Waterborne Exile Read online

  WATERBORNE EXILE

  by Susan Murray

  To my grandmother and great aunt, who epitomised strength without ever needing to define it

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PART II

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PART III

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PART IV

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PART V

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  He was going to burn. And he deserved it. Until then, Weaver knew only one thing: he must hold the attackers back to cover the Lady Alwenna’s escape. Flames crackled behind him, heat snagging at the back of his neck. His padded jacket was drenched with sweat, so heavy it hampered his movements and dragged against his arms. He was tiring, yet the dead-eyed priest before him thrust and parried with his staff, fighting on without any loss of pace. Sweat stung Weaver’s eyes and his defence faltered as he wiped his brow. The priest somehow failed to capitalise on Weaver’s distraction, fighting like one whose thoughts were elsewhere, completely absent from the moment. There was an air of placidity about the man that was unnatural: his dead stare made Weaver’s flesh crawl. He tried to damp down the sense that his opponent would never stop, ever. Had he drawn some curse upon himself for his part in the death of his liege lord? That was nonsensical – Weaver had not killed him. But he had failed to protect his king – or the husk that had once been Tresilian.

  The priest’s staff connected with Weaver’s temple as, concentration fading, he parried the blow a fraction too late. Damn the priest’s reach, damn his unflagging determination. Weaver glanced over his shoulder to where the king’s form lay slumped on the floor. Was Tresilian really dead this time? Or was the priest trying to press him back towards his fallen king? Smoke eddied towards Weaver as a draught caused the air in the room to shift and the king was lost from his sight. Had he glimpsed the movement of a hand there, just before the smoke shrouded Tresilian’s body?

  Impossible. But how many impossible things had he already witnessed since returning to the Marches? Weaver shivered, even as the heat of the flames behind him seared the back of his neck. Mustering all his strength, Weaver launched a committed stroke at the priest, slicing through the man’s neck. Blood spurted, but it was heavy and dark, unnatural. The man toppled like a felled tree, legs kicking, grey robes stained with blood that was more brown than crimson, as if it had been dry when it left his veins. Yet that was impossible.

  The other priests in the doorway fell back one at a time and Weaver paused to draw breath, dimly aware the action brought little relief to his tortured lungs. The last priest to leave flung up his arm to shield his face with his voluminous sleeve as he fumbled for the door handle.

  Too late, Weaver realised the man intended to shut him in with the fire. He watched with bovine torpor as the door swung shut. Smoke billowed across the room in the draught caused by the motion, curling and thickening, sending cloying tendrils into Weaver’s nostrils and throat, probing the depths of his lungs. From somewhere Weaver found enough sense to drop to the ground, his thoughts as thick and leaden as the blood from the priest’s veins. From behind him came a crash as the tall window collapsed into the room, swiftly followed by a rush of air as smoke billowed out through the new opening, permitting the ingress of fresher air. For a moment of blessed relief he gulped in air that filled his lungs instead of searing them. But only for a moment. The fire welcomed it too, drawing it in with a roar and a surge of heat. The roof timbers above Weaver creaked ominously and he knew – with the reason brought by that moment of unpolluted air – that he must escape that room or lie there forever next to his fallen king. And above all he knew he didn’t want to enter eternity at the side of the king he’d betrayed in every way possible – by thought and by flesh and finally by steel. Weaver scrabbled across the floor, heading for the door through which the priests had escaped.

  When Weaver dragged on the handle the latch twisted and the door swung ajar. The last priest had not locked it; if he escaped this coil he would offer fervent thanks to the Goddess at the first opportunity. At that moment he noticed he was clutching a handle fashioned in the form of three snakes, not the entwined leaves more commonly used as a motif at the summer palace. But he had no time to ponder this mystery, even as it seemed to take hold of his mind and the snake heads reared up between his fingers, hissing, tongues flicking in and out as they fixed the gaze from their empty eyes upon him. Weaver tugged at the iron ring and the snakes vanished. It was just the ordinary leaf motif after all. He dragged the door open and crawled through, suddenly weary.

  It would be so easy to simply lie down and stop. Right there. Only the thought of his dead king’s vengeance pushed him on to crawl across the flagstone floor of the anteroom that led to the private quarters Tresilian had occupied. The stone was so cool beneath his fingertips. He might rest there, only for a moment, just to draw breath and gather his wits.

