Exile's Return (Book 1)

First Book of Elita

KATE JACOBY

First published in 1998 by Millennium, an imprint of Gollancz Books

This ebook edition published in 2013 by

Jo Fletcher Books
An imprint of Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 1998 by Mackenzie Oliphant.

The moral right of Mackenzie Oliphant to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 78206 880 8

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
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Also by Kate Jacoby

VOICE OF THE DEMON
Second Book of Elita

BLACK EAGLE RISING
Third Book of Elita

REBEL’S CAGE
Fourth Book of Elita

TRIAL OF FIRE
Fifth Book of Elita

My thanks to George Ivanoff, who first encouraged me to write this story. To Muther, Father, Michael, Peter and Rachael. They helped a lot. Leslie Gardner from Artellus and her fine judgement were a great help as well. To Ian, Kerri Valkova, Max, Karen Pender-Gunn and Annie. They helped too. Much help was also blessed in the form of Jo Fletcher of Gollancz. And Karen Mitchell who helped much more than she realized.

In the spring of 1341 a fierce and determined army crossed the border of Lusara intent on taking the country by the end of summer. Lusara, savaged by years of internal bloodshed between the Houses, could do little to halt the invaders as they marched east. Gathering their forces together, the loyal magnates fought a great battle on the fields of Nanmoor and while many died, no clear victory was won by either side. Weeks later, as dawn rose over Seluth Common, the armies faced each other again and this time there was no quarter called. By sunset, Lusara, the oldest of the Seven Nations and never before humbled by an invading army, was conquered.

Of her soldiers, many were killed on the field of battle. Some died from treachery while a few survived only to be executed at the hands of the conqueror. Still fewer lived to see the years that followed, and of those that did survive, most were old men or mere boys. With the king dead, the country taken and the greatest lords shackled by the conqueror, Lusara withdrew in upon herself, yearning only to survive. An uncomfortable peace settled on the country under the crushing rule of the conqueror. He, like all such men before him, believed the people were broken, their will destroyed. With no one left to challenge him, his victory was secure.

However, it was to be another man who would decide the true destiny of Lusara, a man who carried within him a terrible secret. But, as these things go at the hands of fate, Lusara’s greatest hero was not to rise until many years after that last battle had been fought – and lost.

Excerpt from
The Secret History of Lusara
Ruel

I know I am
the wanderer of all the ways of all the worlds
to whom the sunshine and the rain are one
and one to stay or hasten because he knows no ending of the way
no home, no goal

CHRISTOPHER BRENNEN

In a tiny cove on the southern coast of Lusara an old man waited by the rocks for a signal. It was a black, bitter night plagued by howling winds which drove the rain on to his back and through his woollen cloak. His hands, wrapped up against the cold, were thrust under his arms while he shifted from one foot to the other to keep his blood moving.

The old man kept watch. His eyes darted from the cliffs opposite to the inky blackness out at sea. But there was nothing there, only the occasional white cap catching a splinter of moonlight as the stormclouds tumbled across the sky.

Though the fishing port of Aaran stood not half a league away, his little cove was hidden by the wall of cliffs which sheltered him from the worst of the wind. But while the cliffs protected him, they could not prevent the coastal patrol from riding this way – even on a night like this. And they had been here once already, not long after dark. They’d not seen the old man then, no – but they would be back. And if they came when …

‘Damn you, Dunlorn! By the gods, I hope you’re out there somewhere!’ He hissed in a breath, pulled his hood about his face, then began to chuckle. ‘Well, Dalzie Kerr, you old fool, now you’re beginning to talk to yourself as well. Things are getting bad indeed!’

Once again he squinted up at the cliffs. There was just enough moonlight to be sure he was completely alone. Not even the gulls were out tonight. There was no sign of the patrol.

His eyes then scanned the ocean. It was like looking into the pits of hell, where only the gods themselves could say what demons dwelt there. But as he watched, the unbroken
gloom gave up a single, solitary offering. A bleak yellow lantern, almost invisible in the driving rain.

Without thinking, Dalzie started forward, leaving the shelter of the cliff. He stumbled across the sands to the water’s edge. Gradually, a blacker, more solid form emerged before him. A boat.

As it came aground he reached forward to grab the bow. There were five or six men in the boat, one of whom jumped out and helped him hold it firm. Then a voice called out to him, shouting over the wind.

‘Sorry to get you out in this weather! We would have been here hours ago but I think the ship’s captain got lost!’

Dalzie knew that voice. In a moment of panic, he turned again to peer at the ridge. If that patrol were to return now, all would be lost.

Someone landed on the beach beside him and Dalzie caught sight of the young face, the sunny smile. Micah Maclean. He smiled, but Dalzie couldn’t voice a welcome. Instead he turned back to the boat as a second figure jumped down. The man’s face was shrouded by the hood of a raven-coloured cloak which seemed immune to the wind. Dalzie knew he should turn now and lead them up the beach to the cave. The boat was leaving; he heard the splash of oars and felt the bow lurch away from his hands, but still he could not take his eyes from the second man. Hope and expectation tumbled together inside him, leaving his stomach cold and unsettled. Hope was tainted by apprehension.

