Exile

  Robert’s gaze flew to Aurelia, and he wondered if the same thoughts had crossed her mind.

  He could see her eyes flick from soldier to soldier. Counting.

  As the party approached the crowded field, a tall man with dark hair and a rigid countenance came forward, then made a sharp gesture to his right at a boy in a brown vest who hurried forth to reach for Horizon’s reins.

  The stallion reared, and Robert felt Jeynolds’s sword return to his throat before he even had a chance to intercede.

  Aurelia stepped between the boy and the sharp hooves. “He’s temperamental,” she said.

  The dark-haired soldier gave no response to her words, just gestured again toward the boy, who eased forward once more and stretched out his hand for Horizon to smell. The stallion snorted, stamped his feet, then turned away as though bored.

  Aurelia’s gaze slid toward Robert, a question in her eyes.

  Of course he would have preferred to keep watch over the stallion, but the sword now easing toward his back made that impossible. He gave a slight nod, and she released the reins.

  Stallion and boy headed toward the stables. One confrontation avoided.

  But the dark-haired soldier’s first comment severed any chance of respite. His tone stern, his words clipped, he turned his gaze from the prisoners to the scarred leader and said, “His Lordship wishes to see them.”

  Robert felt his thoughts whirl as minutes later he stepped under the beams of the Fortress entryway, his eyes resting on the brown skin of Aurelia’s neck where it met her squared shoulders. Was it possible the head of this place was a genuine lord? A man with the authority to enforce law over the Asyan?

  But a deep warning cut through Robert’s thoughts.

  A man who had gathered his own army in defiance of the crown. For whom no one, short of the king, would be less welcome than the crown princess.

  Blood pulsed in Robert’s eardrums. What he would not give for a minute—thirty seconds—to speak to her alone and warn her to remain silent. To maintain her anonymity.

  But there was no privacy. And no time.

  A thickset woman in brown housekeeper’s garb bustled forward, her sharp gaze sweeping over the soldiers and landing on Robert and Aurelia. “The man first,” came the woman’s brisk command. “In the great hall. His Lordship is prepared for judgment.”

  Jeynolds shoved Robert forward.

  Aurelia’s protest rang behind him. “You have no right—”

  Don’t! he thought desperately. Don’t tell them who you are.

  Her voice faded behind a closed door, and Robert moved at sword-point down a long barren corridor and through an open entryway.

  Into a giant space of light and unrestrained voices. Tables surrounded with men crowded the room. Serving-women bearing pitchers of beer and platters of food squeezed their way around dangling feet and swinging elbows, and the scent of roast pork sent a knife through Robert’s stomach. Then a brutal shove thrust him out into the hall’s center aisle. Alone.

  A man at the front table stood up.

  All sound halted. And all eyes turned toward His Lordship. The man’s fiery red mane draped past his bulky shoulders and down from his chin. In one hand, he wielded a glass of ruby wine, in the other, a knife bearing a giant hunk of meat. The rich food could explain his wide girth, but the muscles in his large arms belied all labels of the sedentary aristocracy.

  The man’s own gaze drilled into Robert’s. “Approach.” The lord pounded his wine glass down on the table. Crimson liquid splashed out.

  It could be worse, Robert told himself, as he stepped past the crowd of onlookers. I could be asking to court his daughter.

  “Your name,” the lord ordered.

  Robert held his tongue. There was no telling what detail, no matter how minor, might betray Aurelia’s identity. And though Robert’s first name was not nearly as well known as his last, there were bound to be rumors: about the missing princess; her journey; and, as much as he had tried to deny it, her relationship with him.

  The lord waited, then took a bite of his meat, chewed, and swallowed. “You have been charged with hunting on my land. Is this true?”

  There was no point in denial. Surely one of the men from the band of captors had already told about the events of the previous night. “Yes, Your Lordship,” Robert replied.

  “And are you guilty?”

  Lies came too easily and cost too much. “Yes.”

