last few days. Leo didn’t even spare the peepholes a moment of his time, leaving it to Gavriel to steal a glance before hurrying after the retreating back of the king.

Within minutes they were in a part of the ingress they’d not yet explored, although Leo seemed to know his way with confidence. Suddenly he stopped, muttering to himself.

“What’s happening?” Gavriel asked.

Leo’s eyes were screwed closed. “I’m just double checking whether I was supposed to take the second or third turning.” Roya l Ex i l e

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Gavriel said nothing, hoping the silence would help Leo concentrate on his mental map. He looked around furtively, his eyes picking up by chance another of the distinctive yellow markings. “Leo, look!” he said urgently, holding their candle closer.

“Lo save us! An arrow.”

“Someone wants us to go this way,” Gavriel said, pointing down a very slim corridor.

“I knew we had to turn right. I just wanted to be sure we were in the correct part of the ingress.”

“I guess this confirms it.” Gavriel moved closer to the opening, wondering if his shoulders would even fi t through.

“It can’t be a trick, can it?”

Gavriel scoffed. “How? No one else knows of the passages save the Kings and heirs.”

“This ochre chalk worries me.”

“Me too but you’ll just have to imagine it’s white like yours or the charcoal of your father. We have no choice.”

“But who could have drawn it here if not father or myself?”

“One of your predeces sors. Why not King Darros?” Leo laughed lightly. “My grandfather was a huge man. He couldn’t have fitted here. Even so, father told me Darros always used the gray chalk of the Chalcene quarries and my great-grandfather, before you ask, used the pale blue paste made from crushing the sheeca shell from our beaches. The chalk is too fresh for any Valisars further back.”

“Leo, we must trust it. Perhaps your father did this and used a fresh color specifically to guide us here.”

“Why wouldn’t he have told me?” Leo persisted.

“I don’t know,” Gavriel answered, wrestling to keep his tone patient. “I actually don’t care, either. You assure me no one but us know so we must trust it. We are going down here and we’re going to follow the ochre arrows if we fi nd more.” Leo nodded unhappily and stepped into the small opening. Gavriel followed, feeling instantly twice as claustropho-bic as he’d felt in the main corridor. “This is horrible,” he 216

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grumbled, eyes peeled for any further clues in the ochre chalk.

“It should be a short tunnel if my memory of the map serves me. It will open up and we’ll have the choice of two paths. We go left.”

They moved forward in silence. Gavriel had long ago given up trying to work out where they were in relation to the palace layout. As Leo had promised, they came to a choice of paths. Without pausing, the king turned them left.

Gavriel realized they’d stepped up their progress to a trot, both in a hurry now to reach their destination. He calculated they’d been on the move for what must translate to fi ve hundred strides or half a span. They were a long way from the queen’s apartments.

A few minutes later the path, which had been steadily narrowing, reached a blind end.

“Lo’s wrath!” Leo spewed. “I knew it! I knew this was a waste of our time.” He swung around angrily, glaring at Gavriel and throwing down the tiny sack that contained their meager supplies.

Gavriel felt his heart sink.

“The blobs meant dead ends, that’s all,” Leo raged, sliding down the rough wall to sit. “Now we have to go all the way back.”

Gavriel joined him on the floor. “Eat the bread and what’s left of the cheese, Leo. You must be hungry.” He needed to think. Out of habit he passed the light of the candle fl ame all around him. It was Leo who gasped and suddenly looked up.

“Unbelievable!” he muttered.

Gavriel followed the king’s gaze. Above him was a small opening. “Tell me you can see another arrow behind me,” he said, dryly.

Leo nodded, still amazed.

“Ha!” Gavriel leapt to his feet. “And up we go,” he said, his hand touching the chalked marking. “Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.” He carefully lifted Leo into the hole.

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“I can’t see anything,” the king called. “It’s too dark.

Sounds big, though.”

