Exile (44 page)

Elena lifted her narrow hand and looked at it, and then lowered it to rest on the stone wall. “Just this morning I lit a candle from my own fingers. I seem to have taken on a bit of Mance magic.”

Draken resisted the urge to reach out and cover it with his own. “Because of Truls dying for you.”

“It’s what King Osias thinks. But I’m thinking of something else, as well. I feel most…odd.”

“You’re ill, my Queen?” he asked. Aarinnaie had alluded to it.

“I am not ill,” she said, leaning against the seaward wall. She spoke so softly the winds nearly swept aside her words before Draken caught them. “I am with child.”

Draken no longer had Bruche to prod him to speak in a reasonable amount of time. Seven tides battered Seakeep’s walls as he examined her pale profile. The wind pulled strands of her black hair free of its ribbons, but she made no move to straighten it.

“Your Gadye, Thom. He first suggested it,” she said at last. “He said the oddest thing, he was thankful your sword was true to my heart. When I questioned him, he told me he saw a child in our future.”

Finally, Draken found his voice and some semblance of logic. “Our future? Yours and mine?”

“It is early yet, but Gadye are rarely wrong in these matters.”

The slightest hope tingled at the base of his neck. “I’ll remain your Night Lord, then. It only seems right.”

She nodded. “If you wish.”

His throat was very dry. “And, perhaps, you want something more of me?”

She looked at him, her lips parted as if to speak, but she uttered no sound. He understood with sudden clarity how someone’s jaw could lock against the thing they most wished to say. Escorts and servants milled about, but he pulled her close, cradled her face in his hands, and he kissed her, feeling as if it were on a dare. She didn’t pull away, but when it was over he still could read nothing in those dark eyes.

Until she smiled. “Truth?” she said. “Something more.”

Acknowledgments

It’s cliché, yet truth: The act of writing is solitary, but bringing a novel to life is not. This one has had a great deal of help since I first started penning it so many years ago. Fellow
Electric Spec
Editors Lesley Smith, David Hughes, and Renata Hill were the first readers of this book, and I wouldn’t be a writer at all without the rest of the Boulder Inklings, Adrianne and Rebecca, nor without Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers.

My many online friends and readers keep me sane. Writerly friends Barth Anderson, Bree Ervin, Carol Berg, Christine Hardy, Courtney Schafer, David Boop, Esri Allbritten, Jeanne Stein, Karen Duvall, Lynda Hilburn, Mario Acevedo, Marne Ann Kirk, Stephen Parrish, Susan Smith, Vicki Law, and Warren Hammond constantly show me how it’s done. Stuart Neville is in a league all his own, as a writer and a friend. You are all made of awesomesauce.

Special thanks to our family friends, especially Becky, Perry, Paris, and Carter; Lori, Rob, Allie, Abby, and Anna; Michelle, Matt, Aston and Carrera. You all remind me I’m not
only
a writer, tolerate my weirdness, and give me lots of reasons to drag myself out of my office to places like bars and concerts and the slopes.

I am a lucky writer indeed to have Sara Megibow as my agent. Your loving, professional attention to my career lets me do what I do best. Thanks also to Angie Hodapp and everyone at Nelson Literary Agency.

Thanks to my editor Jeremy Lassen, whose skill with editing helped me more fully realize my vision for Draken, Ross Lockhart, and the whole Night Shade Books team for all you do (you people sure put out beautiful books, especially mine!), John Stanko for his striking cover art, and the Night Bazaar crew for so warmly welcoming this new writer at WorldCon.

Thanks to my extended family, who I don’t get to see nearly enough: Al, Jo, Emily, Jenny and Jono (and baby Mara!), and Natalie. Jordy, Julie, Kelly, and Kevin. Jimmy, Tiffany, Hunter, and Kolby. Tiff and KK. Mom and Dad. Karen and LaRoux. Grandpa Dan. Pierre O’Roarke and all my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Charlotte Holland, who is both friend and family.

Thanks, God, though sometimes I’m not sure whether this writing gig is a blessing or a curse.

