The Exiled Queen

THE

EXILED

QUEEN

CINDA WILLIAMS CHIMA

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Cinda Williams Chima 2010

Cinda Williams Chima asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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

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Source ISBN: 9780007384228

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007384211

Version: 2017-01-12

For Linda and Mike—who shared a world

of make-believe and kick-butt Barbies.

Thanks for putting up with all the talking animals.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One - The West Wall

Chapter Two - In The Borderlands

Chapter Three - In The Autumn Damps

Chapter Four - Delphi

Chapter Five - Into The Fens

Chapter Six - Flatland Demons

Chapter Seven - On The Road Again

Chapter Eight - Oden’s Ford

Chapter Nine - The Road West

Chapter Ten - Cadet

Chapter Eleven - Mystwerk House

Chapter Twelve - Raised from the Dead

Chapter Thirteen - Charmcasting for Beginners

Chapter Fourteen - Dean’s Dinner

Chapter Fifteen - Friends And Enemies

Chapter Sixteen - A Meeting With The Dean

Chapter Seventeen - In Mystwerk Tower

Chapter Eighteen - Abelard’s Crew

Chapter Nineteen - Caught In The Act

Chapter Twenty - Star-Crossed

Chapter Twenty-One - A Vermin Problem

Chapter Twenty-Two - The Waking Dream

Chapter Twenty-Three - A Meeting Of Exiles

Chapter Twenty-Four - News From Home

Chapter Twenty-Five - Blueblood Ways

Chapter Twenty-Six - Dangerous Dancing

Chapter Twenty-Seven - When Dreams Turn to Nightmares

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Word from Home

Chapter Twenty-Nine - A Babe in the Woods

Chapter Thirty - This Rough Magic

Chapter Thirty-One - Betrayal

Chapter Thirty-Two - Shifting Alliances

Chapter Thirty-Three - Matrimony or Murder

Chapter Thirty-Four - Shoulder Taps

Chapter Thirty-Five - Old Friends

Chapter Thirty-Six - Detours

Chapter Thirty-Seven - A Parting of the Ways

Keep Reading

By Cinda Williams Chima

About the Publisher

Chapter One The West Wall

Lieutenant Mac Gillen of the Queen’s Guard of the Fells hunched his shoulders against the witch wind that howled out of the frozen wastelands to the north and west. Looping his reins around the pommel of his saddle, he let his horse, Marauder, navigate the final half mile descent to the Westgate garrison house on his own.

Gillen deserved better than this miserable post in this miserable corner of the queendom of the Fells. Patroling the border was a job for the regular army—the foreign mercenaries, called stripers, or the Highlander home guard. Not for a member of the elite Queen’s Guard.

He’d been away from the city only a month, but he missed the gritty neighborhood of Southbridge. In Southbridge there was plenty to distract him on his nightly rounds—taverns and gambling halls and fancy girls. In the capital he’d had high- up connections with deep pockets—meaning plenty of chances to do private work on the side.

Then it had all gone wrong. There’d been a prisoner riot at Southbridge Guardhouse, and a Ragger street rat named Rebecca had jammed a burning torch into his face, leaving one eye blind, his skin red and shiny and puckered with scar tissue.

In late summer he’d taken Magot and Sloat and some others to retrieve a stolen amulet over in Ragmarket. He’d done the job on the quiet under orders from Lord Bayar, High Wizard and counselor to the queen. They’d searched that tumbledown stable top to bottom, had even dug up the stable yard, but they didn’t find the jinxpiece nor Cuffs Alister, the street thief who’d stolen it.

When they’d put the question to the rag- taggers who lived there, the woman and her brat had claimed they’d never heard of Cuffs Alister, and knew nothing about any amulet. In the end, Gillen had burned the place to the ground with the rag- taggers inside. A warning to thieves and liars everywhere.

Sensing Gillen’s inattention, Marauder seized the bit in his teeth and broke into a shambling run. Gillen wrenched back on the reins, regaining control after a bit of showy crow hopping. Gillen glared at his men, sending the grins sliding from their faces.

That’d be all he needed—to take a tumble and break his neck in a downhill race to nowhere.

Some would call Gillen’s posting to the West Wall a promotion. He’d been given a lieutenant’s badge and was put in charge of a massive, gloomy keep and a hundred other exiles— all members of the regular army— plus his own squadron of bluejackets. It was a larger command than his former post at Southbridge Guardhouse.