“Here, take the candle and our supplies,” Gavriel said, standing on tiptoe. “And move, I’m coming.” He jumped and gripped the opening, using his feet to push off the wall and up higher through the hole. When he was halfway through the hole he stopped, arrested by what he was staring at.

“Strike me!” he murmured.

“A cave? How can that be?” Leo asked, incredulous.

Gavriel pulled himself clear of the hole and stood up carefully. The ceiling was low. He shook his head with wonder.

“What is this? Where are we?”

“Is that birdsong?”

Gavriel listened. It was distant but Leo was not mistaken.

“I think you’re right. Let’s go.”

They picked their way through the hollow area they’d found themselves in and walked toward the noise.

“So the ochre blob on the map meant the opening through the ceiling of the ingress,” Leo said.

“I don’t think we were in the ingress. The stone of the wall changed texture slightly. I think by the time we met that blind ending, we were already beyond the palace walls.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think the ochre blobs on the map denoted ways of getting into and out of the palace. Secret entrances,” Gavriel said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “I think that’s why we hear birdsong, your majesty. I reckon we’re going to come out close to the woods!” Leo swung around, a disbelieving look on his face. As he turned back around Gavriel felt a soft gust of air ruffl e his hair. He and Leo began to laugh. It was true. Freedom beckoned.

Sixteen

——————————————

Valya was fuming. She hated Dara Negev and her constant condescension. It was obvious that the old hag hated her, which was fine; the feeling was mutual. However, they both loved Loethar. But what was infuriating her so much was that whenever Loethar’s mother was around him—or even in his thoughts—her lover became remote. And she hated that more than she despised Negev. Stracker, meanwhile, made her feel ill to be around and she was glad they had so little to say to each other and even less to do with one another.

For all that she loved Loethar, Valya was increasingly realizing that she barely knew what went on in his mind. All through the battles he had been so focused. He cut a decisive yet patient pathway through to Penraven, never faltering in his desire to conquer the Valisars. The other realms of the Set had simply been the obstacles . . . the annoying fat he had to cut away to get to the true heartbeat of the Set. And yet she knew deep down that Penraven’s wealth was not Loethar’s motivation; its power had certainly been a driving need, but not his ultimate passion. Nor had the desire to call himself emperor—or anything he pleased, for that matter—given

him the impetus to wage war. She had never learned what lay at the base of his motives. Whereas she and Negev—even Stracker—were far more open in their motivations.

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Just weeks before, Loethar’s lovemaking had been ferocious and voracious and he had come to her often, so often in fact, that she had begun to consider herself a potential wife.

She’d love that title—it would give her the status she craved over Negev. Most importantly she’d be Empress to the Set.

Just like Loethar, she had craved Penraven’s downfall the most. In fact—

“Rider coming!” her companion said, interrupting her private thoughts.

She pulled up her horse, a fine roan. “What is it?” she hissed. “I do so wish I could ride alone!”

“Loethar’s orders,” the man said in the same bored tone.

“But why? Why must I have an escort?” The man looked at her with a vague expression that spoke of tedium. His face bore the distinctive tatua that was distracting enough to hide what his eyes were saying. His tatua was green; one of Stracker’s men, then. “Ask him.” She gave a sound of exasperation and waited angrily while the rider approached—a Blue this time, the Mear tribe. She didn’t wait for him to address Stracker’s man first. “Why do you seek me?” she demanded.

The new arrival nodded to both of them. “I have been asked to bring you back to the castle,” he said, directly to her.

The petty win pleased her. Every smattering of attention she could win for herself was important. “Why?” The younger man had ridden fast. He was breathing hard.

“Queen Iselda is dead.”

“What?”

“She was fl ung from the top fl oor of the castle by the servant.”

“What servant?” she demanded, shocked. “Not Freath?” The man shrugged. “I think that’s his name.” He grinned at his fellow warrior. “She was splattered all over the courtyard, gray matter oozing from her broken skull.”

“What happened?” Valya suddenly regretted her ride.