  The man lowered his knife, allowing the now barren blade to dangle outward as he strolled around the table, his eyes on everyone in the room except for Robert. “I don’t suppose,” he said as though sharing a joke with his audience, “you would care to elaborate.” He completed the half-circuit and stopped five feet away.

  Robert’s thoughts scrambled for an explanation, one that would bear the ring of truth without betraying her. He could not find one. “No, Your Lordship.”

  “Do you know who I am, boy?”

  No. And ... yes. There was only one man with a real title to the Asyan. Robert had not thought of him before because the lord’s indolent reputation held next to nothing in common with this muscular figure. But then ... a man plotting treason would not survive an accurate reputation. “Yes, Your Lordship.” Robert could not suppress the edge in his voice.

  The knife plunged into the crease of the circuited table. “And do you doubt that I could have you killed this instant with the full support of the law?”

  This titled man with his treasonous army chose to invoke the name of the law? Robert’s sarcasm was now heavy. “No, Your Lordship.”

  A half dozen soldiers, swords raised, launched from the sides of the room.

  And Aurelia’s voice rang over the vast hall. “Release him in the name of the crown.”

  Honestly! she thought, sweeping down the center aisle in her tattered riding clothes. Couldn’t their host see that Robert was trying to protect her? It had become clear to Aurelia, moments before when she had been offered a silk dress to change into, that the person in charge knew who she was.

  “Your hospitality is rather lacking, Lord Lester,” she said, stepping past Robert and coming to a halt in front of the red-haired man she had never met before.

  The large man arched an eyebrow and gave an ironic bow. “We can hardly be blamed for not being prepared for your visit, Your Highness, as there was no warning. Though it is, nonetheless, an honor to have you at our estate. The crown excluded, of course.”

  She raised her chin.

  Robert’s hand gripped hers from behind. Why did he always know when she was bluffing?

  “I have long missed out on meeting you at court, Your Lordship,” she replied, a caustic bite to her tone.

  Lord Lester chuckled. “I am much more at comfort here, Your Highness, where all the weapons are clearly displayed.”

  She allowed her gaze to circle the audience, taking in the vast number of armed men, all prepared to arrest her at the slightest gesture from their leader. “I am impressed,” she said, “by the committed group you appear to have gathered.”

  Robert’s grip tightened on her hand, and she pulled away, taking one more step forward. If this lord was an enemy, she would cede him no authority.

  “That I have.” Lord Lester’s chest rose in pride. “I daresay you’ll not find an equal example of loyalty in the kingdom.” The crowd erupted in a brief cheer of support.

  Aurelia blinked. “On the contrary, I believe the young man you have threatened just now is at least as fine an example. Would you not say his refusal to betray my identity or lie to you at peril of his own life can compare to any form of loyalty?”

  The raised swords at His Lordship’s side eased toward the ground, and there was a brief silence.

  Lord Lester grinned, a glimmer in his eyes. “Not sure loyal is the term I would use. But then who am I”—he chuckled—“to question a man for taking a risk to protect a woman of your particular bloodline.”

  Her bloodline?

  “I
hope you will not judge my men too harshly, Your Highness.” He gestured at Jeynolds, who still held his sword to Robert’s back. “After all, they may have recognized your face, but they could not be certain of who you were.”

  What did that mean?

  Again he chuckled, this time the light in his eyes stretching across his ruddy cheekbones. “But I am indulging my sense of humor at your expense. My wife”—he paused and his voice gentled—“will not approve.”

  Then he stepped aside and gestured backward at a portrait.

  Of a woman. Seated. Thin arms clasped, false light haloing the face and dark features.

  My hair. My skin. My eyes.

  Aurelia felt her heart explode at the sight of her mother. Her portrait. In this buried-away fortress in the depths of Tyralt, in a great hall filled with gawking soldiers. On display here, when it was never, ever displayed in the royal palace.