Like he’d celebrate ruling over a dung heap.

The Westgate keep guarded the West Wall and the dismal, ramshackle village of Westgate. The wall divided the mountainous Fells from the Shivering Fens. A drowned land of trackless swamps and marshes, the Fens were too thick to swim in and too thin to plow, impassable except on foot until the hard freezes after solstice.

All in all, control of Westgate keep added up to little opportunity for a man of enterprise like Mac Gillen. He recognized his new assignment for what it was: punishment for his failure to give Lord Bayar what he wanted.

He was lucky to have survived the High Wizard’s disappointment.

Gillen and his triple splashed through the cobbled streets of the village and dismounted in the stable yard of the keep.

When Gillen led Marauder into the stable, his duty officer, Robbie Sloat, swiped at his forehead, his pass at a salute. “We got three visitors to see you from Fellsmarch, sir,” Sloat said. “They’re waiting for you in the keep.”

Hope kindled in Gillen. This might mean new orders from the capital, at last. And maybe an end to his undeserved exile.

“Did they give a name?” Gillen tossed his gloves and sopping cloak to Sloat and ran his fingers through his hair to tidy it.

“They said as they’d speak only to you, sir,” Sloat said. He hesitated. “They’re baby bluebloods. Not much more’n boys.”

The spark of hope flickered out. Probably arrogant sons of the nobility on their way to the academies at Oden’s Ford. Just what he didn’t need.

“They demanded lodging in the officers’ wing,” Sloat went on, confirming Gillen’s fears.

“Some in the nobility seem to think we’re running a hostel for blueblood brats,” Gillen growled. “Where are they?”

Sloat shrugged his shoulders. “They’re in the officers’ hall, sir.”

Shaking off rainwater, Gillen strode into the keep. Before he’d fairly crossed the inner courtyard, he heard music— a basilka and a recorder.

Gillen shouldered open the doors to the officers’ hall to find three boys, not much older than naming age, ranged around the fire. The keg of ale on the sideboard had been breached, and empty tankards sat before them. The boys wore the dazed, sated expressions of those who’d feasted heavily. The remnants of what had been a sumptuous meal were spread over the table, including the picked- over cadaver of a large ham Gillen had been saving for himself.

In one corner stood the musicians, a pretty young girl on the recorder, and a man— probably her father— on the basilka. Gillen recalled seeing them in the village before, playing for coppers on street corners.

As Gillen entered, the tune died away and the musicians stood, pale- faced and wide- eyed, like trapped animals before the kill. The father drew his trembling daughter in under his arm, smoothed her blond head, and spoke a few quiet words to her.

Ignoring Gillen’s entrance, the boys around the fire clapped lazily. “Not great, but better than nothing,” one of them said with a smirk. “Just like the accommodations.”

“I’m Gillen,” Gillen said loudly, by now convinced there could be no profit in this meeting.

The tallest of the three came gracefully to his feet, shaking back a mane of black hair. When he fixed on Gillen’s scarred face, he flinched, his blueblood face twisting in disgust.

Gillen clenched his teeth. “Corporal Sloat said you wanted to see me,” he said.

“Yes, Lieutenant Gillen. I am Micah Bayar, and these are my cousins, Arkeda and Miphis Mander.” He gestured toward the other two, who were red- haired— one slender, one of stocky build. “We are traveling to the academy at Oden’s Ford, but since we were coming this way, I was asked to carry a message to you from Fellsmarch.” He cut his eyes toward the empty duty room. “Perhaps we can talk in there.”

His heart accelerating, Gillen fixed on the stoles draped over the boy’s shoulders, embroidered with stooping falcons. The signia of the Bayar family.

Yes. Now he saw the resemblance— something about the shape of the boy’s eyes and the exaggerated bone structure of the face. Young Bayar’s black hair was streaked with wizard red.

The other two wore stoles also, though with a different signia. Fellscats. They were all three wizardlings, then, and one the High Wizard’s son.

Gillen cleared his throat, nerves warring with excitement. “Certainly, certainly, your lordship. I hope you found the food and drink to your liking.”

“It was... filling, Lieutenant,” Young Bayar replied. “But now it sits poorly, I’m afraid.” He tapped his midsection with two fingers, and the other two boys snorted.

Change the subject, Gillen thought. “You favor your father, you know. I could tell right away you was his son.”