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Now she’d have to learn from others why Iselda had suffered this final humiliation. She wondered if Loethar felt cheated of killing her himself. But then he’d already given her to the colorless and dour manservant for his own pleasures; presumably Loethar had no interest in Iselda. This was good.

She’d be damned if she was going to share Loethar with any woman now that she was so close. “Well, hurry up. What do we know?”

“Nothing.” The Blue glanced at the Green.

“Don’t look at him! He wasn’t there either, you fool.”

“Do not insult us,” the Green warned. “He is young and I might be your escort for today but given the choice, neither of us would choose to wait on you. As our leader’s woman we will tolerate you, but do not treat us as though you have any law over us.”

Bravely spoken for a mere foot soldier, Valya thought. She knew it didn’t help her cause to make any more enemies; she was already such an outsider, relying entirely on Loethar’s charity for the small deference his men paid her.

“Forgive me,” she conceded, digging deep for the right tone of humility and switching into the language of the Steppes.

“I have been under some strain recently. We all have. I worry for Loethar.”

“Don’t,” the Green said. “He is very capable. If he weren’t, he would not be our leader.”

“Of course,” she said, as politely as her fury would permit. “I had hoped to ride a bit longer, though.” The Blue shook his head. “I was told to fetch you with urgency.”

She nodded, her anger barely disguised now. “Lead the way.”

They were surprised to find themselves emerging from a curiously angled cave mouth that required each to help the other climb out. As they drew closer they realized there were several openings above them, from which the soft breeze and the birdsong were filtering through. The entrance itself was Roya l Ex i l e

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relatively small and very well disguised by hanging branches and overgrowing mosses.

Gavriel hauled himself out before reaching down to drag the king from the opening. “We did it, Leo! We’re out!” he said, grinning triumphantly.

Leo nodded ruefully. “You were right to make me listen, Gav. The idea to leave from the rooftops—”

“Was the only option at the time,” Gavriel assured. “It’s all right, Leo. I’m just a coward. I don’t care for heights.” The youngster grinned. “We’ll have to work on that.

Where to now?” he asked.

Gavriel didn’t hesitate. “We need the cover that the forest gives us. It’s broad daylight. We cannot risk being seen.”

“We can make it to the forest in moments if we run hard.”

“Yes, this copse offers only scarce coverage—it’s really just some bushes, isn’t it?”

“Probably grown deliberately to cover the entrance.”

“You’re right,” Gavriel said. “I wonder why your father never told you about it.”

“Because we always believed the kitchens were the way out. You’re sure this isn’t a trap, aren’t you, Gav?” Gavriel put a hand on the king’s shoulder. “Still worried about the ochre chalk, eh?” The boy nodded. “Don’t be.” Leo shook his head. “So you’re not suspicious?”

“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.

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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.

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“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—”

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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.”

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“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 fi ne now.”

“Is he here?”

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“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 fl ying—”

“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?”

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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 228

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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, Roya l Ex i l e

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tucked away in a corner of the castle and not on such a high level as Iselda’s apartments.

The room had defi nitely 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 sculp-ture 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.

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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 he’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?”

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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 fi t 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.”

“They were closer than brothers.”

“He had family, did you know?”

“Yes. A wife, dead, and two sons from that union.”

“Where are they?”

“We don’t know. It’s important that we fi nd them.”

“Are they a problem?”

“I suspect at seventeen summertides they will be. I was.” She smiled at his quip. “I can’t imagine your mother ever felt out of her depth with you.”

“No, but then she wasn’t a mother in the way you might anticipate mothers should be. We’ve never really talked at length about your family, Valya, have we?” It was obvious he didn’t want to discuss his own folk.

“Other than hating them, you mean?” she said, sweetly. “I’m sure I’ve told you enough.”

He looked amused. “Well, you had good reason. It was not your fault they had no sons.”

Valya sighed. “I guess not, although my parents certainly made me regret I was not born a boy every day of my pathetic existence.”