Exile (19 page)

Her hands wavered, palms skimming down his chest, afraid of hurting him, then they found the raw marks on his right wrist.

He stiffened and pulled away.

Her gaze fell to the rope burns. “How did you—”

“The raider who tried to burn down the tent.” Robert’s voice was harsh. “He had a knife.”

Chapter Twenty

THE ORACLE

“YOU DID NOT KILL HIM.” THE LOW VOICE DRILLED into Robert as he stepped across the blackened threshold the next morning.

The spiritual leader of the Geordian sat directly upon the sand at the heart of the barren tent. His long white robes disguised the limbs crossed underneath, and despite the hardship of the past day, his face was smooth. Expressionless. Two knives lay before him, one tinted black.

Obtained from the ashes.

Robert relived those final moments in the burning tent. The screams of an entire tribe echoing in his eardrums, smoke tearing through his lungs and shredding its way through his chest. And the desperate grab he had made for the knife.

He had been prepared to kill. Had been certain once the hilt was in his hands he would have no other option. But the blade had remained a tool, not a weapon. The rope had severed. And the raider who had started the fire had chosen to use Robert as a human shield rather than an enemy.

Not cowardice. A change in judgment
. The type that came when death was imminent.

Robert forced himself to respond to the Oracle’s statement. “I’ve killed before,” he said. “I had no wish to do it again.”

Gray eyes delved into his soul. “The men who brought you here three days ago could not tell me your name, or hers.” The leader nodded toward the tent flap. “I think it always wise to know whom one is capturing; do you not, Robert Vantauge?” The name dropped like shoveled ash.

Without response.

Robert too knew the art of testing a theory.

The Oracle spun the blackened blade in a slow circle. “I had heard of a man from both the north and the south who traveled toward the desert on a magnificent stallion,” he continued, “but at no time was I told that this stallion belonged to the Geordian.”

“The stallion is mine,” Robert replied. “His sire was given to my family by a trapper who claimed to have won the horse from a desert tribe in a gambling match.”

“My people do not play cards.” The Oracle traced a line in the sand with the blade.

“No, but that does not mean they do not gamble.”

A thin curve crept up the corner of the Oracle’s mouth, and the sketch in the sand began to wind in a long connected spiral. “Six years ago, a trader came to the desert on a frontier mustang. My people laughed at him, not only because they had no need of his furs, but because they found his horse to be dull and ugly. He challenged them to a horse race, the prize for which would be a steed. My people, of course, did not want the mustang, but the bargain was made to defend their honor. And the race was won by the man and his ugly brown horse.”

The blade came to a stop, then switched directions. “An important lesson was learned that day, I think,” the spiritual leader continued. “Though the tribe members involved in the bargain were not gracious in their loss. The trapper
was
given a Geordian stallion, a wild red with a violent temper. This, I believe, may have been the sire of your horse.”

“Then you admit Horizon is Robert’s.” Aurelia’s voice swept in from the tent’s entrance, followed by her disheveled figure. There was ash on her skirt and sand in her hair. Blood streaked her right cheekbone. She had been helping to dig the graves.

“Ah.” The Oracle lifted the second knife. “On this point, we differ, Your Highness.”

Robert’s veins tightened.

But Aurelia’s voice remained cool.
When had she developed such calm?
“You just stated that Horizon’s sire was fairly won.”

The Oracle acquiesced. “It was not illegal for the Geordian red to be given away or for your companion’s family to accept the gift.” He swept a swift X through the spiral. “However, it was illegal for them to keep the stallion’s offspring.”

“That is politics, not truth,” she replied. “Your men saw how angry the stallion became when Robert was shot with the arrow. And yesterday Horizon helped capture the raider that set fire to the prisoner’s tent. You believe in the bond between man and horse, do you not?”

There was more to this conversation than Robert could divine. What had happened between her and this leader of the desert while Robert had been tied to a tent pole?

The Oracle sheathed the blade and handed it to her. “Your Royal Highness.”

“Aurelia,” she said, tucking the knife in her skirt. “My name is Aurelia Lauzon. You may address me as such.”

