Royal Exile. Fiona McIntosh

      ‘Do you mind my asking, though, sir, was this Tashi, Sesaro’s daughter? I know her but she hasn’t mentioned anything about a betrothal to me.’

      ‘It’s not my business to pass on private information, Archer Faren. You know that.’

      ‘I do sir, sorry sir, but Tashi is a friend and it might explain why she has seemed distant and worried,’ Faren had lied. ‘I thought she was fretting over the war —’

      ‘And I don’t doubt she is!’ the captain cut in.

      ‘Yes, sir, but I think from what the other men were saying that she’s probably upset about the legate.’

      ‘And you think you can help, do you, Faren?’

      Faren shrugged, his rage burning but tightly disguised. ‘I can try. We grew up together, you see, so she trusts me.’

      ‘There’s really nothing you can do, Faren. You misunderstand. The reluctance is not on the part of Sesaro’s daughter. Her hand is already given. She is — from what I can gather — the enthusiastic partner to this potential marriage. It’s Legate De Vis who hesitates, so unless you have the ear of the legate and can advise him in his love life, I would suggest you get back to tightening that bow and worrying about landing real arrows into the hearts of our enemy rather than make-believe ones into those of lovers.’

      So it was true. As the captain left him with a friendly squeeze to his arm, Faren had bristled with fury. That was why Tashi had cooled off toward him these past few weeks; she had only been playing with him, teasing him and enjoying his attention, his gifts, his youth. She’d hinted as much earlier today. He had to see her again; hear it from her lips, watch her head hang with shame as she explained herself.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘You again, Faren?’

      ‘The wax is a bit dry. I think I shall need a fresh pot from the stores.’

      ‘You don’t need my permission,’ the captain had said, his tone brisk and slightly annoyed.

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ Faren said, hurrying towards the stairs.

      ‘Why they send up the dungeon boys I don’t know,’ the captain murmured under his breath. ‘I think they get overawed, shooting their bows up this high.’

      ‘They’ll be the death of us, right, captain?’ someone had quipped and everyone who heard it grinned, including Faren. But Faren’s had been the grim smile of the executioner.

      The day had passed in a strange string of hours for Gavriel, linking weapons practice, a brief ride around the castle park, and kicking around leather stretched over a ball framework of the dried, highly flexible asprey reeds that held an inflated, waxed sheep’s bladder. This more frenzied activity had been punctuated by various meals, a visit to the chapel to say a prayer and light another candle for the dead princess and a meeting with the royal tutors who apologised that studies had been cancelled until further notice. All of this was highly unusual for Gavriel, of course, but for the prince much of it was a normal day’s proceedings, without the dreaded letters, numbers, and language. After the main meal of their day, which they had shared alone in Leo’s chambers, and as dusk gave way to twilight, Gavriel saw to it that the prince cleaned himself up, changed into fresh clothes and was presented neat and tidy to the queen. It had been an hour, probably more, since Gavriel had delivered the boy to the hollow, all-knowing aide known simply as Freath who greeted them at the entrance to Queen Iselda’s suite.

      ‘Good evening, majesty,’ he had said in his slow baritone. He glanced toward Gavriel, his gaze sliding quickly away.

      Young though he was, Leo was a perceptive child and missed little. ‘Hello, Freath. I now have a full-time minder. This is Gavriel De Vis — I think you know his father.’

      ‘Indeed, I do,’ the man had said, not offering a hand. ‘You may wait outside for Prince Leonel,’ he said to Gavriel, who sensed the prince wince at the use of his full name.

      As far as Gavriel knew, everyone disliked Freath, including Gavriel’s father, who was arguably the most generous person he knew. Seemingly ghostlike, the servant had been at the palace for a long time and never seemed to change his intimidating demeanour. Why the queen tolerated him was a mystery but he had been her right hand since Brennus had made Iselda his bride, fifteen years previous.

      Leo had been swallowed up into the doorway that Freath now blocked so Gavriel could do little more than snatch a glimpse inside but he smelled the waft of perfume, and spied soft colours and flower arrangements. The door was closed by Genrie as she emerged from the queen’s chambers.

      ‘You again,’ she said.

      Gavriel saw no smirk, heard no disdain in her tone, but even so the greeting was hardly friendly. ‘Yes. Consider me Prince Leo’s shadow.’

      She regarded him, saying nothing and Gavriel felt his throat go dry. She really was very pretty. ‘Is that what you always aspired to be, Master De Vis? A nurserymaid to Prince Leonel?’

      Gavriel adopted one of Corbel’s famous expressionless stares, refusing to be baited. ‘Firstly, he’s almost thirteen and needing to mature fast considering the situation we find ourselves in. Secondly, Lo willing he’s our next king and the more palace people who treat him as a potential ruler and not a child, the better.’

      ‘And you believe that the crown prince will make it to the throne?’ Again, she spoke evenly, no derision in her tone at all. And yet somehow it still sounded like a rhetorical question.

      He answered it anyway. ‘I do. One day.’

      She considered him with interest, a hand on her hip. ‘And the marauder they call Loethar can —’

      ‘Kiss my arse,’ Gavriel finished for her. He grinned and was delighted to win a smile from her.

      She nodded. ‘I hope your humour keeps you safe.’

      ‘Marry me, Genrie,’ he teased, moving quickly to stand by her, even daring to circle her waist. ‘And we can run away from war and —’

      ‘Raise the crown prince together, I suppose?’

      Gavriel laughed.

      ‘You’re not much older than he is,’ she said, a trace of condescension in her voice.

      ‘I’m seventeen summertides,’ he protested, feigning indignation. ‘More than enough.’

      ‘Not for me, Master De Vis,’ she replied, not unkindly. Untangling herself, she made to move away. ‘It takes more than bravado to impress this servant,’ she added.

      ‘Like what? Oh come on, Genrie. May I kiss you — not here, admittedly, although if you insist —’

      ‘I like older men, Master De Vis,’ she cut him off.

      He made a face of disgust. ‘Like Master Freath, perhaps. Skin like parchment, teeth in decay, that hunched back.’

      Her amusement vanished. ‘He’s none of those things. I’d hazard that he’s barely a few years older than our king.’

      ‘I was jesting, Genrie. But don’t be fooled by Freath. He strikes me as slippery, and I don’t trust him. Be careful.’

      Genrie’s gaze narrowed. ‘I have no reason to mistrust the queen’s aide, Master De Vis.’

      ‘Just be warned. Now how about that kiss?’

      Genrie flashed a brief smile, which was gone in a blink. Suddenly she was back to her briskly efficient self. ‘Good day, Master De Vis. In case you were wondering, there are no access points into or out of the queen’s chambers other than this one. Prince Leonel is safe.’

      Gavriel nodded. ‘For now perhaps,’ he replied sadly, settling back to wait.

      Leo finally emerged from his mother’s suite. His once almost white infant hair had darkened to a deep golden and