Royal Exile. Fiona McIntosh
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she said, a trace of condescension in her voice.
‘I’m seventeen summertides,’ he protested, feigning indignation. ‘More than enough.’
‘Not for me, Master De Vis,’ she replied, not unkindly. Untangling herself, she made to move away. ‘It takes more than bravado to impress this servant,’ she added.
‘Like what? Oh come on, Genrie. May I kiss you — not here, admittedly, although if you insist —’
‘I like older men, Master De Vis,’ she cut him off.
He made a face of disgust. ‘Like Master Freath, perhaps. Skin like parchment, teeth in decay, that hunched back.’
Her amusement vanished. ‘He’s none of those things. I’d hazard that he’s barely a few years older than our king.’
‘I was jesting, Genrie. But don’t be fooled by Freath. He strikes me as slippery, and I don’t trust him. Be careful.’
Genrie’s gaze narrowed. ‘I have no reason to mistrust the queen’s aide, Master De Vis.’
‘Just be warned. Now how about that kiss?’
Genrie flashed a brief smile, which was gone in a blink. Suddenly she was back to her briskly efficient self. ‘Good day, Master De Vis. In case you were wondering, there are no access points into or out of the queen’s chambers other than this one. Prince Leonel is safe.’
Gavriel nodded. ‘For now perhaps,’ he replied sadly, settling back to wait.
Leo finally emerged from his mother’s suite. His once almost white infant hair had darkened to a deep golden and the soft sprinkling of freckles had been lost beneath the browning of the sun. Gavriel felt sorry that the young prince needed to grow up much faster than even a royal normally would if he was to survive.
Leo looked grave; all the former bravado and humour had fled.
‘How is she?’ Gavriel asked, pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning.
‘Miserable. Lost, I think.’
‘Is she coming to your sister’s funeral?’
Leo shook his head. ‘Mother said she died without her help and hardly needs her now. Is that cruel, do you think?’
‘No, Leo, that’s grief. You’ll learn all about this in years to come,’ Gavriel said, feeling far too wise for his years all of a sudden. But then he’d learned enough about grief through his father, who had never stopped mourning Eril, their mother. He could counsel with genuine wisdom on how grief hardens someone, as it had hardened Regor de Vis. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to the roof. It might be a while before we can do that again and then you can have some supper.’
‘Gav, when the time comes that you keep speaking about, what is the plan?’
Gavriel looked around, ensuring they could not be overheard. ‘We escape through the kitchens and the cellars. My father has worked out our route. We take nothing, Leo, remember that. Just the small sack you’ve already assembled.’
‘It’s just that when that time comes it probably means my father will be dead.’ He said it so flatly and it sounded so raw that Gavriel could do little other than to take a breath. Leo continued, unaware of his keeper’s discomfort. ‘And if father is dead that means only one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I am king,’ he replied, his large blue eyes looking up at Gavriel intently.
‘Yes, but —’
‘And a king does not run from his own palace.’
‘Leo, you know we cannot risk you,’ Gavriel said, feeling flustered. He ran his hand through his long hair. ‘There isn’t a good time to discuss what might happen should your father die but you have raised the issue so let’s talk about it now.’
‘Should father die, I would be King of Penraven,’ the prince reiterated. ‘That means you will do as I say, rather than the other way around,’ he added. There was nothing overbearing in what he said even though the words sounded high-handed, and yet Gavriel felt a fresh chill of worry creep through him.
‘But while your father is alive we all have to do as he says — and he has instructed that no matter what you say or do, I am to get you away from here once the fighting begins.’
‘But listen, Gav —’
‘Leo, if we leave it too late, then they will kill you too. Do you understand this?’
The prince nodded solemnly.
‘We cannot risk that the entire Valisar line is ended. You have to accept this. I know it’s hard and I know you want to be brave and be like your father and stay. I know you don’t want to leave your mother either but you are portable, almost invisible. They are not. I will carry you on my back if I have to but I know I can get you away, no one else. This is what everything is about — it’s about saving your life, protecting the line.’
‘And you would give up your life for it?’
‘If I have to, yes. That’s what honour is about; it’s what loyalty is and it’s the responsibility that comes with being one of the king’s nobles …’ He could see he was losing the boy’s attention with the rhetoric but he was thinking aloud for his own benefit now. He didn’t want to die. He certainly didn’t want his father to lay down his life so easily. And he definitely didn’t feel as brave as Corbel seemed to think he could be. The truth of it was that Gavriel was feeling sad. That was it. It hit him hard and he took a deep breath, only realising minutes later that the prince was shaking him.
‘Sorry, highness.’
‘Leo,’ the prince corrected. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just thinking. Nothing important,’ Gavriel lied bleakly.
That evening, up on the battlements, standing briefly alongside his father while the prince was kept well out of sight admiring the weapons and talking to some of the soldiers, Gavriel watched with a sense of doom as a rider approached the main gate. He wore the insignia of Barronel but carried no weapon and yelled to the gatekeeper that he was one of the captains from the Barronel Guard. He looked so bedraggled that it was little wonder he drew only jeers from onlookers. But he persisted, until Gavriel heard his father say to one of his own captains that someone should see what he had to say. One of the archers listening nearby, spoke up hesitantly.
‘Er, sir?’
‘Yes,’ the legate said brusquely, annoyed by the interruption.
‘I think I know that man.’
‘You do?’
The archer nodded. ‘I think he is my brother-in-law.’
‘What?’
‘Sir, I, er, I think he’s married to my eldest sister. She left to live in Barronel a decade ago. I’ve only met him twice but I think it’s him.’
‘It’s dark, man. How can you be sure?’
‘His horse, sir,’ the archer said. ‘It’s a cantankerous brute. I recognise it by that white flame on its forelock and the splash of white at its right ankle. It was always an odd-looking beast.’
‘You’re sure now?’
The archer shrugged. ‘I believe it’s him.’
‘Captain, send this man to see what the rider has to say. It will be easier if relatives speak, rather than sending a stranger. Well done, soldier. Your name?’
‘Del Faren, Legate De Vis.’
De Vis nodded. ‘I won’t