“And you may refer to me ...,” he said, drawing out the pause as though the bestowal of his name was an even greater honor than that of her own, “as Barak ze Geordian.” He lowered his hands to his lap. “You have helped save the people of the Jaheem. I owe you a great debt.”

She pounced upon the statement. “Then you may repay it by releasing Robert and Horizon.”

“A debt cannot be paid on behalf of another,” came the response. But for the first time since Aurelia’s entrance, the Oracle’s gaze flicked back to Robert. “The man you did not kill,” the Oracle said. “His life was worth more than his death. Without him, we would know nothing about who sent the raiders. You have earned your own freedom, Robert Vantauge, and that of your half-desert stallion.”

Relief warred with anguish as Robert watched Aurelia react to the words. He had not yet had the chance to tell her what he had learned about the attacks. He had been under guard since right after their reunion and had spent most of the night helping round up panicked horses, including her own.

The sudden joy on her face tumbled rapidly beneath intensity. “Who is it?” she probed. “Who is behind the raids?” Her attention hinged on the Oracle.

And Robert allowed the other man to answer, then let his own eyes trace the crossed-out spiral in the sand as she and the spiritual leader discussed the involvement of Anthone.

Finally she said, “Why would Edward do this?”

“The king of Anthone has always wanted what he cannot have,” replied the Oracle.

True.

“He’s testing my father,” she said, her voice tight. “To see if he will respond to a few raids clear out on the border.”

Her father would never risk his claim to a century of peace for the sake of a few horses and desert tribesmen. Anthone
was
a threat to Tyralt—a real one—but not the greatest.

I have to tell her.
Robert stretched out his fingers toward hers, wishing he did not have to do this in front of an audience. “We should discuss this outside,” he whispered.

“No.” She pulled away.

Perhaps she was right. The Oracle had lost some of his own people in this conflict. Had nearly lost far more. This was no longer only about her but about all of Tyralt.

“Aurelia,” Robert breathed, aware that his own life would change as soon as he told her. “Your sister is bartering with Anthone.”

My sister?
Her mind whirled at the accusation. Memories hovered in the tainted air: Melony as a young child clinging to Aurelia’s skirts and pleading for attention, later as a fellow student bemoaning the demands of royalty, and as a sibling sharing their father’s love.

The memories ripped apart as Robert explained about the call of the jay, first in the forest and then the desert—a connection between the attacks. Then the raider’s revelation about Melony giving her blessing.

Aurelia had already known that her sister was spiteful, selfish, power-hungry—the most likely culprit behind the fire in the forest.

But this was different. Because the nightmares now were no longer of a single tent burning in isolation, but of an entire tribe consumed with panic before the flames.

Turning, Aurelia drifted toward the tent flap, then lifted the singed edge and stared out across the charred destruction: crimson mounds of fresh graves amidst a wasteland of blackened silk and canvas, the homeless members of the Jaheem sifting through the ashes.

“My sister did this?” she whispered.

Robert had followed her to the tent’s edge. “Yes.”

“With Edward of Anthone?”

“Yes.”

“And there are Anthonian soldiers in the royal guard?” she said.

“Yes.”

“We have to warn my father.”

“Will he listen?” Robert touched her arm gently.

She did not know. “This is not about him.”

“No.”

“It’s about Tyralt.” Lifting her head, Aurelia looked up at the young man who had guided her all this way, had given her not a dream but the reality that was her kingdom. The man who had been exiled from the capital. “I have to go back.”

Chapter Twenty-One

THE KEY

THEY MET THE HUNTERS TWO DAYS AFTER TURNING around. At high noon. The desert had foregone its dalliance with the breeze, and a harsh orange sun beat down without forgiveness on Aurelia’s travel-roughened skin. The burnished crimson sand reflected the heat and painted a bloody backdrop against the dark winglike formation of the approaching assassins.

Eleven riders pulled up in a sharp forward V: the leader front and center, his black coat folded across the skirt of his saddle, with five men behind him on each side.

