Royal Exile

‘Oh, yes, but only in a mild way, sire. Leo is still just a boy. He hardly knows his head from his arse, if you’ll pardon my language.’

‘You don’t have to worry over my sensitivities, Freath,’ Loethar reassured.

The aide nodded. ‘What I mean is that he’s extremely immature — still something of a mummy’s boy. We’re talking about an indulged brat more than capable of throwing tantrums while incapable of manoeuvring a horse or his weapons with any dexterity.’

Leo turned and glared at Gavriel. ‘Lying bastard!’ he hissed.

‘It seems Freath is out to impress the barbarian. Don’t worry about it, Leo. We’ll kill him with our bare hands if we must, as soon as we get the chance.’ Gavriel knew his words were an empty threat but he felt better for having said them.

‘So while the De Vis twins are a threat, you are saying the heir to the throne is not.’

‘No, sire, that’s not what I’m saying. The De Vis family is your enemy, and they would have been without your splitting the legate’s head in half,’ Freath warned. ‘The heir is not a physical threat to you. He wouldn’t know how to attack, how to rally a force, how to even plan beyond where to play on a given day. He’s still in that childish mindset of the world revolving around his selfish needs, especially his belly.’

Loethar looked amused but Gavriel bristled. Freath knew Leo well and he could have been describing a stranger for all his words resembled the prince. ‘He struggles to make his verbs work, so he is hardly ready to make a realm work for him,’ Freath continued with utter disdain. ‘Brennus never expected to lose his throne. The threat from the Steppes was always that — just a threat. It hadn’t sunken past the shallowest of consciousness that you might succeed in your desire for empire and that the prince might need to be fully readied in all aspects of sovereignty.’

Again Gavriel caught a glance of bewilderment from his new king.

‘Your point?’ Loethar asked.

‘My point, sire, is that you have nothing to fear from Leonel in person. It’s what he represents that should trouble you. No one will let go of the fact that the heir exists — if they believe that to be true — because that means the Valisar dynasty is alive.’

‘I want to know where he is.’

‘And I believe I can help you. But I do require guarantees, sire.’

‘So you say. Give me your terms.’

‘I have heard a rumour that you are gathering all the empowered people from the conquered nations.’

For the first time since Freath had arrived Gavriel noticed the barbarian lose his casual stance. Loethar stiffened. ‘And what’s that to you?’

Freath gave a sly shrug. ‘Well, I can’t imagine you’d go to all that trouble and not make use of that collected power.’

‘And?’

‘I want some of it.’

Stracker grabbed Freath by his shirtfront, pulling him close to his pockmarked face. ‘You don’t demand anything. You’re lucky to have lived this long.’

Freath remained undaunted. ‘Phew, we eat the leaf of the cherrel to keep our breath fresh, Stracker.’

Loethar ignored their barbs. ‘Explain what you mean, Freath, before I allow Stracker to gut you as he so desperately wants.’

Freath straightened his clothes, amazing Gavriel with his audacity. He watched the aide take a breath and paste another cunning smile on his face. ‘Two sorcerers, witches, whatever you care to call them, of my choice and at my behest.’

Gavriel watched Loethar’s mouth twitch. ‘What makes you think they exist?’

‘Oh, they exist all right, but they are cunning. They will go to extraordinary lengths to disguise their skills but that they exist in the Set …’ he smiled as he paused, ‘… of this there is no doubt.’

Loethar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know who these people are?’

‘I may have suspicions, sire, but no, I don’t know anyone specifically practising magic outwardly. There is the usual band of hedgewitches and herbalists, conjurers and magicians. But what I’m talking about are the thaumaturges, the genuine weavers of miracles — phenomena that can’t be explained. I’m certain you’ve already discovered a few. I want a pair.’

‘And what do you plan to do with them?’ Loethar enquired, sitting against the king’s desk. His arms were crossed in a deliberately casual pose but Gavriel was sure the barbarian was anything but relaxed.

‘They will offer me protection.’

‘From me, I presume.’

‘Correct, sire. And from your bad-smelling lackey and your hideous crow.’

Stracker scowled but Loethar gave a sharp, tight grin. ‘I see. And in return you will give me the boy.’

‘I will try, that is my promise.’

‘Try?’ Loethar’s tone was now fuelled by disdain.

‘He has gone to ground, sire. I have already seen your men searching the palace. I presume they are searching the immediate area and nearby woodland as well. He could not have gone far because I saw him quite recently.’

Loethar stood up. ‘You saw …!’ he began, breaking off angrily to say: ‘Where was he?’

‘The kitchens.’

Gavriel took a step closer to Leo, grinding his jaw as he put an arm around the new king. It felt like hollow reassurance but it seemed more meaningful than words right now. His mind was racing. Should they attempt an escape now or hold their nerve a short while longer? Freath couldn’t possibly know where they were … could he?

