Royal Exile. Fiona McIntosh
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But there would be no escape for the De Vis brothers. The sovereign was counting on them to behave as men now; the innocence of childhood was a luxury long behind them.
Leo leapt down from Gavriel’s shoulders, ignoring the hand of help. ‘Eat your pear,’ Gavriel said, crunching into his. He wondered how he was going to live up to the task asked of him by his king, but was quickly reminded of what had fallen on Corbel’s shoulders and shuddered. His brother’s task was far more daunting.
‘What do you mean?’ Leo asked.
‘What?’
‘You said you wondered how he could kill something so tiny.’
Gavriel realised he must have spoken the final thought about his brother aloud. ‘Nothing. I don’t remember.’
‘You remember everything, Gav. Dates, debts, all sorts of facts.’
‘Quite. And speaking of debts, you owe me two trents.’
‘I haven’t forgotten. Where’s Corbel?’
‘Running an errand for our father,’ Gavriel answered, suddenly unable to swallow his mouthful of pear. He spat it out.
‘Worm?’
‘No, just suddenly tasted a bit acid.’
‘Mine’s sweet, just like Sarah Flarty’s backside,’ Leo said, then burst into laughter at Gavriel’s astonished expression. ‘Well, you told me so.’
Gavriel sucked in a breath at the notion that he’d probably never pinch Sarah’s pert bottom again and her promised tumble in the hayloft was likely not to happen, now that he was a full-time babysitter to the crown prince. Every hour of the day you watch him, you guard him, his father had impressed after the king had told him what it was that they expected of Gavriel. He is never to be far from you. And when the time comes you must disappear with him. No farewells, no packing, no notes left behind. He is all that matters. Protect Leo with your life. Raise him.
Raise him? He wasn’t ready to be a father figure. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to see to the boy’s needs for a full day. He often still felt like a child himself, usually deferring to Corb’s cunning. And now his brother was gone.
‘Did you see your sister?’ Gavriel asked, not meaning to ask something so blunt but needing the image of his brother close. How would they manage without each other?
‘Mother doesn’t know but father allowed me to see her because I wanted to. She doesn’t — didn’t — look like me. Did you see her?’ Gavriel shook his head, unable to utter the lie. ‘Well, she had dark hair. Father told me to kiss her but —’ he made a sound of disgust — ‘I didn’t want to. She felt stiff, cold.’
Gavriel silently praised the emotional armour with which childhood still protected Leo.
‘They’re burying her in the family crypt. She has her own tombstone being carved. I’ll kiss her tombstone perhaps, shall I?’
‘Good idea,’ Gavriel said. ‘I saw Piven earlier today. I suppose he doesn’t know much about it.’
The shrug Leo gave was nonetheless rueful. ‘Piven doesn’t know much of anything. Can I ask you something, Gav?’
‘Anything. You are the heir to the throne, after all.’
Leo grinned. It was an old jest, which the twins used ruthlessly against him. ‘Is the tyrant going to kill us all?’
Gavriel sighed. ‘Not you.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have me.’
‘I know you’re the best swordsman we have, but —’
‘Of the cohort only,’ Gavriel qualified, recalling with pride how his father, the best known sword in the land, had marvelled at the result of his concept to train a small group of youngsters into an elite faction. His eldest son’s escalating skills were the most impressive of all.
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘In that case, best sword, best archer, best rider.’
‘Ah, but not best climber.’
‘No, but that’s because you’re still relatively puny…your majesty.’
Again Leo smiled. ‘Well, when I’m your age I’ll be a better swordsman, and I’ll shoot arrows longer and straighter.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Gavriel said, playing along, glad that he’d sidetracked the prince from the threat of death that loomed over all of them.
‘But you do think others will die … that the tyrant will win?’ Leo continued.
It seemed Gavriel had congratulated himself too soon. ‘I don’t think we’ll come out of this without some death, no.’
‘So my parents and brother will be murdered probably.’
Gavriel didn’t answer.
‘And likely your father because he’s legate.’
‘I —’
‘And perhaps all the people of Penraven because they are loyal to the crown.’
‘Leo.’
‘It just doesn’t seem fair that I should survive, does it?’
Gavriel wanted to say that there was absolutely no guarantee that he would — in fact there was an all too real likelihood that he wouldn’t — but that was hardly the encouraging sentiment that his father wanted from him. De Vis had warned him to keep the boy’s mindset strong, far away from thoughts of siege or death. So instead Gavriel placated Leo with the obvious. ‘You are the heir. You are even more important than the king because you are the realm’s future. If he died without an heir, that would be disastrous, irresponsible and unforgiveable. But if his heir survives, even if he himself dies, there is hope.’
‘And hope is a good thing,’ Leo said, as though finishing Gavriel’s sentence.
‘It is everything for a kingdom facing such a threat.’
‘Tell me about Loethar. Everyone ignores me, says I don’t need to worry.’
‘Not your father and certainly not mine,’ Gavriel replied, surprised.
‘No. They’re worse. They tell me that Loethar can be beaten and yet their faces say something different. I know they’re pretending, shielding me from the truth. I want the truth, Gav. I’m not just a child, I’m the crown prince. I have to know what we face. And I’m twelve now, almost thirteen. That’s ancient!’
The prince was correct; he did have a right to the truth. Gavriel wasn’t sure he was the appropriate person to deliver it. He swallowed. The reality of the weight of responsibility given to him slotted into place in his mind and made him feel dizzy with fear. He would give Leo the truth as he understood it; the boy needed to know precisely what journey lay ahead of them.
‘I’ll tell you what I know, what my father has told me.’
Leo settled back against a tree. ‘Start from the beginning of Loethar’s life.’
Gavriel stretched out his long legs, crossed them at the ankle and knitted his hands behind his head as he leaned against the tree trunk. He didn’t feel relaxed but he needed to give Leo the impression that he was. ‘Loethar’s background is murky. No one really knows who he is but we know he hails from the Likurian Steppes.’
‘A tribal warlord,’ Leo muttered with awe.
‘If you want to give him a title, that certainly fits, although “lowlife thug” is my best definition.’
‘A masterful thug,’ Leo suggested and at Gavriel’s look of disdain, added, ‘Well, he certainly