Exile

  They fled north. Fast. For four weeks. And somehow avoided death. Robert had no choice but to maintain their earlier bearing. To the south lay danger. To the east the desert lands were restricted by treaty. And to the west lay only frontier, terrain sure to be known by their hunters.

  Robert and Aurelia rose early and camped late, detouring around any settlement that broke their path and around the handful of travelers crossing the same route. He knew the solitude was the antithesis of the expedition but had promised her it was temporary, that once they reached the desert sands there would be no means for anyone to track them. He could only hope someone from the tribes would cross their path. For there were no towns.

  Or maps. This he learned at the small trading post on the northern boundary of the frontier, from a woman behind a bartering counter. “Are ya hopin’ ta be cheated?” she asked, then, taking pity on him, offered directions to the nearest oasis. “Though there’s no tellin’ if it’ll be there on the morrow,” she said. “The desert has currents. Ya never know when they might change.”

  For three days he and Aurelia traveled through a wasteland, neither frontier nor desert. No trees or canyons, fields or buildings, but one slope after another of sandy ground invaded by scrub grass.

  And then, at the crest of a hill slightly higher than the others, the grass gave up. He heard Aurelia gasp at his side. A crimson sea of burnt red sand flared before them. No calm, flat, endless stretch, but a roiling of sculpted arcs. The dunes rose, then dropped in sharp fierce lines, their climax in a long dynamic ridge of defiant waves.

  Something in his chest clenched. He had pictured the Geordian like an expanse of golden threshed grain, not this fierce lethal red before him. Scrambling, he reached for his pack. The compass was not at the top. He rummaged deeper.

  “Robert?” Aurelia sounded annoyed. She must have said something to him that he had not heard.

  But he continued the search. They could not go on until he found the compass.

  She yanked the pack from his hands and glared. “Would you just stop?!” He could not have responded if he wanted to. “You’ve been dour for weeks!” she railed. “And I’ve put up with it because I know you’re worried, and I know the danger is real, and we had to hurry. But Robert, it’s the Geordian!” She flung her hand at the sculpted ridge. “Just look!” Her voice broke.

  “That could be gone by morning,” he said, trying to explain why he had been searching for the compass. “It’s not a landmark. It’s just sand, Aurelia. It moves.”

  She hurled the pack at the ground. “Admit it’s spectacular!”

  He blinked. Of course it was. “It’s a challenge.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what draws you to it?”

  “No.” It was the story of his horse that had pulled him toward the Geordian. The possibility that Horizon’s sire had come from the legendary herds of the desert tribes. “But that’s what draws you.”

  “Admit it’s beautiful!”

  She was so adamant. Determined. He could not resist testing her patience a bit further. “It’s dangerous.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Oh, I see we’ve matured a lot on this trip,” he said.

  “Admit you can’t wait to set foot in it.”

  True. There was something about that unmarred surface, daring him to step where no one had before. People had been living in the Geordian for thousands of years, but never here. Never quite in this exact place, due to the sand’s shifting nature.

  In answer to her statement, he dismounted, ignoring the fallen pack at his feet, and set one careful step into the crimson sea.

  She swung off Falcon’s back, landing beside him, then ran out ahead, spinning. Her brown hair flew, her face glowed, her arms rose to her surroundings. Embracing a dream. The ultimate goal, the edge of her kingdom, a place most people had only heard about in legend and myth.

  He ran out after her, then raced ahead, skidded on the sand, and fell. She laughed, dodging his reach, and passed him. He pulled himself up, raced after her again, and within moments had her in his grasp, dragging her down.

  “Admit it’s beautiful,” she demanded.

  His nose was in her hair. His arms around her waist.

  A thousand voices scolded him. His mother’s. Drew’s. And Robert’s own. He tried to remember the reasons he had used to convince himself not to pursue her earlier. But the old arguments no longer held up. He was not supposed to love her because it would place her in danger. But she was in danger. Nothing could save her from that. He couldn’t love her because she was a princess. Well, maybe he could not marry her. Or plan on the rest of his life at her side. But he was with her now. The only one. The only person in her life to share this moment, her achievement of this dream.

  His breath came ragged and his arms ached. “Beautiful.”

  And then, to his horror, she pulled away, running back to the filly.

  You see, his conscience taunted. It’s better to keep your emotional distance.

  What emotional distance? Exactly what about the last five months had been emotionally distant? When he had held Aurelia in his arms the night she yelled at him for not kissing her? When she had yelled at him for thinking of leaving her? Or when Robert had kissed her? That one long reciprocated kiss that had not died until his father’s footsteps had returned to the barn.

  Ruefully, Robert sat up, shaking the sand from his hair and eyeing the blasting red desert. Even that crimson view could not be more hazardous than love.

  It took him another three days to learn he was wrong.

  The sand had begun to blow. And to bite Aurelia’s skin. She tightened the kerchief around her face. The dim red cloud had been stalking them for the entire afternoon, but Robert had insisted they continue. The oasis was near, offering the hope of real shelter. Though the closer they drew, the fiercer the wind and the more limited the hope.