He was young, Aurelia realized. Perhaps only a few years older than she. Dark hair fletched from his face, the sharp eyes piercing from his perfect skin. Not a drop of sweat marred its pale surface, despite the heat and the arrows aimed straight at his chest.

The Oracle had sent her a guard. Five men. More than he could spare, but she had known better than to insult his desert pride. And known she would have to face the assassins.

Their leader lifted his hand, palm flat toward the ground, and lowered it in subtle command. The men behind him, all wearing long beige coats, dismounted in trained unison.

“Your Royal Highness,” he spoke.

Falcon’s reins bit into her left palm as Robert pulled his horse close on her opposite side. Too close.
He will never allow me to die first.

“You have my identity,” she said to the man before her. “I would have yours.”

Then to her stunned surprise, he swung free of his ebony mount and dropped to one knee in the sand. “Valerian Siudek, Heir of Valshone, at your command.”

The words splintered within her skull. Why would her mother’s people be trying to kill her? “Who sent you?” she demanded.

His head sank, and his arm covered his chest in an abject bow. “My father, the Lord of Valshone.”

“My g-grandfather?” she stuttered.

“Your mother’s father passed from this realm more than ten years ago. I am the son of his successor and no blood relation.”

She tried to inhale, but her thoughts were torn in too many places. “Why claim to be the Heir of Valshone? There is no such title any longer. My father has ended the contract.”

Slowly, without permission, the stranger stood, his narrow shoulders pulling back, a slender scabbard and finely coiled black sword hilt rising with him at his hip. “His Majesty
tried
to end the contract. The Valshone do not recognize that attempt. I was sent to the palace to claim the Right.”

Had the blasting heat gone to her head? Or was it possible this man had just proclaimed his intent to marry her?

Robert chose that moment to interrupt. “If you were truly sent to the palace, the king would have denounced you.”

The men behind the stranger shifted to reveal an array of silver sword hilts from beneath their merciless coats. Their eyes had not once left the arrows still pointed at the young Valshone’s chest. As if, she thought, he was not their leader, but their charge.

For nigh half a minute, the tableau froze. Until the young man before her seemed to grasp that she did not know whether to believe him. He reached for the buckle on his scabbard, unlaced it, and placed the embellished weapon symbolically upon the ground. “I am sorry, Your Highness, to inform you of this, but the king is too ill to denounce anyone.”

A brown cloud rife with splinters formed within her chest.
Don’t listen. I have no cause to believe what he says.

The Heir’s head lowered almost to the crimson ground. “I believe His Majesty is dying.”

No.

She had no cause to believe her father was ill.

Except that he had not come for her. Had not sought her out after her disappearance. Or even, to her knowledge, ever publicly renounced her right to the throne.

“What manner of death?” Robert spoke.

Her eyes shot to his. Surely he could not believe this!

But the look in those blue orbs was far from mocking.

The Heir’s gaze flicked his way, then traveled back to her. “Permission to relay the events of my visit to the palace as they happened, Your Highness?”

She managed to nod. This must be a ploy, but why would someone trying to kill her bother with such an elaborate ruse?

“I arrived at the palace to learn I had missed your departure,” the Heir said, “by a matter of days. I wished to follow at once but knew I must first present myself to His Majesty. However”—he paused—“there was much turmoil at court. The king was absent, and, forgive me, Your Highness, but there were rumors that he had in fact chosen to name his younger daughter as his legal heir, though no one seemed to have witnessed the documents with this change. Then came the news that His Majesty had fallen ill. None but his physician, family members, and adviser were allowed in his presence. I admit to having grown impatient.

“When other rumors came that Your Highness had either run away or met with some tragic fate, I made ready to proceed without approval. Then Her Majesty the Queen called me in for a private audience and informed me that if I wished to claim the Right of Valshone, it would be her daughter, and not Your Highness, whose royal hand I must request. I asked to confirm this with her husband, and she refused my petition. At which point I admit to going outside normal channels.”

