The Prince of Exiles (The Exile Series) (2 page)

The young man who had been the Prince of Ravens stood on a cliff somewhere in the Roarke Mountains as the wind, a swirling, invisible hand, clutched at him with a fierce insistence, trying to pull him forward over the edge. Looking down from where he had braced himself he could see through a gap in the mountain range, out to where the city of Roarke rose out of the landscape; in the center was a strong castle with rounded towers and a thick inner keep made of creamy stone and dark wood. A large, sprawling metropolis spiraled out from it, contained by a smaller russet stone wall of its own. The city marked the border between the Empire and the Exiled Kindred; it was the farthest south the Empire had ever conquered, and the farthest north the Kindred had ever come in force.

Nearly two months had passed since the city’s ruler, Ramael the Prince of Oxen, had been defeated at Aemon’s Stand. Following the death of the Ox Lord, his army had fled; the Exiled Kindred pursued, killing and capturing by the thousands. Those few who survived made their way back to the Ox Lord’s capital seat, the city of Roarke. The Kindred followed, emerging from behind their sheltering mountains for the first time in a thousand years, laying siege to the great fortress in the southern Empire.

And now, after weeks of fierce fighting in the mountains and lowland hills, the city had been secured and the final assault was underway.

The young man on the cliff shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His legs had been reduced to sore, gnarled ropes of muscle from long weeks –
months
now – in the saddle, and though he’d become accustomed to the exercise, they still ached when he stood too long. As he looked at the distant city, he realized that the pain wasn’t what was bothering him. No, he was uneasy because it was he, Ramael’s brother and murderer, who had made this invasion possible.

So many lives lost … all because I wrote down my brother’s secrets.

It was not that he held a hidden desire to see the city and castle saved. Quite the contrary; he knew that Roarke was the staging point for every invasion of the Kindred lands, and this would secure their safety. He knew this was the right thing to do, that the castle had to be taken now, when it was weak.

But knowing so did not calm the inner turmoil. In fact, knowing that it had been him, the former Prince of Ravens and Child of the Empress, who’d given the Kindred the keys to the city’s defense, only served to stoke the fire.

And the memories that had come to him from his brother only made it worse. The memories culled from his brother’s dying mind by the power of the Raven Talisman still haunted him, even now that they were barely whispers and flashes that only crossed his mind when his guard was down. The memories had shown him how Ramael had taken pride in this city,
his
city, and had seen it as a work of art. He had believed, to the very end, he was doing what was right for the Empire, and that the people would love him for it.

How could anyone be so blind?

The irony of such a question was not lost on him. Until just recently he had been a Prince as well, proud just as Ramael had been. Proud, at least, until the Rogue pair of Tomaz Banier and Leah Goldwyn had rescued him and shown him what the Empire was truly like, proud until he’d been forced to open his eyes and see his own culpability. He had been just like Ramael – blinded by his love of the Empress, his Mother, believing that what She did was done for the good of the people.

Maybe he did know though … maybe they all know.

The memories that had come to him from his brother’s mind had contained an underlying sadness that had been unexpected. It was strange to know that Ramael, the consummate warrior, had felt such a thing. Where had the feeling come from? He didn’t know. And it was partly this that troubled him.

The memories themselves were gone; they had faded, as all the memories did, an hour or so after the sword had pierced his brother’s chest. But pieces of them remained, impressions, like the ripples of thunder after the harsh flash of lightning, or the sound of rustling leaves after a gusting wind, and these pieces were painful. They cut him like broken glass, digging into his mind.

He pushed the thoughts away. Now, hunting the forests of Roarke for the remnants of an Imperial army, was not the time for introspection and philosophy. Not that the Kindred seemed to be much for philosophy anyway, if they even spared a thought for it. After all, the Exiled Kindred were a nation of outcasts and criminals that had been banished from the Empire and had formed a stronghold beyond the mountains just south of Roarke– if there was a group less inclined to profound thinking, he could not imagine it.

This train of thought led him to another problem: his feelings about the Kindred in general. It was true that he had fought along side them; when Ramael had invaded Vale it had been he who’d warned the Council of Elders in time to save the Kindred nation. What was more, he had consistently defied the laws of the Empire, killing Defenders, fleeing the Seekers of Truth, all the while avoiding Imperial justice. And yet, these actions had been predicated on self-preservation. He had been forced into Exile, forced to flee across the Empire. He’d sought aid from the Exiled Kindred only when he’d had no other choice but to cross into their land, warned them of the impending invasion only to stop the slaughter of thousands of innocents. All of that time he had been simply reacting, going from one motion to the next out of a base, instinctual need for self-preservation. But now, when the dust had settled and he’d had time to think about his actions ... where did his allegiance lie?