  Only a moment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She pushed her way through the crowd, unheeding of who she bumped into, who she shoved out of her path. The priests should have let her follow them instead of turning
her away. Had she not been chosen by the Goddess for special favour? A broad-backed man was blocking her path. A bucket dangled from his hand, forgotten as he gazed up at the flames. She tried to duck past him. His coarse woollen tunic was damp and stank of sweat. In exasperation she shoved against him with both hands, willing him to move out of her way.

  He held out a solidly muscled arm, barring her progress as effectively as any wall. “Steady on, lass. You can’t go in there.” His tone was not unkind; it spoke of regret, laced with resignation. “The roof’s like to collapse any minute.”

  He was trapped in there, her lord, their king. Why would no one help? “You can’t give up. Your king is in there.” She side-stepped round the man, but he closed his fist about the fabric of her tunic and tugged her back. “It’s not safe, I tell you. Enough have died today without adding your young flesh to the tally.”

  How to make him understand? He was kindly enough. Perhaps…

  He released her garment, giving her a gentle push away from the building. “It’s too late to help any in there, help yourself now. Stand clear.”

  She stumbled away, losing her footing for an instant on the slick cobbles, biting her lip as she lurched against another of the onlookers. The taste of blood sprang hot and alien to her tongue. Wrong. Everything here was wrong. She should be in there, with her lord.

  She fought back tears. She never cried.

  She stumbled away to the edge of the yard, losing her footing altogether as something in the burning building caught fire with explosive force.

  The sound of the explosion from the king’s chambers brought everyone to a halt, water buckets forgotten in their hands as a great plume of ash and black smoke burst from the roof of the palace. Shouts sounded from within the burning building. Someone screamed. Another burst of smoke through the roof was followed by billowing sparks. Those closest to the fire stumbled back in disarray, shielding their faces from the sudden burst of heat.

  Tad gaped, open-mouthed, feeling the heat of the fire against his face even at that distance. Glowing fragments drifted down around them. One settled on his forearm, stinging the flesh before he could brush it away. It left a smear of soot where it had landed.

  “The bucket, lad. Quickly.”

  The big man next to him reached over and tugged at the bucket handle, forgotten in Tad’s grasp. Tad struggled to lift and simultaneously hand over the bucket, slopping water into his loose-fitting boots before the man took it from him. He turned his attention back to the water chain, doing his best to ignore the bite of the blisters on his right hand. Bucket after bucket went along the line, but the fire grew ever higher and all their efforts seemed to be for nothing. Finally the priests called a halt. Across the yard men were pulling down part of the stables in an effort to prevent the fire spreading further along the range. All was shouts and crashes and confusion. Tad withdrew from the commotion, flexing his fingers. One of the blisters had burst, leaving a raw, sore patch of skin. Dirt from the rope handle of the bucket was embedded in the tender flesh. He retreated to a corner of the yard, hunkering down at the base of the wall, huddled over his knees.

  His sister found him there.

  “Have you seen him?” There was a wild look in her eyes.

  Who did she mean? Their father? Who else could she mean right now? Tad swallowed. “No.”

  “He’s in there. I just know it.”

  Tad drew in a breath, but he couldn’t speak. Miserably, he nodded. He’d watched them enter the palace earlier that day. They’d not been among those who had left the building again before the fire overwhelmed it.

  She sat down on the ground next to him. Tad shifted uneasily. He was never sure of his sister’s moods.

  “They won’t let me in there. You could try. We need to search the building. Before it’s too late.” This time, her voice was cajoling.

  “If they won’t let you in, they for sure won’t let me by.”

  “Of course they will – you’re not important to them.”

  As if he needed that reminder. Tad picked at the torn flesh around the edge of the blister.

  “Go on. Try. I already have.” She nudged him with a sharp elbow. “They wouldn’t let me near.”

  Tad glanced at her. Were those tears in her eyes? Goddess. She really did care about someone other than herself.

  “Where… where do you think he could be?” He eased himself up on his haunches, flexing his arms which were impossibly tired after all the heaving of buckets.

  “Where?” She glared at him. “In the throne room, of course. Where else would the king be?”

  The king? He stilled.

  “Why? Who did you think I meant?” The glare intensified.

  “I… I thought you meant our father.”

  “Him? How can you be so stupid?” Her lip curled. “That was just a story.”

  “But you said… You swore…”

  She laughed. A hollow, mirthless sound. “Oh, you are such a fool. I made that up. It was just a story to pass the time.”