  No beckoning emerald paradise awaited, only a small stand of rocky ground with crippled, tightly bunched juniper. But even that meant water. And something solid enough that it would not rise to attack like the stinging grains that had swarmed above the filly’s legs and begun to file away at Aurelia’s arms. With a hiss like grating sandpaper.

  If she and Robert did not reach cover soon, the sand would scrape the skin from their bodies.

  Finally the horses reached the trees. She swung off and had barely touched the ground before Robert, his own mouth covered in a handkerchief, thrust the canteens into her hands. She accepted the task, knowing she needed to get the water now, as there was no telling whether it would be there later.

  Wrapping the canteen cords over her neck, she scrambled into the inner trees, her vision impaired by the grains of sand that hurtled through the thin foliage and crooked limbs. There! A liquid pool beneath the shifting blur of red.

  She closed her eyes and dropped down to her knees, completing the task by feel. Plunging each canteen beneath the wet surface and twisting on the lids. Then she stood up and hurried to help Robert.

  The tent had decided to resist. No doubt a reaction to the fact that she had shunned it, rejecting its off-white walls for their similarity to the other tent burning in her nightmares. But she and Robert needed this one now. He had strung the rope from one juniper to the next and draped the canvas over it, but the stakes refused to sink into the ground. Or rather the sand spit them back out. The intensity of the wind had grown brutal, and the debris began to block out the light. Panic started to well up within her.

  But Robert pocketed the stakes and hefted a rock, dropping it on the inner edge of the canvas. The material stayed down.

  Of course!

  Aurelia hefted two more weights and hurried to the other end of the fabric. Soon the worst of the wind was blocked, the sand pelting upon the canvas wall, and she and Robert tackled the opposite side, pulling the walls together as narrowly as possible, then curving the edges and lashing them together with leather rawhide ties, leaving only a low opening for an
entrance.

  At last the tent stood secure. As secure as it could in this barrage.

  Robert gestured for her to enter, while he headed toward the horses. But she went after him. The supplies would be retrieved faster if she helped.

  He didn’t argue. He had no means. Even if he had spoken through the handkerchief, she would never have heard him over the howling wind and pelting sand. They removed the packs and the bedding, then tugged the horses as close to the leeward wall of canvas as possible.

  Aurelia gave Falcon one last desperate hug, then hefted her supplies and hurried into the tent. But Robert did not follow. Binding her courage to fury, she plunged once again into the storm.

  He was still with the horses.

  She understood. She did. And had no desire to be responsible for Falcon’s death. But if the horses could not survive outside without him, they would not survive. Aurelia moved up behind him, closed her grip around his arms, and pressed her fingers into the muscle. She would draw blood if she had to.

  He detached her hold as though it were nothing, then locked his arms around her chest and pulled her into the tent, where she wanted to go; but then he tried to leave. She flung herself upon him, wrapping her arms around his neck and yelling, though she knew he could not hear amidst the growing roar outside. And then what was left of light went out.

  Finally Robert gave way, dropping his attempt to leave and sinking to the ground instead, taking her with him. She relinquished her death grip around his neck, but he gathered her close.

  Together they waited. For what, she was not sure, except for life. Death hammered on all sides, and she did not want it—could not accept it without a fight. But there was no way to fight the wind. Any more than there had been a means to fight the jagged cliffs of the Gate. And if she died, there would be no way to fight anything else. Not her sister. Or the hunters. Or corruption.

  So Aurelia waited. She would never know how long. It was impossible to tell without light.

  But at last the roar eased to its former sandpaper hiss.

  And Robert withdrew. Into the night. A genuine dark.

  She followed, though she did not want to, her left hand on his back, the fingers of her right tracing the leeward side of the tent. She remembered all too well Bianca’s corpse and had no desire to find another. The sand still blew, but Aurelia could not feel its bite because she was numb with fear.

  Then Robert pulled away. And her feet hit solidity. She bent, her hands trembling as they touched the gritty surface of a long, broad, sand-caked back. Horizon. She waited for a moan or a cry from Robert, but instead felt a harsh, uneasy cough. From beneath her. The horse was alive.

  Aurelia flung herself forward, seeking Falcon. Her fingers found the filly’s mane, traveled along the still head, and then quickly but carefully swept the sand from the horse’s eyelids and nostrils. Falcon snorted. Thank Tyralt!

  The filly thrust herself to her feet. Falcon’s coat, despite the grit, had never felt so good against Aurelia’s forehead. You are a stubborn, stubborn horse, Aurelia thought with pride.

  Not to be outdone, the stallion rose as well. Robert reached for one of the metal containers, long forgotten, around her neck, and she handed him the canteen, then opened another one, offering the liquid to her horse and finally allowing the cool oasis water to trickle down her own throat.

  Perhaps the small pool and rocky stand of gnarled juniper were no paradise, but they had saved her life. And Falcon’s, Horizon’s, and Robert’s. They stayed there together, long enough to be certain the stallion’s cough had gone. And long enough for Aurelia to admit to herself that the young filly in front of her was just as precious to her heart as her beautiful gray mare had been.