True, he was still with the Kindred. He still rode with Tomaz and Leah, the only two friends he had ever known, though they both had spotted pasts; Tomaz had deserted his post as an elite Imperial BladeMaster and was wanted for countless acts of treason and espionage, while Leah was infamous for unknown sabotage efforts in Tyne. They were an Eshendai-Ashandel pair, which were honorary titles meaning “Dagger of the Exiled” and “Blade of the Kindred,” respectively; the titles were only bestowed on those who had passed the grueling Rogue or Ranger training, and were selected to be paired. The pairing was always meaningful – if the Ashandel was quiet and reserved, the Eshendai was fiery and impulsive, and vice versa, the idea being that each would learn something from the other. Practically, this meant that both of his friends were extremely dangerous outlaws; they were rebels against the rightful rule of the Immortal Empress, and by extension the rule of law that held together the entire Empire of Ages. They were criminals who flaunted their colorful past and made no secret of the hatred they bore for anything and anyone Imperial.

And yet they’re also good people.

“What’re you doing standing there princeling?”

He jumped at the sound of the voice, though not as much as he might have once. He was getting used to being snuck up on – all of the Kindred had an uncanny knack for moving about unseen and unheard.

The source of the voice was a young woman, approaching him from the treeline. She was just above him in age –
how old am I now? How many lives have I lived?
– at eighteen years old, having passed her Naming a year earlier; but those searing green eyes that dared the world to challenge her, those were much older. She was a Spellblade and an Eshendai Rogue, meaning she was terribly skilled with the two long, wicked daggers she wore at her waist. Her olive skin and midnight black hair helped her blend in with the forest around her, and when she wasn’t moving she faded into the shadows, the browns and greens of her clothing leaving her all but invisible to any but the best trained eye.

“Don’t call me that,” he responded automatically, “I’m not a Prince anymore.”

“Shut up princeling,” Leah said with a long-suffering sigh. “You couldn’t take that royal stick out of your butt if you recruited Tomaz and twelve donkeys.”

“You calling me a donkey?” Rumbled a deep, bass voice somewhere back in the trees.

“Not me!” He called back, pointing a finger at Leah. “All her!”

The bearded face and accompanying body of Tomaz moved into sight, causing the eyes to play tricks on the mind, making one think a tree had suddenly uprooted and come to life. The big Ashandel stood nearly eight feet tall, perhaps more so in the enormous woodsman boots he wore, and had a chest so deep and wide it put most boulders to shame, though some of that was admittedly the armor he had in place beneath his green and gray clothing.

“All right,” said Tomaz, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the bones of all within hearing. “Who’s calling me names?”

“’Twas the princeling,” Leah said, quickly taking a step to the side and bowing low in mock deference. “Though as his liege woman I am, of course, bound to defend his honor and call you an ‘ass’ as well.”

“Stop calling me that,” he said again, “I’m not a Prince anymore.”

She turned to him with an air of prim annoyance, and very deliberately took two steps forward, putting her not a foot away from him.

“Princeling … princeling … princeling.”

She watched him brazenly, waiting for his reply.

“Ass,” he said.

Tomaz let out a bellow of laughter that bristled his thick black beard and crinkled the edges of his small black eyes. Even the Exile girl quirked a wry side smile as she stepped back and moved off to her left, green eyes flashing in what was left of the day’s sunlight.

“My sister making fun of you again Raven?” A new voice asked.

This voice was a deep, rich baritone that rolled out in self-confident, honeyed waves. It came from a figure with eyes the deep red color of blood; it was the girl’s brother, Davydd. He was also a Spellblade, but unlike Leah, he was an Eshendai Ranger, which meant he spent most of his time not on espionage, but actively fighting the Empire, sometimes striking supply lines and caravans to sow discord, and other times finding and recruiting new members, though there were precious few of those. He bore a long vertical scar across one of his red eyes now, one of the many wounds he’d received from his near-death experience at the Battle of the Stand. It was far from disfiguring though – he’d already been charming in a roguish way, but now he looked downright rugged, and it suited him.

Davydd came into the clearing on foot, leading both his own horse and another mount, a huge hairy thing that looked thoroughly bored with the late afternoon expedition. Not that Raven could blame her – he himself felt this had all been a colossal waste of their time. This area had already been cleared, and it was only at the insistence of Autmaran, their commanding officer, that they had agreed to come out here once more.

“Well?” He repeated. “Is she making fun of you?”

“Not at all,” Leah said. “
He’s
calling
me
names. And Tomaz as well."

“Well, everyone knows Tomaz deserves it,” said the red-eyed young man. “Particularly since the big oaf leaves his horses around for other Kindred to take care of, even though other Kindred really dislike taking care of extra horses.”

“Hey!” Tomaz rumbled ominously, “I’m standing right here.”

“Ah!” Davydd said dryly, obviously not surprised at all. “I didn’t see you there. But funny, since you
are
there, why don’t you come over
here
, and take this huge hill of a beast off of my hands? Considering she’s
yours
, I might even have to insist on it.”

“We do better when we’re separate,” Tomaz said, the right side of his upper lip curling up unconsciously in a sign of disgust as he took in the sight of the huge beast of burden, the only horse they’d been able to find on short notice that could carry him for an extended period of time.

The horse, Mary, was looking back at Tomaz with an almost identical expression. She was uncommonly intelligent, and also uncommonly stubborn for a horse; in fact, if she hadn’t been so big Raven would have thought she was half donkey herself. She was so big in fact that she had been a draft horse pulling supply carts, and unlike Davydd’s well-groomed mount, her white mane and fetlocks had been allowed to run wild, making her both huge and hairy.