  Yet there was something even more disturbing about the image: the hollowed cheekbones, the indentations of the woman’s temples, the lines in the skin along her eyes. Age.

  Lord Lester’s statement finally penetrated. My wife will not approve.

  His wife?

  Aurelia wanted to scream or cry or fight. Her mother was here? In this fortress? Now? But even so, the former queen was absent.

  Nothing.

  Aurelia had never had any defense against nothing. She whirled and flung herself from the room.

  Chapter Six

  THE BLUE ROOM

  THE SWORD WAS STILL AT ROBERT’S BACK, BUT HE could not have followed her anyway. He had seen the look on her face. A look that forbade contact.

  Far better that than her empty gaze from the forest. Though this man—this lord—had risked plunging her into that abyss with his tactless revelation. “Is that what you were hoping for?” Robert accused. “Treating her life as if it were your entertainment.”

  The array of weapons lifted again.

  But His Lordship did not bother to reply. Instead he gestured toward a woman at the door, the housekeeper from the entrance. “Find her.” Lester’s voice rang across the room.

  The woman nodded and bustled away.

  The large man’s chest rose and fell several times. Then he gave a sharp gesture to a soldier on his left. “Clear the room.”

  At once the serving-women and the men from the tables withdrew, filing out with such speed the hall emptied in a matter of minutes. Steel remained at Robert’s back, and the aura of danger swelled within the vacant space. No one else remained save for Jeynolds, the row of soldiers beside Lord Lester, and the man who had hired them.

  His Lordship began to pace, staring at the floor as he pounded back and forth. “What brought you here?” he demanded from Robert.

  “Your men.”

  Lester spun, color splattering his face. “Why? Why are you here?”

  Robert replied coolly. And slowly. “Because your men brought us here.”

  The pacing stopped. “If you will not provide answers, you have no place on the premises.”

  Robert bridled. “I’m not going until I am certain Her Highness is all right.”

  A fierce, almost animal-like growl exited from the man’s throat. Then he turned and stalked around the table and all the way to the portrait at the front of the room. The red head tilted back as Robert waited for the next pronouncement.

  At last it came, the words directed to the soldiers. “Take him below,” His Lordship ordered.

  The ivy on the guest room tapestry invaded Aurelia’s mind as she sat, still in her rags, on the hard wooden floor. Waiting. Her back was against the bed, her eyes tracing and retracing the deceptive heart-shaped leaves and long deathly vines that strangled everything they touched. Like love.

  Her mother had not come.

  At least three hours had passed since the housekeeper had shown Aurelia here, offering her the room as a place of solitude. It had remained solitary—leaving Aurelia facing the empty dark cavity within herself, the sting of rejection. And futility. Her mind had detached from the present to traverse the wasteland of time. So few memories. A gentle embrace, the smell of lilacs, a beautiful laugh that could in no way be mistaken for that of her stepmother, Elise.

  But it was Aurelia’s mother who had abandoned her daughter. Fourteen years ago. Without a word. And still after all those years, like a naïve child, Aurelia had thought her mother would come. And what? Apologize for the minutes, months, and years of not being present? That was never going to happen.

  A faint rap came at the door.

  “Hello?” said a soft female voice. Too familiar. The door caught upon the latch. “It’s me, Daria.”

  Emotion slipped. In the midst of all that had happened, Aurelia had failed to connect her arrival on this estate with the presence of her best friend. Of course Daria is here. Her husband is Lord Lester’s courier. Aurelia scrambled up, tripping on the green bedding she had pulled down to the floor. She crossed in front of the hanging ivy, removed the lock—a measure of control enacted to deny she had none—and opened the door.

  A figure in gold muslin stood in the hall, her once-thin cheeks filled out beneath upswept raven hair and her black eyes glittering with concern.

  Is it that obvious I am damaged?

  Then warm arms reached across the space and wrapped Aurelia in a fierce hug.