My mom, Dorinda Hunt, always cheers me on. Love you, Mom. This one’s for you.

My son Alex plays drums for me and makes me laugh every day. I love you.

My daughter Gracie reminds me to be creative every day. The mess is always worth it. I love you.

And finally, my husband Carlin puts up with more nonsense than he’ll ever admit and still loves me best of all. Thank you. I love you forever.

The Whitefire Crossing
(An Excerpt)

by Courtney Schafer

Chapter One

(Dev)

I knew right from the moment I opened Bren’s back room door this job was going to be trouble. See, here’s how it should go: Bren, waiting, alone, with a package on the table and my advance payment in his hand. Simple and no surprises. So when I saw Bren, waiting, not alone, and no package on the table, I got a little twitchy. My first thought was that Bren had crossed someone he shouldn’t, and sold me out as well. But the stranger in the room didn’t look like a guardsman, or even someone’s freelance enforcer. He was young, well-dressed, and nervous, which settled me somewhat as other possibilities became more likely. Maybe a younger son of a wealthy family, hock deep in gambling debts? Bren sometimes worked as a collector. Didn’t matter, though. Whatever the stranger was here for, I wanted no part of it.

“I’ll come back later.” I started to shut the door. Bren caught my eye and motioned me in. 

“Dev! Just the young man I was looking for!” His deep voice had the annoyingly cheerful tone he used on highsider customers. He’d even dug out a magelight in place of the battered oil lamp that usually perched in the corner. The brighter, harsher light from the faceted crystal sphere only highlighted the cracks in the adobe walls and the wax stains on the table.

I took a few steps into the room but left the door open at my back. “Who’s he, then?” I jerked my head at the stranger, glaring at Bren. I don’t like surprises when I’m in the city. They never turn out well.

“Shut the door, and I’ll fill you in.” Bren ignored my obvious displeasure and waited patiently. The stranger shifted on his feet but didn’t say anything. Eventually, as Bren had known it would, my curiosity got the better of me. I shut the door, but didn’t come any farther into the room. I still wanted to be near an exit. 

Bren’s lined brown face creased in a satisfied smile. “Dev, this is Kiran. He’s looking for passage over the Whitefire Mountains to Kost. I told him you were the best, most discreet guide I know, and you know the mountains like nobody else. You can take him along on the usual run.”

I choked back the first thing that came to mind, which was along the lines of “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” but didn’t bother to keep my feelings off my face. I hadn’t missed his emphasis on the word “discreet.” 

For several years now, I’d run packages across the mountains and over the Alathian border to the city of Kost for him. The Alathians were strict as hell on magic, piling on all kinds of laws and regulations to try and stop people from using it except in the tame little ways approved by their Council. Human nature being what it is, that makes for a thriving trade in certain specialty items. And since they’d outlawed all the darker, more powerful kinds of magic, it wasn’t too hard to get around the poor bastard of an Alathian mage stuck with border inspection duty. Easy money as far as I was concerned, but smuggling a few illegal charms and wards was one thing. Smuggling a person was a whole different story. 

One corner of Bren’s wide mouth quirked. Yeah, he’d seen what I was thinking. 

“I know you’re a busy man, Dev, but I promise this will be worth your while. The pay is very generous. Very. And what man couldn’t use an extra windfall?”

This time I kept my face blank, although inside I was furious. He knew, then. Gods all damn this city. Nothing stays secret here for long, but I’d hoped for a few days’ grace before word spread of the disastrous end to my partnership with Jylla. We’d only split yesterday. That meant Bren must have asked after me special, and he must have known he’d need extra leverage to get someone to take this job. Worse, he had it on a platter, damn his eyes.  I needed money, and badly. 

“Good point,” I said. Bren looked like a kitfox with a mouthful of plump sage hen. To take my mind off my anger, I eyed the human package, Kiran, or whatever his name was. Why in Khalmet’s name would some highsider kid want to go to Kost, especially this way? He looked a little old to be running away from his family in some kind of teenage snit. Highsiders played power games with each other same as streetsiders, but I’d never heard of anything like this.  

