Exile (6 page)

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 Margaret 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.

I cannot—I will
not
be my parents,
she thought.

She gathered the threads in her soul, pulling them tight. If the cavity within herself was due to her mother, then confronting her was the only way out of the mental vines and tangles that had clutched at Aurelia ever since the morning after the fire.

Slowly her body unfurled, and she stepped toward the door. Her chest contracted, and her breath ran shallow. Her friend’s hand threaded through her fingers, but she shook it off. This was not something Daria could do for her. Nor Robert. Nor anyone else in the length and breadth of the kingdom.
It is
my
task.

Without looking back, Aurelia forced herself beyond the threshold and down the corridor. The rising circular staircase swallowed her whole. Antler horns sprouted out from the walls above her, their sharp points threatening like spears. The wood-grain wall ran from reds to blacks, and the steps, though perfectly constructed, seemed to narrow as she climbed.

Toward her greatest fear. She could not help but feel that ignorance would be easier. Then there could be no misunderstandings. Or brutal truths. Was the chasm in her heart not better than her mother’s open hatred? Were fragile memories not better than broken ones? And was it not all better—the hurt, the emptiness, the anger—than the agonizing flutter of hope?

At the top of the stair, she saw only the blue door, a bright unavoidable color that pulled her all the way to the end of the hall. Her hand reached for the latch, fingers refusing to curl into a polite knock. To do so would permit refusal or allow time for retreat.
This is my choice.
I
must make it.

The barrier swung at her touch.

Sky blue walls opened around her. Ocean-colored fabric graced pillows and cushions. Robin’s egg curtains fluttered at an open window. And dozens and dozens of fresh bluebells filled the room. A woman, her back to the door, was arranging a handful in a vase on the windowsill.

There could be no doubt about her identity. Dark brown wisps drifted down her neck, and her brown skin mirrored her daughter’s. But the woman did not turn.

“Mother?” Aurelia whispered to the only person who had ever held that title in her heart.

The woman froze, shoulders stiffening like a statue’s, thin arms with bent elbows pressing tightly into her sides, fingers strangling the flowers in her hand. Her face, profile, gaze—withheld.

As they had been forever.

Doubt assailed, a deluge of emotion sweeping through Aurelia. She was again a three-year-old child without strategy or defense. Everything she had built up, every verbal and logical weapon, fell useless, sucked into the swirling whirlpool of the carpet. And she could do nothing but stammer the truth. “I ... I know you do not wish to speak to me, but ...”

The statue did not turn.

She forced herself to continue. “I need to know why.” There, the words were out. And now—
bother!
The tears were coming, stripping her of her dignity. There was no winning in this situation, no stopping the sick hollow feeling in her stomach.

The woman remained frozen.

“Why?” Aurelia demanded. She wiped the salty smear from her face. “Why won’t you look at me? Or talk to me? Why don’t you want to
know
me?”

The statue began to tremble. Its entire frame, though the same height as Aurelia, seemed as slight as a child’s. The shoulders came down. The flowers dripped from shaking fingers. Only now did her mother turn, tears flowing freely down her face. The beautiful dusky skin was thin and blotchy, and the matching dark eyes were red and ringed in shadows. “Because,” came the ragged whisper, “I didn’t know if I could survive ever having to say good-bye.”

Then her mother had never wished to leave? At least had never wished to leave
her?
Could that be possible? Could it be enough?

The anger that had propelled Aurelia through so many confrontations deserted her as she struggled to reconcile the emptiness in her head with the shaking, desperate figure before her now. Her mother was so thin—the bones in her arms and face protruding more than they had in the portrait in the hall. Intricate lace graced her throat. And embroidery with the same pattern trailed down the folds of her skirt to the hem.