Young Bayar frowned, glanced at the musicians, then back at Gillen. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gillen rushed on, meaning to have his say. “It wasn’t my fault, you know, about the amulet. That Cuffs Alister is savage and street- smart. But your da picked the right man for the job. If anyone can find him, I can, and I’ll get the jinxpiece back, too. I just need to get back to the city is all.”

The boy went perfectly still, staring at Gillen through narrowed eyes, his mouth in a tight, disapproving line. Then, shaking his head, he turned to his cousins. “Miphis. Arkeda. Stay here,” Bayar said. “Have some more ale, if you can stomach it.” He flicked his hand toward the two musicians. “Keep these two close. Don’t let them leave.”

Young Bayar crooked his finger at Gillen. “You. Come with me.” Without looking back to see if Gillen was following, he stalked into the duty room.

Confused, Gillen followed him in. Young Bayar stood staring out the window overlooking the stable yard, resting his hands on the stone sill. He waited until the door had closed behind him before he turned on Gillen. “You . . . cretin,” the boy said, his face pale, eyes hard and glittering like Delphi coal. “I cannot believe that my father would ever engage someone so stupid. No one must know that you are in my father’s employ, understand? If word of this gets back to Captain Byrne, it could have grievous consequences. My father could be accused of treason.”

Gillen’s mouth went dead dry. “Right. A course,” he stuttered. “I... ah... assumed the other wizardlings was with you, and . . .”

“You are not being paid to make assumptions, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said. He walked toward Gillen, back very straight, stoles swaying in the breeze from the window. As he came forward, Gillen backed away until he came up against the duty table.

“When I say no one, I mean no one,” Bayar said, fingering an evil- looking pendant at his neck. It was a falcon carved from a glittering red gemstone— a jinxpiece, like the one Gillen had failed to find in Ragmarket. “Who else have you told about this?”

“No one, I swear on the blood of the demon, I an’t told no one else,” Gillen whispered, fear a knife in his gut. He stood balanced, feet slightly apart, ready to leap aside if the wizardling shot flame at him. “I just wanted to make sure his lordship knew that I did my best to fetch that carving, but it wasn’t nowhere to be found.”

Distaste flickered across the boy’s face, as if this were a topic he’d rather not dwell on. “Did you know that while you were searching Ragmarket for the amulet, Alister attacked my father and nearly killed him?”

Blood and bones, Gillen thought, shuddering. As the long-time streetlord of the Raggers gang, Alister was known to be fearless, violent, and ruthless. Now it seemed the boy had a death wish, too. “Is . . . is Lord Bayar all right?” Is Alister dead?

Young Bayar answered the spoken and unspoken questions. “My father has recovered. Alister, unfortunately, escaped. My father finds incompetence difficult to forgive,” he said. “In anyone.” The bitter edge to the boy’s voice caught Gillen off guard.

“Er, right,” Gillen said. He plunged on, compelled to make his case. “I’m wasted here, my lord. Send me back to the city, and I’ll find the boy, I swear. I know the streets, and I know the gangs that run ’em. Alister’s bound to turn up in Ragmarket sooner or later, even though his mam and sister claimed he hadn’t been around there for weeks.”

Young Bayar’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, fists clenched. “His mother and sister? Alister has a mother and sister? Are they still in Fellsmarch?”

Gillen grinned. “They’re burnt up, I reckon. We torched their place with them shut up inside.”

“You killed them?” Young Bayar stared at him. “They’re dead?”

Gillen licked his lips, unsure where he’d gone wrong. “Well, I figured that’d show ever’body else they’d better tell the truth when Mac Gillen asks questions.”

“You are an idiot!” Bayar shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on Gillen’s face. “We could have used Alister’s mother and sister to lure him out of hiding. We could have offered a trade for the amulet.” He closed his fist on thin air. “We could have had him.”

Bones, Gillen thought. He never could say the right thing to a wizard. “You might think so, but believe me, streetlord like Alister, his heart’s cold as the Dyrnnewater. Think he cares what happens to his mam and sis? Nope. He cares about nobody but hisself.”

Young Bayar dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “We’ll never know now, will we? In any event, my father has no need of your services in hunting Alister. He has assigned others to that task. They’ve succeeded in cleaning the street gangs out of the city, but they’ve had no luck finding Alister. We have reason to think he’s left Fellsmarch.”