Leo echoed his thoughts. ‘He doesn’t know anything,’ he said.

‘They took fright at the sound of your men closing in on the palace and ran off. I tried to follow but I’m an old man by comparison, sire. I couldn’t keep up.’

‘They?’

‘Pardon, sire?’

Loethar’s expression darkened. ‘You said they — who were the others?’

‘Just one other. Gavriel De Vis.’

‘Are you telling me they ran back into the palace?’

Freath shrugged lightly. ‘They headed in, but, sire, we have many entrances and doors that lead to other courtyards. They could be anywhere. Though they won’t have had time to get far.’

‘Have you a suggestion of where they may go?’

‘I have plenty. But I need a show of good faith, sire.’

‘I see. Something in writing? A mix of our bloods perhaps, palm to palm?’

‘This man knows nothing that I, given a room with a pair of heated pincers, couldn’t find out for you,’ Stracker threw at Loethar. Gavriel gave a humourless smile at finding himself momentarily on side with the barbarian’s lackey.

Freath smiled tightly. ‘No need for torture or indeed any loss of blood. My request is very simple and easy for you to provide. When you have finished with her, I want the queen.’

‘What?’ Loethar roared. His surprise turned into a tumult of laughter. ‘Iselda?’

Freath kept his face impassive. ‘She is beautiful. Why not?’

Loethar studied the aide carefully. ‘No, Freath, this doesn’t fit. You’re not that displeasing physically, I’ll grant you, but I see no passion burning in these eyes of yours — other than for your own safe skin. I don’t suspect there is a romantic or even sexual urge in your body. You are lying.’

Freath remained unfazed, his voice calm. ‘You are jumping to conclusions, sire. I said nothing about romance or desire. I simply want her.’

‘What for?’

‘Purely for self-satisfaction. I have served queen Iselda since she came to the palace, sire, and King Brennus even longer. They were the usual arrogant inbreds that seem to take the throne…’ Leo gasped and Gavriel had to put a hand over the boy’s mouth — a hand that was trembling with anger. ‘… services were always taken for granted. Although it’s too late to tell Brennus, now it’s time for me to share with her all my rage. I come from a distinguished line, sire. I deserved better.’

‘This is about not being thanked?’ Loethar asked, incredulous.

Freath blinked slowly. ‘Perhaps put petulantly you could describe it that way, sire. I see it as retribution. I am not a man to be toyed with. I deserved better than I got in my years of service. I kept hoping I would be rewarded for my attentiveness, my loyalty, and, above all, my discretion. But each year passed without so much as a glance of appreciation my way.’

‘You’re a servant, for Lo’s sake!’ Stracker chimed in. ‘What do you want, a manor in the country?’

‘Why not?’ Freath demanded, scowling at the man. ‘The legate was a servant too but De Vis was not only paid handsomely, he was rewarded with horses, land, servants of his own, wealth far more than he’d ever need. And his family line is no finer than mine. He was simply a soldier. I am a man of language, of letters … truly, sire, I was the more versatile if you compare me to De Vis. Yet he dies a hero — a wealthy one. If you slew me now, sire, I would die penniless. Pathetic isn’t it?’

‘Can you kill a man, Freath?’

‘If I had to, yes,’ the aide bristled. ‘Killing doesn’t give you superiority, sire, surely?’

‘And have you ever killed anyone, Freath?’

‘No, sire.’

‘It sounds a lot easier than the doing of it, trust me…not that I suffer the squeamishness of most.’

Freath ignored Loethar’s explanation. ‘If you don’t need her for any other purpose, sire, I would have her.’

‘To humiliate her?’

‘To do whatever I please with her. She will become my slave, follow my orders, answer my desires … however dry they may appear to others.’

‘And so for the queen, two Vested and my word, you will help me hunt down Leonel?’

‘Yes, sire. And there are so many more ways in which I can help you … be assured of that. At no further cost to you than what I’ve already asked for.’

‘You intrigue me, Freath.’

‘So we’re agreed. Iselda is a show of goodwill on your part.’

‘Bugger her senseless for all I care, Freath, although I will be wanting her for tonight myself.’

‘Of course you do, sire,’ Freath said, as though they were discussing the shared use of a horse or plough. ‘In fact I won’t lay a finger upon her until you have. Is that fair?’

Loethar nodded. ‘It is.’ He looked at Stracker. ‘How many have we rounded up?’

‘In total, about thirty-four who seem genuine in their talents.’

‘Have them brought here. I’ll leave you to pick out the best — and show them to Freath. He can choose from your selection. Order it now.’ Stracker nodded and left the chamber. Loethar looked at the royal aide again, then grinned. ‘I need men with your agile mind, Freath. I’m sure I should just slit your throat here and now but there’s something about you that tells me I should stay my hand a little longer.’

‘That’s convenient for me, sire.’

His words amused Loethar further. ‘For both of us, I hope. Stracker can be …’ He searched for the right word.