  Tad pushed away from the wall. “You lied to me.”

  “Did you really believe our father would have left us if he was rich enough to live in the palace?”

  “But he had to. The King’s Men have to swear an oath.”

  “Ma told me once. We don’t even have the same father. Mine was a drunk who didn’t come home one night. Yours was some soldier, too poor to pay her the full rate. That’s why you’re not the full shilling now.”

  “I’m still good enough to do your dirty work though.”

  Tad spun away and left her there, his eyes stinging. He was sick of being her dupe, sick of doing what she told him, sick of the taunts that he was nothing but her stupid little brother – and all for what? He clenched his fists and his blistered hand stung. He would show her. One day, he would. He’d be properly useful to her, and she’d have to thank him. And when she did he’d curl his lip and say, “I was going to do it anyway – it wasn’t for you – none of it.”

  The smoke from the fire had penetrated all along the range of buildings, even the basement storerooms. It scratched at Tad’s throat as he crept through the disused rooms but he fought the urge to cough, even though there could be no one to hear him. The storerooms were all black with it. It was as well most of them were empty. If they’d been full so much foodstuff would have been wasted.

  As he progressed the smoke grew thicker, carrying with it a cloying smell, one he’d not encountered before. It took him a few moments to realise the pungent odour was singed flesh. His eyes began to water and he hesitated. His plan wasn’t going to work. The heat may not be so intense this way, but with every breath his lungs burned. He couldn’t reach the throne room after all. But had he heard a movement? He listened, nerves on edge, the fine hairs on the back of his neck bristling. He was not alone in that room.

  Somewhere nearby he heard scuffling and a pained exhalation, then a fit of coughing, rapid bursts that the cougher could not suppress any longer. Tad scanned the room. A few barrels, abandoned in the corner, and behind them… a foot? Someone lay prone on the floor behind the slight cover. His first instinct was to run. Except… He inched closer, ready to spring away, head swimming from the smoke he’d inhaled so far, stooping so he didn’t breathe in more of it as he approached the figure. The compulsion was too strong.

  The coughing had stopped. It could be anyone lying there, dying or even dead. But Tad was convinced, even in the poor light he recognised the brigandine. It was him: the man he’d believed was their father for a few precious days.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The stench of smoke clung to everything in the infirmary. It prickled her nostrils and abraded her throat. The priestess suppressed the cough that tried to fight its way free of her lungs. She mustn’t draw attention to herself.

  Another soldier had died in the night. Only three of those rescued from the conflagration clung to life. Two priests lifted the body of the dead man. She stepped out of the way as they carried him
past her to the door. No one paid any attention as she carried a jug of water over to the patients. She replenished the beakers set by their beds, pausing to study each face. One was ruined beyond recognition, his face terribly blistered. He would not see the day out – the Goddess had already marked him for her own. But he was too slight. The next had black hair. He was not burned, but had bloody bandages wrapped about his shoulder. He must have a grievous wound. The third was too young, she guessed him to be not much older than herself, eighteen at best. His face reddened and soot-marked, he lay uneasily on his bed, hand twitching, blistered fingers clenching and unclenching. His injuries were not so grave. With the right care he would live. But Tresilian was not there.

  As she turned away from the bed she found herself face to face with prelate Durstan. She hastily sidestepped, but too late. The frown told her she had incurred the prelate’s displeasure. She folded her hands and lowered her head in an assumption of pious obedience.

  “Did I not order you to remain in seclusion?”

  “Forgive me, sire. I was concerned for those injured in the fire.” She risked a glance up at the prelate.

  Durstan studied her with a severe expression. “My orders to you were very clear. Until we know if you have been Goddess-blessed you remain in seclusion.”

  Dare she? The prelate had been well enough pleased with her visions while Tresilian lived. “I… I had a troubling dream, sire. One of the patients in the infirmary – as he slept, an evil force reached towards him. I… I feared for his wellbeing.”

  Durstan’s brows snapped together, his lips curling. “Indeed?” He took half a step away then paused, looking back at her. “Which patient?”

  Which patient, indeed. “The young one, sire.”

  Durstan’s lips twisted. “It was ever thus. The proper thing would have been to inform your confessor and he would ensure prayers were offered up for the young man. You will not walk among the brethren again, unless you are proved free of taint. Return now to your chapter-house. If you are seen within the bounds of the palace again you will be punished.”