Royal Exile (7 page)

‘You know this is madness, don’t you?’ Corbel had replied, keeping his voice steady. He was not prone to outbursts. He had wished Gavriel had been present to do the ranting.

‘And now you must trust us,’ his father had added, so reasonably that whatever objection Corbel had wanted to make had remained trapped in his throat.

‘Magic?’

Brennus had looked at him sadly. ‘I envy you, Corbel.’

‘Really.’ In his fury — fury that no one but Gavriel might have noted — Corbel had wanted to demand of Brennus whether the king truly envied him the memory of killing a newborn child but his father must have guessed his son’s thoughts and had glared at him. ‘Why don’t you use it to escape, your highness?’ Corbel had said instead.

The king had sighed. ‘What a surprise for the bastard warlord that would be. Go, Corbel. Nothing matters more than your safety now. Lo’s speed.’

‘Father —’

‘Go, son. We are as clueless to your future as you. But we trust that you will be safe and remember your task. It is something worth committing your life for. One day it might restore Penraven.’

Corbel had begun to speak but his father held up his hand. ‘Not another word, Corb. I have always been proud of you and Gavriel. Make me proud now. Do as your king and your father ask.’

Forbidden further protest, Corbel De Vis had bowed. And then Brennus and Regor De Vis had embraced him.

Now Corbel’s mind felt liquid, spreading in all directions with nothing to hold it together but his aching skull and the determination to fulfil what had been asked of him, the burden heavy in his heart, its reality terrifying him.

He sped northwest, changing horses at Tomlyn, where a stablemaster was waiting for him, giving Corbel a small sack of food that Corbel ate in snatches without stopping. Once again he changed mounts, this time at Fairley, as instructed, in an identical experience.

Leaving Fairley village behind, Corbel swiftly began to follow the coastline. He rode hard, knowing only that a stone marker would tell him he had arrived. His eyes searched the side of the track, constantly roving ahead for the clue. Daylight was fast dwindling. He wondered if he’d make it in time. Minutes later, in the distance he saw a man. Slowing the horse, he finally drew alongside the figure.

‘Welcome, Corbel. I am told you are burdened with a heavy responsibility.’

Breathing hard, Corbel nodded, said nothing.

‘Ah, my eyesight is so poor that I see little but I see enough. Come, help me down the track.’

‘Track?’ Corbel repeated.

The man chuckled. ‘You’ll see it when you dismount. It leads to my humble dwelling. It’s treacherous only for me; I imagine you’ll find the descent relatively easy on your strong, young limbs.’

Corbel swung off the horse and saw steps cunningly cut into the cliff face. He could see the hut and hoped they could get there before the wind became any more fierce. The sun was setting in a fierce blaze of pink on the horizon but it was not going to be a still night.

As though he heard his thoughts, Sergius yelled above the roar of the wind, ‘Storm tonight. Bodes well for what we have to do. I think we’ll have some awakening.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Perfect. This sort of magic works best when the elements are stirring, roaring their power.’

Corbel wondered if anyone was telling Gavriel about this. Mostly he wondered if he’d ever see his brother again.

‘What about my horse?’

The man pointed. ‘It’s going to be too fierce to leave it outside but your father took the precaution of leaving feed and water in that tiny barn — can you see it?’ Corbel nodded. ‘Good, because I can’t. It’s a blur at that distance. Anyway, tie your horse up in there. Arrangements have been made to collect it.’

‘Give me a few moments,’ Corbel said, the wind whistling now around his ears. He guided the horse to the barn and secured her inside with a bag of fresh feed and a pail of sweet water. He hoped she would be collected soon. He wished he could rub her down but there was plenty of fresh hay that she would no doubt enjoy rolling around in anyway. And this was not the time to be fretting over a horse. He secured the door and trotted back to his host. ‘It’s done,’ he said.

‘Let’s go,’ Sergius replied. ‘How pleasant to have someone to help me make that wretched trek back.’

They moved in silence, concentrating on the descent.

‘When?’ he asked as they finally arrived at the door of the hut.

The man smiled. ‘Now. Come in; I need you to drink something.’

‘What?’ Corbel asked, following Sergius into the hut.

‘No questions, no time. This,’ Sergius said, reaching for a cup on the scrubbed table, bare but for a few sweet sea daisies in a jug, ‘will cast away your resistance.’

Corbel frowned, looking inside at the contents. The liquid looked harmless and had no discernible smell.

‘You must drink it all,’ Sergius urged.