  If it had been necessary, Aurelia would willingly have stayed at Falcon’s side all night, but eventually Robert’s fingers threaded through her own, pulling her back into the tent, and untied the kerchief from her face.

  He did not speak. She did not need him to.

  They both needed sleep.

  Unrolling the pallets side by side, for there was nowhere else to put them, she and he both collapsed, the storm’s remnants still hissing upon the canvas.

  However, sleep and the need for it were two different things. Her mind refused to let go, insisting on reliving the past five months. Usually she shunned these memories, the cycle of powerlessness, nightmare, and flight. This was different. This was not about fear.

  It was about the young man at her side who had come back into her life five months ago. Would she undo everything if she could? Go back to the time when she had felt safe?

  No. Because it had never been real.

  And what if it had been? Would she go back to that life, if her father had been the man she had believed him to be? If her sister had been the supporter she had pretended to be? If it meant Aurelia would never see Robert again?

  The answer came even more forcefully than the first. No!

  She would not go back to that life either. Feeling trapped and useless, despite her best attempts, not able to convince her father that her dreams were more important than her marriage. Duty and respect: those were the things drilled into her for most of her lifetime. And they were not enough.

  Robert had understood that, perhaps even better than she had. He had given her the push she needed, the voice saying, “Why don’t you go then? It will all be under your leadership one day. Shouldn’t you find out about it?” His attempt to leave the Fortress had forced her past her fear. His hand had propelled her forward over the Gate. And he had left his home a second time to help her pursue her dream.

  True, they had argued far more often than they had touched. Even now, they did not. They had spent months of nights together, but never this close.

  And she kept coming back to the same thoughts. Sensations. The look in his eyes on that day when she had asked him to guide her expedition. The understanding in his arms when she had railed against slavery. And his kiss. The first one so tender. And fragile. And then the one in the loft, shooting feeling into her body. Her skin tingled.

  He was asleep, she told herself. Had been asleep for hours. Dreaming of tomorrow.

  She could not ...

  But without conscious thought, without permission, the backs of her fingers reached across the space and skimmed his.

  That was it.

  One light, almost imperceptible touch.

  And Robert moved. In a single motion his chest came over hers, his right hand cupped her left ear, and his entire body returned the touch.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AFTER

  CURSE IT! AURELIA STARED INTO THE SPLINTERED juniper and sputtering white light of the predawn campfire. Last night had been ... she would be lying if she did not admit it had been more than she could have fathomed. His kisses. His touch. His heart beating against hers.

  No distance or space between them. Together, within one another’s embrace.

  She shot a glance at the tent where Robert was still sleeping, then hugged her stomach and tried, really tried, to imagine a life as a wife and mother on the frontier. It did not work—had not worked from the moment it had occurred to her that if they continued, if they took one more step, Aurelia could risk bearing a child.

  She had stopped him.

  He had not argued or questioned. Instead, he had folded her in his arms, kissed her, and slept.

  But she had not. The thought of becoming pregnant had never occurred to her before. Obviously! If it had, she would have seen the repercussions: the fact that if she had a baby out of royal wedlock, she would never be allowed to claim her right to the throne. A right she had already forfeited.

  But deep down she must not have accepted that loss, because the thought of a child had elicited one awesome driving fear.

  That there would be no going back. Ever.

  No chance to convince her father he had been wrong. Or expose her sister’s evil actions. Or fix the myriad problems Aurelia had seen throughout this vast journey
. And only now did she realize she was not yet ready to give that up.

  Would it be so terrible to marry Robert and let her past go?

  Yes, came the harsh response. She could not explain why. It had something to do with all those years of training in which she had been taught that she had a larger duty. A greater responsibility. And no matter how often she had railed against those terms and the way they impaired her own actions, the larger truth had soaked into her veins and become something she could not sever.

  Not even for love.

  There came a rustling from the tent. In the name of Tyralt, how could she tell him? That after last night, after all she had felt and all he had made her feel, that they could never be more to each other than friends. Because she would not give up the crown she had already lost.

  His mother had been right. And his father.

  Even Daria had warned Aurelia not to hurt Robert.

  He stepped from the tent.

  And she could not look into those fathomless blue eyes. Because she could not allow herself to be lost.

  Her mind turned to a charred blur as Robert bent to stir the dying fire. What he was thinking, she could not interpret. What he was feeling, she did not know. She only knew she must find a way through this dilemma herself before she could speak.

  He let the silence come, ate his morning ration, then went to check the horses. She knew he would find them both brushed and cleaned, their abrasions dipped in his mother’s salve. Aurelia had been up for hours. Had gone over every patch of missing horsehair and found nothing worse than a surface wound along the stallion’s thigh.

  Dousing the camp flames, she began to prepare to leave, a habit instilled in her over the past month. Wake early, pack, ride. She removed the rocks from the base of the tent, folded the canvas, and rewound the rope. The other actions could be completed by rote.

  Again her reality blurred, until the horses were saddled and the supplies were strapped into place. Then she looked up. To find Robert gone.