He’d listened to my exchange with Bren in solemn silence. His black hair was long enough in front that it fell forward over his face and shadowed his eyes, making them hard to read. I could tell they were light-colored, probably blue, and that was about it. I’d seen men from the far north with skin pale as his, though never with hair so dark. That might not mean much, since we were all children of immigrants here in Ninavel, highside and streetside alike.  No sign of a family or merchant house crest on his clothing, but that only meant he wasn’t a complete idiot, assuming he didn’t want anyone to know about this meeting. 

“What are the specifics?” I asked Bren. 

“Same as always. Make sure there are no questions, no records, and get him across the border into Kost, along with my usual package. Ten percent in advance plus expenses, the rest upon return with proof of delivery.” 

Bren made it sound so easy. It usually was, with a package and enough money for what Bren called “expenses.” But I had serious doubts a person would be so easy to hide, no matter how idiotic the Alathian mages were. 

“And payment?” Bren had better make this good.

“Triple the usual, plus expenses.”

I made a disgusted noise. Bren had me over a barrel, but I had leverage of my own. There probably wasn’t anyone else desperate enough to take this job, and he had to know it. “Triple, expenses, and I want ten charm-grade gemstones from Gerran for each item I deliver.” Gerran was Bren’s partner in Kost, who handled the distribution of the smuggled goods to their buyers. His legal business was the import of gemstones, metals, and mineral ores.

It was Bren’s turn to snort. “Gerran would never go for that, and you know it.” He studied me, one finger tapping on the table. I kept silent. Eventually he said, “I think I can talk him into five charm-grade stones per item, but only for this run, you understand?”

I was careful to keep my surprise from showing. I’d never thought Bren would actually go for such a wealth of high quality gemstones. I’d figured he’d offer me two or three stones total and nudge my flat fee higher. Huh. This Kiran must be paying him an absolute fortune. Either that, or I was missing something about this job. 

“Anything else I should know?”

Bren didn’t blink, despite my pointed tone. “It’s a simple enough job.” The flat finality in his eyes told me I’d get nothing more out of him. I hesitated, weighing the pay against my niggling sense of unease.

“Done,” I said at last. Bren’s smile widened until it nearly reached his ears.

Kiran had been watching us with a small frown line between his dark brows. “It is arranged, then? When do we leave?” His voice was soft but clear, with the faintest hint of an accent I couldn’t place. The accent made me even more curious about him. We get all sorts here in Ninavel, and I’d thought I’d heard just about every possible accent by now.

Bren turned that broad smile on him. “That’s right, everything’s set. You’ll be in good hands with Dev here, I promise. You’ll leave when the first trade group of the year to Kost does.” He tilted his head toward me.

“Day after tomorrow,” I said. “Meet me at the Aran Fountain, near the Whitefire gate, two hours before dawn. You know where that is?” Kiran nodded. “Don’t bother bringing anything with you, I’ll provide what you need for the trip.” I’d bet a thousand kenets he didn’t have any clothing capable of standing up to a trip over the mountains. I eyed the smooth, delicate skin of his hands, and sighed. I’d have to make sure and bring gloves. And salve. An awful thought struck me. “You can ride, right?”

“Yes.” Some of the nervousness I’d seen in his stance showed itself on his face. “That is—not well, I don’t do it often—but I do know how.”

“That’s fine,” I said, relieved. Some highsiders didn’t bother riding, thought it was something only servants and streetsiders did, who couldn’t afford carriages. Others were horse-mad. You never knew. 

Bren made a few more pointlessly glowing comments about me as he ushered Kiran out the door. With a supreme effort, I managed not to roll my eyes. Thankfully, the instant Bren shut the door he lost all the fake cheerfulness. 

“Damn, Bren, laying it on like a Sulanian charm dealer, weren’t you?”

Bren shrugged. “Fucking rich brats, they all expect it.” He splayed his hand on an engraved copper panel set into the smooth adobe of the back wall. The ward tracings flared silver as they recognized him and revealed his strongbox.