The boy rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, as though he had a headache. “However. Should you ever cross paths with Alister, by accident or otherwise, my father desires that he be brought to him alive and intact, with the amulet. If you could manage that, you would, of course, be richly rewarded.” Young Bayar tried to look indifferent, but the tightness around his eyes told a different story.

The boy hates Alister, Gillen thought. Was it because Alister tried to kill his father? Anyway, Gillen could tell that there was no use pressing the matter of his return to Fellsmarch. “A’right, then,” he said, struggling to hide his disappointment. “So. What brings you to Westgate? You said you had a message for me.”

“A delicate matter, Lieutenant. One that will require dis -cretion.” The boy made it clear he doubted Gillen had any discretion. Whatever that was.

“Absolutely, my lord, you can count on me,” Gillen said eagerly.

“Had you heard that the Princess Raisa is missing?” Bayar said abruptly.

Gillen tried to keep his face blank. Competent. Full of discretion. “Missing? No, my lord, I hadn’t heard that. We get little news up here. Do they have any idea . . .”

“We think there’s a chance she may try to leave the country.”

Oh, ho, Gillen thought. She’s run off, then. Was it a mother-daughter spat? A romance with the wrong sort? A commoner, even? The Gray Wolf princesses were known to be headstrong and adventuresome.

He’d seen the Princess Raisa up close, once. She was small but shapely enough, with a waist a man could put his two hands around. She’d given him the once- over with those witchy green eyes, then whispered something to the lady beside her.

That was before. Now women turned their faces away when he offered to buy them a drink.

Before, the princess might have been swept off by someone like himself— a worldly, military man. He’d even had thoughts, himself, of what it would be like to—

Bayar’s voice broke in. “Are you listening, Lieutenant?”

Gillen forced his mind back to the matter at hand. “Yes, my lord. A’course. Uh. What was that last bit?”

“I said we think it’s also possible she might have taken refuge with her father’s copperhead relatives at Demonai or Marisa Pines camps.” Bayar shrugged. “They claim she’s not with them, that she must have gone south, out of the queendom. But the southern border is well guarded. So she might try to leave through Westgate.”

“But . . . where would she go? There’s war everywhere.”

“She may not be thinking clearly,” Bayar said, color staining his pale face. “That is why it is critical that we intercept her. The princess heir may put herself into danger. She may go somewhere we can’t reach her. That would be . . . disastrous.” The boy closed his eyes, fussing with his sleeves. When he opened them to find Gillen staring at him, he swiveled away and gazed out the window again.

Huh, Gillen thought. Either the boy’s quite the actor, or he really is worried.

“So we need to be on the watch for her here at Westgate,” Gillen said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Bayar nodded without turning around. “We’ve tried to keep the matter quiet, but word is out that she’s on the run. If the queen’s enemies find her before we do, well . . . you understand.”

“Of course,” Gillen said. “Ah, do they think she’s . . . traveling with anyone?” There. That was a clever way to put it, to find out if she’d run off with somebody.

“We don’t know. She may be on her own, or she may be riding with the copperheads.”

“What exactly would Lord Bayar like me to do?” Gillen asked, puffing up a little.

Now the boy turned to face him. “Two things. We want you to set a watch for Princess Raisa at the border and intercept her if she tries to cross at Westgate. And we need a party of trusted guards to ride to Demonai Camp to verify that she’s not there.”

“Demonai!” Gillen said, less cheerfully. “But . . . you can’t be— you’re not thinking we’d be taking on the Demonai warriors, are you?”

“Of course not,” Bayar said, as if Gillen were a half- wit. “The queen has notified the Demonai that her guard will be visiting the upland camps to interview the savages. They can hardly refuse. Of course, they’ll know you’re coming, so you’ll have to dig deeper to find out whether the princess is there, or has been there.”

“You’re sure they’re expecting us?” Gillen said. The Water -walkers were one thing— they didn’t even use metal weapons. But the Demonai— he was in no rush to go up against them. “I don’t want to end up full of copperhead arrows. The Demonai, they got poisants that will blacken a man’s—”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said sharply. “You’ll be perfectly safe, unless, of course, you are caught snooping around.”

He’d send Magot and Sloat, Gillen decided. They were better suited for that task. It was best if he stayed behind and kept an eye out for the princess. That would need careful handling and a clear head. And discretion.