Then he heard a voice speak low and clear under the storm, a voice both familiar and forbidding at the same time.

‘Come, old friend. Let us move.’

At that moment, the wind changed direction, lifted the side of the cloak hood. For just a brief second, Dalzie glimpsed a lean and weathered face.

He’d come back. After three years of self-imposed exile, Robert Douglas, Earl of Dunlorn had finally returned to Lusara.

Dalzie led them up the beach to the eastern cliff and the
cave he’d used many times over the years. He had food waiting and a brazier lit. Maclean dumped the bags on the floor and warmed his hands by the blaze, but Dunlorn remained outside, his back to the cave, his face towards the heavens.

From the shelter of the cave mouth, Dalzie watched him, not knowing what to do. Then the young Maclean joined him, his curly red hair dripping with rain. As he rubbed his hands and face with a slip of rough linen, Maclean said, ‘Don’t worry about him. It’s just that … well, he never thought he’d come back.’

Dalzie nodded slowly. ‘Then he’s not the only one. What will the King say? And the Guilde? The Proctor still wants your master’s blood. Does Dunlorn think they will welcome him so easily back to court? Does he believe he can return to his favoured position? If he does, then he’s mistaken. The Guilde will hound him to his grave the moment they know of his return. I should warn you too, there is still some talk about the death of his lady wife. By the gods, Micah,’ Dalzie turned to the young man beside him, ‘Dunlorn challenged the Guilde before the King and lost his seat on the council as a result. But there are still some who say that his hasty departure was more to do with the curious manner in which the lady died. Tell me, my friend, is Dunlorn blind?’

Maclean raised his eyebrows at that. With callused hands he smoothed the hair away from his face and replied with a shrug, ‘My master is many things, Dalzie, but he is not blind. He has determined to have nothing more to do with the court or the Guilde. He believes they will be content to leave him be. As to Lady Berenice? You know my master and you know there’s no truth in those stories.’

The old man knitted his brows together and only grunted. Caution drew his eyes back to the cliffs outside and the man who stood in full view of them. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he hissed, then raised his voice in competition with the storm. ‘Come inside, my lord! The patrols could return at any minute!’

Dunlorn turned slowly, his face in shadow. Then he was
at the cave mouth, pulling the hood back, removing his cloak.

He had changed, Dalzie noted with little surprise. Dunlorn was still a young man, only twenty-eight, but it was sometimes difficult to remember he was not older. His dark hair was shoulder-length now, tousled by the wind. The straight nose, full mouth and firm jaw were animated by the faintest hint of a smile. That smile, however, did not reach to the cool green eyes which studied Dalzie. Dalzie shifted under such scrutiny, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. He remembered that gaze more precisely than anything else about the legendary Earl.

Dalzie jutted out his jaw and tried hard not to be intimidated. ‘You had to choose a night like this, didn’t you, my lord. You know how bad the autumn storms get. You could have drowned crossing the gulf. Why couldn’t you wait until spring?’

Dunlorn rewarded him with a smile, abruptly changing his whole face. The deep lines which had been there moments ago vanished. In their place was the familiar easy charm, the quiet confidence Dalzie remembered. He moved further into the cave. ‘Spring was not suitable. We’ll need horses and supplies, Dalzie, if you can help us a bit more. I want to leave tomorrow. We have a long way to go if we’re to cross the mountains before the first snow.’

‘Of course,’ Dalzie nodded absently. He moved closer to the brazier but didn’t take his eyes from Dunlorn. ‘You must know they won’t leave you alone. Hatred is a bitter thing for the likes of Vaughn. And things have changed since you left.’

‘How?’

‘The Guilde has spread its Halls throughout the country. You cannot help but encounter them on your way back to Dunlorn. Every day their grip tightens on Lusara. The people will expect you to …’

‘I know, old friend, I know.’ Once again, Dunlorn smiled. ‘But they’ll have to expect help from somewhere else. I have already done all I can. What little I did do only made things
worse. Do not fear, Dalzie, you will hear no more stories about me.’

Dalzie was not comforted at all, but as the wind beat across the cave opening, he turned his mind to hot food and wine and tried to forget the shadow around Dunlorn’s eyes.

Outside, the rain thundered on to the beach. When the patrol passed by moments later, they were weary and wet and harassed by the storm. They travelled along the top of the cliffs with thoughts only of home and warmth and so did not notice the glow from the cave and never discovered who was hidden inside.

‘Your Grace?’

Rosalind gave no sign that she’d heard, even though the voice had startled her. Other words, sinister and secret, still echoed in her mind. A whispered conversation overheard through the door behind her. A conversation she was never supposed to hear.

Numb with shock, Rosalind kept her eyes on the view from the window. The knotted garden below had paid the price of autumn. Servants swept along the rows of lavender, under the peach trees in the north corner and around the old well. Once teeming with a confusion of summer colour, the garden was now grey, its life sapped away into the cold earth. In a few weeks even the grey would be gone, wiped clean with the first snows of winter.