‘Only me?’

The man nodded. ‘I control my magic but I need you not to fight it. You look strong enough to do just that.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘This potion breaks resistance by making you compliant. Without it your body will instinctively fight the magic. We need you to go calmly.’

‘Where?’

‘Into the sea.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘Most people think so,’ the man replied, smiling kindly. ‘But that suits me.’

‘To drown,’ Corbel said flatly.

‘Trust me.’

‘Trust magic, don’t you mean?’

Sergius nodded, his expression filled with sympathy. ‘That too.’

‘Where am I going?’ Corbel pressed again.

‘In a way, you will choose, but whichever way you look at it, it’s away from here.’

‘Sergius?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m frightened.’

The old man smiled softly, placing his warm, dry hand on Corbel’s arm. ‘Don’t be, son. What you are doing is heroic. What I suspect you have already done was extremely courageous, more brave than either your father or the king could have managed — and they are both men of valour. You are doing this for Penraven … for the Valisar crown. Drink, Corbel.’

Mesmerised by the old man, oddly comforted by his lyrical voice and stirring words, Corbel drained the cup.

And as a bright, sharp awakening lit the night sky, Corbel De Vis walked into the sea, still burdened and filled with sorrow.

Brennus had just finished a rousing speech to his captains. The men had applauded him loudly off the makeshift podium and he could still hear their whistles and cheers. But no matter what he said or however much he had rallied their courage, even they sensed the cause was hopeless. He moved gloomily from the barracks; he had lied to the men and the only one who knew the truth of what was coming next was the man who strode in an angry silence alongside him.

Brennus broke into the awkward atmosphere between them. ‘There is no point in everyone dying, De Vis.’

‘Why do only you get to be the astoundingly brave one, your highness?’ his legate replied and his sarcasm could not be disguised.

Brennus knew his friend was hurting deeply. Sending Corbel away in the manner they did, with little explanation and no sense of what it might lead to, was taking its toll on De Vis. ‘This is not about bravery —’ he began.

‘It is, sire. We are all men of Penraven and we all feel the same way as you do. Why do you think your men proudly cheered for you? They admire your courage, and it provokes their own. We do not cower to any enemy, least of all the barbarian of the steppes.’

‘He will kill everyone who puts up resistance.’

‘So we’re already positive of failure?’ De Vis asked, his tone still sarcastic. ‘What happened to the mighty Penraven spirit? And, that aside, let us not fool one another, highness. He will kill everyone anyway! We might as well all die feeling heroic, fighting for something we believe in. I have to be honest — with my wife dead, my sons …’ He couldn’t finish.

‘What about that beautiful young thing whose hand has been offered. Are you going to ignore her?’

De Vis waved his hand as though the king’s comment was meaningless. ‘Let’s just say I have nothing I truly love to live for, other than to serve Valisar. I’m ready to die defending the crown.’

‘You always have been, Regor.’ Brennus shook his head angrily. ‘No, Loethar will not kill my people. I won’t permit such pointless savagery.’

‘He
is
a savage!’ De Vis spat, forgetting himself.

Brennus ignored the offence. ‘Listen to me, Regor. We know what he wants. We shall give it to him without a fight. But the terms are that he spares my people.’

‘He will not agree to such terms.’

‘You’ll be surprised.’

‘How can you be so sure, your highness?’

‘Trust me. He wants only one thing. And we know he is intelligent. What point is there to razing a city, killing all its inhabitants, when you want to be emperor? He needs people to rule. I’d rather Penravians answered to him until Leo is old enough to know his duty, to take action and avenge my death. This way at least there is hope for the Valisar resurrection.’

‘You truly believe Leo will claim back the realm?’

‘De Vis, don’t ask me such a question as though you yourself cannot believe in it! I have to hope. It’s all I have left.’ He shook his head, still very much in a state of disbelief. ‘I killed a baby!’ He didn’t admit that he’d had someone else do it and De Vis did not remind him who would truly bear the burden of that murder. ‘My wife …’ the king began, his voice leaden with grief.

‘She does not know, highness. She will never know. Gavriel will keep the secret.’

‘And Corbel … the murderer? How will he live with himself with an innocent’s blood on his hands? How can I? Corbel is as innocent as the child. The guilt is all mine.’

De Vis grit his teeth. There was no time now for this indulgent self-recrimination, especially when the child involved was his. The truth was that he did not know how he would come to terms with allowing his son to be given the task and then, in the midst of the young man’s fear and loathing, sending him away from everything familiar. ‘Corbel is gone, your highness. He is old enough to deal with his own demons. He will seek Lo’s forgiveness in his own way.’