“I expect you’ll need at least a salvo of soldiers to make a thorough search.”

“A salvo! I only got a hundred or so soldiers total, plus a squadron of guards,” Gillen said. “I don’t trust the sell- sword stripers and Highlanders. It’ll have to be a squadron, that’s all I can spare.”

Bayar shrugged; it wasn’t up to him to solve Gillen’s problems. “A squadron, then. I would go myself, but as a wizard I am, of course, forbidden to venture into the Spirits.” Bayar again fondled the gaudy jewel that hung at his neck. “And my involvement couldn’t fail to raise difficult questions.”

’Course it would raise questions, Gillen thought. Why would a wizardling involve himself in military matters anyway? Protecting the Gray Wolf queens was the job of the Queen’s Guard and the army.

“We would like you to proceed without delay,” Bayar said. “Have your squadron ready to leave by tomorrow.” Gillen opened his mouth to tell him all the reasons why it couldn’t be, but young Bayar raised his hand, palm out. “Good. My companions and I will remain here until you return.”

“You’re staying here?” Gillen stuttered. That, he did not need. “Listen, if the queen wants us to go into the Spirits after the princess, she ought to send reinforcements. I can’t leave the West Wall unprotected while we—”

“Should you locate the princess, you will discharge her into our custody,” Bayar went on, ignoring Gillen’s protest. “My cousins and I will escort her back to the queen.”

Gillen studied the boy suspiciously. Was he being set up somehow? Why would he give the princess over to these wizardlings? Why wouldn’t he take her back to Fellsmarch and collect the glory (and possible reward money) himself ?

Sometimes when he did work for the High Wizard he wasn’t sure who he was working for— the wizard or the queen. But this was big. He meant to get more out of this venture than the Bayars’ undying gratitude.

As if reading Gillen’s thoughts, the boy spoke. “Should you find the princess and deliver her to us, we will pay a bounty of five thousand crowns and arrange your return to a post in Fellsmarch.”

Gillen struggled to keep his mouth from falling open. Five thousand girlies? That was a fortune. More than he’d expect the Bayars to pay to take credit for returning the princess to court. Something else was going on. Something he didn’t need to know about, in case he was ever questioned.

It made risking Sloat and Magot in the Spirits a lot more appealing. And all the more reason for Gillen to keep a close watch at the border.

“I’d be proud to do whatever I can to help return the princess to her mother the queen,” Gillen said. “You can count on me.”

“No doubt,” Bayar said dryly. “Employ people who know how to keep their mouths shut, and tell them no more than necessary to get the job done. There is no need for any of them to know about our private arrangement.” Fishing in a pouch at his waist, he produced a small, framed portrait and extended it toward Gillen.

It was the Princess Raisa, head and shoulders only, wearing a low- cut dress that exposed plenty of honey- colored skin. Her dark hair billowed around her face, and she wore a small crown, glittering with jewels. Her head was tilted, and she had a half smile on her face, lips parted, as though she were just about to say something he wanted to hear. She’d even written something on it. To Micah, All my love, R.

There was something about her, though, something familiar, that he . . .

Bayar’s hand fastened around Gillen’s arm, stinging him through the wool of his officer’s tunic, and he nearly dropped the painting.

“Don’t drool on it, Lieutenant Gillen,” Bayar said, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Please make sure your men are familiar with the princess’s appearance. Bear in mind, she will likely be in disguise.”

“I’ll get right on it, my lord,” Gillen said. He backed away, bowing himself out before young Bayar could change his mind. Or take hold of his arm again. “You and your friends make yourselves to home,” he said. Five thousand girlies would buy a lot of hospitality from Mac Gillen. “I’ll tell Cook to prepare whatever you like.”

“What are you going to do about the musicians?” Bayar asked abruptly.

Gillen blinked at him. “What about them?” he asked. “Do you want them to stay on here? They might help pass the time, and the girl’s a pretty one.”

Young Bayar shook his head. “They’ve heard too much. As I said, no one must connect you with my father or know that you are working for him.” When Gillen frowned, still confused, Bayar added, “This is your fault, Lieutenant, not mine. I’ll handle my cousins, but you are the one who will have to deal with the players.”

“So,” Gillen said, “are you saying I should send them away?”

“No,” Bayar said, straightening his wizard stoles, not meeting Gillen’s eyes. “I’m saying you should kill them.”