Aurelia waited, but the Heir had stalled, his fingers catching knots in the long strands of his ebony mount’s mane. “There were... those who believed the king’s illness, in conjunction with your disappearance ... was suspect.”

She should argue, but what could she say? That her father was perfectly safe with her stepmother, who may have killed her first husband, and with Melony, who had already proven she would murder for the crown.
Don’t think of that!

“At last,” the Heir continued, “I spoke with the king’s adviser about a private audience.”

Henry. Yes, Henry would be the correct person to ask.
Though the fact that the Heir—he had said his name was Valerian—knew to trust Robert’s uncle gave the story a validation she could no longer deny.

“Was it granted?” Robert prompted, the intensity in his voice making her shudder.

“Yes,” said the other man. “I waited at His Majesty’s bedside for several hours before he awoke, by which point we had been left in complete isolation. I am afraid, Your Highness, that your father
was
in very poor condition, his skin pale, his breathing unsteady.”

Robert’s fingers reached across her saddle horn and rested on the hand that seemed to have pressed Falcon’s reins through her own flesh and into her bloodstream.

Valerian went on, “It was then that His Majesty told me he wished me to find you.”

My father asked for me.
She grappled with the knowledge.

“He wished me to deliver you a gift,” the Heir added.

Why would her father have sent her a gift through a stranger, instead of asking her to return? Unless ... unless he feared he might not live until she returned.

Her chest was tight. She should not cry. Not after how her father had treated her. But she had left under the worst circumstances, with too much unsaid. And she was too far away now.

“I’ll never make it to the palace in time,” she whispered.

“You don’t know that.” Robert’s hand strengthened around hers.

“Eight weeks,” she argued, unwilling to pretend. “It will take us eight weeks to journey back! And that is if no one stops us.” If the assassins were not here, though, they would be elsewhere. Perhaps not chasing her, but waiting. At the foot of the Gate.

The Heir gestured backward. “My men and I can escort—”

“We should sail.” Robert cut him off.

“What?” Aurelia asked.

“From Darzai,” he replied.

Darzai?
The outpost at the mouth of the Fallchutes. An isolated settlement thrust upon the Geordian more than a hundred years ago by a king wishing to control the great northern waterway.
And,
she remembered slowly,
the deepest port on the southern coast.
Robert was right. If they could cross restricted tribal lands, she could sail.

“How long?” she whispered, unwrapping the reins from her hand.

“We could save two, maybe three weeks,” Robert replied, “with safe passage across the southeastern portion of the desert.” He turned to question the only member of the Jaheem escort who spoke Tyralian. “We respect the treaty,” Robert stated, “and we know the desert lands east of the frontier are restricted from nonnative travel. But we would ask your help. If we can return to the capital soon enough, we can report the threat from Anthone. If we cannot”—his voice lowered—“all of Tyralt may suffer.”

Aurelia could not absorb the meaning behind those final words. She knew only that she must go back. Swiftly.

The translator conferred with the other members of the Jaheem, then turned again to Robert and spoke. “The Oracle has said we may bring Her Highness, and you, across all tribal lands. To their edge. At which point we must turn back. This will leave you within a day’s ride of Darzai.” The translator’s gaze traveled slowly over the armed men of the Valshone. “None but those with the Oracle’s word may cross sacred lands.”

Valerian’s shoulders stiffened, and his face muscles tightened.

But Aurelia, tugging in her frayed emotions, placed her palm over her heart in thanks to the Jaheem, then turned to the Heir and held out her hand in diplomacy. “I shall never forget your grand gesture, sir, in bringing me this message. Though I can offer you only my sincerest gratitude and the knowledge that you have completed your mission.”

“No, Your Highness.” The stiffness vanished from his stance as he pressed her fingers to his lips, then stood and reached below his shirt collar to retrieve a silver chain. “My mission was to bring you this.” He drew the chain over his head and held it out to her. A long train of linked silver circlets, and at the center, a key.

An object that throughout her entire life had been worn around the neck of solely one person. A symbol to be passed from monarch to royal heir only when the current leader reached the end of his or her reign. The key of Tyralt.