‘Spontaneous?’ Freath offered.

Now Loethar smiled genuinely. ‘Precisely. And on occasion I need someone who can act upon more considered information, someone who thinks through a situation.’

‘Less of a blunt instrument. I understand. But that doesn’t necessarily make me feel safe.’

Loethar’s smile broadened. Gavriel realised that Freath’s cunning made him a perfect match and someone who had, over the last few moments, changed from aide’s executioner to new employer. The barbarian called in some of his henchmen.

‘This man has access to Queen Iselda. Him alone.’ He had obviously changed his mind about wanting Iselda for the first night. He turned back to the aide. ‘You amuse me, Freath. I like your mind, if not you.’ Freath inclined his head, obviously deciding to take the barbarian’s words as a compliment. ‘As long as you continue to amuse me and keep me informed of everything around this palace and the realm — as I assume you have a well connected spy network — you are safe from my blade.’

‘In that case, sire, we shall take each other on his word. So, for the young prince, let me suggest you try the secret corridor.’

Gavriel felt Leo’s mouth open in terror behind his hand.

‘Show them!’ Loethar ordered Freath, pointing at his men.

7

Clovis sat silent and rigid, his fists clenched in his lap, the stone wall hard against his back. His life had been what many might describe as perfect. He was not a rich man — not yet, anyway — but he had been happier than many of the wealthy men he was required to offer his services to. Nor was he poor, not by a long shot. Work was regular and it didn’t require him to ruin his back toiling out in the field at the mercy of Lo’s moods. He was not old but he was no longer what could be described as a young man; middle years was perhaps the kindest way to term it. But he was hale and he had not yet found grey in his beard or experienced aches in his knees. He had no complaints.

And yet in a heartbeat the world he’d got used to — the routine life he was so comfortable in — had been turned upside down. He’d never loved Leah, not in the way that some people describe love; an angelic chorus didn’t strike up in his ear whenever he saw her and his pulse didn’t quicken, nor did he feel the rise of passion that he knew he should feel. But Leah was kind, and good. She loved him and he was fond of her. He liked her soothing prattle. She was not beautiful, not even pretty. But she was sunny. She laughed a great deal, especially at his jests, and her big bright smile could light a small room.

Leah had enough love and laughter for both of them fortunately. But what Leah had given to him — where all of his love was given in return — was their daughter, Corin. And whereas he and Leah would describe themselves as plain, Corin was sweet on the eye of all who beheld her. His child had the temperament of an angel and she bound Clovis and Leah, smothering the shortfalls they had as a couple, with her addictively fun personality and stealing Clovis’s heart so that he could never leave, even if he wanted to. And the truth is he had never wanted to leave since the day of Corin’s birth. For five peaceful, plentiful years Clovis had overlooked the lacklustre nature of his hasty marriage to Leah when she’d discovered her pregnancy, and considered himself a blessed man.

His role as a diviner was in brisk demand and although he charged the everyday folk just a few trents for a quick ‘impression’ as he termed it, the richer people of Vorgaven — of which there were plenty — threw grand parties at which they invited diviners to foretell the future at far greater expense. The wealthiest of all — the shipping families — would invite him to their magnificent homes for personal ‘tellings’.

It had become very fashionable to have a personal diviner on the payroll, someone who would advise on everything from best sailing times to which crew to select. It was a lucrative way to earn a living and recently Clovis had been able to build his small family a dwelling of their own on a tiny parcel of land he’d bought from one of his clients. It looked out to sea toward the Isle of Medhaven and Leah had begun to talk about no longer having to work at the inn. This had pleased Clovis, for he liked the idea that Leah would be at home all the time with Corin, rather than dropping her off at Delly’s for a few hours until Clovis could take over child-minding duties.

Corin had been an accident, of course; the result of a dry, hurried copulation one evening in the cellar of The Fat Badger where Leah worked as a barmaid. He had been so drunk he was cross-eyed and honestly believed that he’d had it off with Alys Kenric, who wasn’t unlike Leah in colouring, except much prettier. He had been celebrating a particularly rich haul from a wealthy merchant from Cremond who had revisited with a heavy purse to thank Clovis for his advice in buying black tourmaline from a small mine on Medhaven. The merchant had thought him mad at the time but Clovis realised the man had nevertheless taken his advice and purchased a substantial amount of quality stones. Who could have known — other than Clovis perhaps — that the second son of the Vorgaven royals, Danre, would choose for a bride the daughter of a very senior noble in Cremond. Or that this bride would have a fascination with black silk and black jewels. The merchant made a handsome profit from his tourmalines and had been anxious to thank the diviner from Vorgaven. Clovis had lived to quietly rue the day of that purse landing in his lap, because he certainly had held no ideas about marriage or even falling in love. But Leah had become pregnant and Clovis was pressured by her folk to do the right thing and Corin was the reward for his sacrifice.

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