  Daria—who had rescued Aurelia from boredom during endless hours of etiquette training. Who had stood guard and made up stories to excuse her best friend’s escapes from the palace. Who had laughed at the ancient royal suitors and dared Aurelia to find someone who moved her heart instead.

  None of that mattered now.

  “Is it true?” Aurelia murmured. “Is my mother actually here?”

  The hug tightened, then released. “Yes.”

  Then you knew. The bitter thought replaced the warmth. How could one’s closest friend harbor a secret like this?

  Daria must have read the anguish in Aurelia’s eyes, because explanation spilled forth. “I only found out when Thomas brought me here, upon my arrival. And I was sworn to secrecy. It’s a condition for living on the estate.”

  A true friend would never take that oath.

  “Of course, that is no excuse for not telling you.”

  The admission cut a rift in Aurelia’s turmoil.

  “But I did not dare write!” Daria declared. “I did not want your stepmother to intercept the message. Or your father.”

  Aurelia took a step back toward the barren hearth. There was so much her father had known and not told her. She had feared that her mother’s location might be another fact he had chosen to withhold. “Then my father doesn’t know my mother is here?”

  Daria blinked, stretching out her fingers toward her friend. “No, of course not. Why do you think Lord Lester never returns to the palace? And why else would he hire this many men to defend his estate? It’s all for your mother’s protection.”

  Protection?

  Daria’s empty hand dropped, along with her gaze. “It’s hard to know how your father would react. There might be ... well, there might be repercussions.”

  Aurelia staggered back, her side grazing the sharp corner of the mantel. It had never occurred to her that her mother might be in danger, having left the palace, or that she might have been in danger living there when her husband clearly preferred another woman.

  But if the assassination plot had taught Aurelia anything, it was that the palace was unsafe. Even if her father had no intention of harming her mother, he could not be relied upon to protect her. Daria was right.

  “She hasn’t come,” Aurelia said.

  “Lady Margaret never comes.”

  Margaret? Her mother’s name was Marguerite. “What?”

  “She never leaves her quarters.”

  That made no sense. Surely Daria was exaggerating, trying to defend her best friend from reality. Aurelia had no interest in excuses. “Of course she does.”

  “No.” Daria shook her head. “Lady Marga
ret has a single space at the end of the hall on the third floor, one flight up, her own private residence known as the Blue Room.” Private. Meaning no one is allowed to enter without permission. “She never leaves. Ever.”

  Aurelia struggled to take in the implications. But how could she? If the past three hours had proven anything, it was that she knew nothing about the woman upstairs. “She has not sent for me.”

  Daria’s voice wavered. “It must have been a shock. Your arrival. I do not really know her ... but I know she has been like a talisman to the people here. They would defend her with their lives.”

  The people have always loved my mother. But she has never loved me. Aurelia backed away until the hollow of her spine hit the edge of a glass table along the wall. Her elbow jostled a vase of dead flowers.

  Porcelain tumbled, and white shards sprayed across gray stones.

  Daria pulled her friend away from the shattered pieces. “I know it’s not fair, but if you wish to see her, then you must go to her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I am a coward. Because I’m not who I was before the forest. Or maybe I am. Maybe that dark cavity inside me was always there. “She left me, Daria. Not just my father—me. And I don’t ... I don’t understand why.”

  Her friend’s voice remained calm. “Then why don’t you ask her?”

  As if it were that simple.

  Aurelia sank down and buried her head in her hands, reaching for the strength within herself. But there was none there. She had been avoiding the thought of her mother for so long, nothing had ever filled the gap. Perhaps that was the weakness, the flaw in her own design, that had allowed Aurelia to lose herself in the forest.

  All this time—her entire life—she had blamed her mother for leaving. And for much more. For the failure to be there, to teach her daughter how to become queen, and to answer her questions. Yet now, when Aurelia had the chance to alter that reality, she had chosen to lock the door.

  Hiding was her father’s technique. And her mother’s.