‘I’ve asked too much of your family, De Vis.’

‘We always have more to give, your highness.’

Brennus stopped, took his friend’s hand and laid it against his heart. ‘Let me do this alone, Regor,’ he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion.

De Vis shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot, your highness. I took an oath before your father as he lay dying. I intend to remain true to that promise and to my realm. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is now time to hand over all hope to our children. But we must make one final sacrifice in order to buy them time, give them that chance to avenge us.’

The king finally nodded. ‘Then organise a parley. Make Loethar an offer he finds irresistible. Surely even the barbarians grow weary of battle.’

‘I shall send out a messenger.’

‘No need,’ Brennus said, smiling sadly in the torchlight. ‘He will already be here, watching us.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He took Barronel. I don’t imagine he could be this close to his prize and not search it out as fast as he could.’

‘Why has he not shown himself then, made demands?’

‘Because he’s savouring the moment, I imagine. I can feel him out there. He’s watching, waiting, enjoying our fear.’

‘What do you want me to do, highness?’

‘Ride out. He’ll meet with you. I’ll tell you what to say.’

De Vis shocked the king by dropping to one knee. ‘Your majesty, I beg you. Those who chose to flee already have. They’ve had enough time to reach the coast. Others, well,’ he shrugged. ‘They’ve decided to remain, take their chances, and they already know not to take arms against him. He will not slaughter them. But he cannot take Brighthelm with such ease. If it falls, let it fall with honour, nobly fighting. I shall go and meet with him — if he is to be found outside the city stronghold — but rather than making offers let us listen first to his demand.’

Brennus looked pained. ‘We already know what he wants, man! We can give it to him immediately and avert any further bloodshed.’

‘Your highness, humour me in this last request. Let me look our attacker in the eye. Let me fully understand what motivates him before I make any offer. If we are to die, let’s do so in the full knowledge of his reasoning.’

Brennus hesitated. He knew that De Vis’s plan was flawed, for it would only prolong the agony of what they faced. It was the vision of Iselda clutching the baby daughter that prompted him to agree. Surrendering slightly later rather than now would give him a few more days with the woman he loved, a few more days to ease his deeply troubled soul … a few more days to make his peace with Lo.

‘As you wish,’ he said, sighing softly.

De Vis kissed his king’s ring. ‘Thank you, your majesty.’

4

Del Faren was in love. The object of this love was the daughter of the sculptor Sesaro, who had been commissioned no fewer than three times to produce a likeness in polished stone of King Brennus. Not even into his sixth decade and young for someone already of his stature, Sesaro’s soaring career as one of the realm’s most popular artisans had already been cut short by fear of war. He had been working on a new fountain, a vast piece that was to grace one of the new squares that the crown had commissioned be built. The city had sprawled way beyond its original boundaries and the central marketplace no longer offered ease of access for people. King Brennus, who prided himself on design, had made a bold decision to re-model the city. He had drawn up his ideas and a city architect had been appointed to oversee the grand project that would yield three main squares. The current central square would function solely as a meeting place for Penravians, while one of the new squares would become the political area of the city, where the realm’s dignatories, councillors, and lords would meet for discussion and where formal ceremonies would take place on behalf of the crown. The other new square would be purpose-built for the new covered marketplace. Brennus’s recent extended voyage and stay at the city of Percheron — as a guest of Zar Azal — had opened his eyes to the beauty of a bazaar. Although Penraven’s market would hardly be filled with the aroma of Percheron’s mysterious spices, Brennus wanted to borrow the concept that people could do their marketing under cover and that permanent shops could be set up for the wealthier merchants. He was intrigued by the cunning use of wind-driven wooden sails in the Percherese bazaar, which brought fresh air through the covered alleyways and drove the stale air back outside. The coolness of its marble impressed him and more than anything his breath had been taken away by the souk’s sheer beauty, and the idea that something so functional could still be a piece of art. He wanted to leave a similar legacy to what Azal’s great-grandfather, Joreb, had begun, in ensuring that Percheron would be a place of singular beauty for its people as much as the visitor. Brennus hoped that Penraven and its capital of Brighthelm would be talked about as a city of bold beauty and although his city would not sparkle pale and pastel as Percheron did, he had hopes that it would be nonetheless dazzling in its use of the local multi-coloured stone.