The Exiled Queen (25 page)

As they rounded the side of Mystwerk Hall, light flared under the gallery, catching Han’s eye. He squinted, making out a robed silhouette amid the shadows, an angular face illuminated from below.

Overhead, stone cracked with a boom that set Han’s ears to ringing. Without looking up, he launched himself into Dancer, sending both of them flying to a sprawling landing on the grassy quad.

Han rolled to his feet. A jumble of roof tiles and broken stone littered the ground where they’d stood moments before. Palming his knife, he charged toward the gallery, running a zigzag course so as to make a difficult target. But nobody was there.

“What is it?” Dancer said, just behind him. “What did you see?”

Han shook his head and put his finger to his lips. He looked back toward the walkway.

It appeared that a large second story gallery had broken off and shattered on the cobblestones. Some of the pieces were bigger than his head. Any one of them could have killed them had they struck true.

As they watched, a crowd of students and faculty rounded the corner and clustered around the fallen masonry. They didn’t notice Han and Dancer hidden in the gloom.

Neither of the Bayars were there.

Han touched Dancer’s shoulder and jerked his head toward their dormitory.

All the way back, Han kept his knife in one hand, his amulet in the other, his senses on alert for an ambush along the way.

Blevins looked up as they passed through the common room. “Dinner over already?” he said.

“Has anyone else come back from dinner?” Han asked.

Blevins shook his head. “You’re the first.”

They climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Han closed the door at the top of the stairs and rechecked his magical barriers. Soft-footing it down the hallway to his room, he eased the door open. No one there.

Crossing to the window, he looked out. Excited voices still floated from the crowd around the rubble near Mystwerk Hall.

Han turned around, to find Dancer in the doorway.

“Somebody was standing under the gallery on the far side of the quad,” Han said. “He cast a charm right before the gallery came down on us.”

“Are you sure?” Dancer asked. “The wind might have loosened one of the cornices. It’s been howling all day.”

“Whoever did it wanted it to look like it was the wind,” Han said.

“You didn’t see who it was?”

Han shook his head. “Somebody tall, in wizard robes.”

The light from the amulet had momentarily illuminated their attacker’s face, but it had extinguished so quickly he couldn’t be sure who it was.

He had a guess, though. Fiona would have had plenty of time to get into position. Or Micah could have hurried out the front door in time to be waiting for them when they came around the building.

They’d been lucky this time—but who knew how long their luck would hold?

FRIENDS

AND ENEMIES

Amon did review the roster of students in Wien House and Isenwerk, newling cadets and secondaries, but there were no Alisters listed. Cuffs could have been enrolled under an assumed name, but if he’d just arrived at Wien House, surely Raisa or Amon would have spotted him again in the dining halls or libraries. When that didn’t happen, Raisa grudgingly conceded that she’d been mistaken.

“Just remember: stay off Bridge Street,” Amon said.

As weeks went by, Raisa began to relax in her identity as newling cadet. She’d never fool anyone who knew her well, but to anyone else, a cadet’s tunic and chopped-off hair seemed to be a remarkably good disguise for a princess. She encountered a few of her countrymen in the dining hall and on the quad, but no one recognized her.

Taim Askell was as good as his word. The curriculum he and Amon had cooked up for Raisa kept her running from early morning until she fell into bed exhausted on the top floor of Grindell Hall. Not even Hallie’s snoring could keep her awake.

She couldn’t complain. She’d asked for it—no—demanded it. And now she was paying the price. There were no daydreamy sessions of stitchery or chamber music or painting landscapes in the garden. There were no lazy afternoons gossiping over tea on the terrace.

There was no terrace.

The lack of a dorm master at Grindell Hall might have encouraged rule-breaking, but they were all too exhausted for that. As fourth-year commander, Amon strictly enforced curfew on his fellow cadets, though he was rarely on the premises himself. Raisa was always half asleep by curfew anyway, trying to read a few more pages before she doused her candle. Some nights she did fall asleep, draped across her desk, her face mashed into the pages of her history book. Maybe some of it would soak in through her skin.

She stayed off Bridge Street, even though she was sorely tempted when Talia and Hallie invited her to go out with them. She told herself she didn’t have time to go to taverns anyway. At least that way she could avoid Talia’s relentless matchmaking.

She quickly grew to dread her recitation in the History of Warfare. Lectures by the masters and deans were scheduled three times a week, with recitations every day. The recitations were moderated by proficients, who led discussions and administered oral and written examinations. So they had a lot of power, especially over newlings.

Her history recitation was led by an Ardenine proficient named Henri Tourant.

A younger son of a thane, Tourant had apparently decided that an academic post provided opportunities he wouldn’t have at home—opportunities to bully and humiliate students during the day and pursue other pleasures at night.

Tourant was a tyrant, and he had a typical Ardenine attitude toward women—arrogant and condescending. He made his opinion clear early on—women should be enrolled elsewhere, not wasting the time of the faculty in Wien House and the other, more manly academies. A thousand years since the Breaking, and Arden still couldn’t seem to get over the fact that they had once been ruled by a woman.

Tourant was a small man—in stature and in every other way. He had thin, cruel lips and curling brown hair that he wore long. It was already thinning on top, though he was only a few years older than Raisa. His face was rather reptilian, with a receding chin and a pointed nose.

He was also something of a dandy, and often removed his scholar’s robes to display his finery.

Tourant strutted back and forth at the front of the classroom, doing most of the talking during what was supposed to be a discussion. He rarely stayed on topic and seemed to have only a nodding acquaintance with the facts. A real discussion would have been helpful, but Tourant’s recitation was a waste of time.

Raisa mostly sat in the back row and did homework. But today the topic was magic in warfare, and she had trouble keeping her mind occupied elsewhere and her mouth shut when Tourant rattled on, spewing misinformation like a broken waste pipe.

I’m learning self-restraint, Raisa thought, keeping her clenched fists hidden in her lap. A valuable skill.

It got worse. A rather wild-eyed temple dedicate from Arden proclaimed that the Demonai warriors went into battle naked. “Though they are fabulously rich, the northern savages wear all of their wealth as jewelry,” the dedicate went on. “They fight in the nude save for massive gold collars and bracelets that proclaim their status. And quivers for their arrows.”

“Now that is something I would like to see,” Tourant said, grinning. His gaze slid over Raisa, cold and nasty as a demon’s kiss. “You’re a half-blood, Morley, right? Ever go into battle naked? Is the idea—to distract the enemy?”

Raisa pushed away an image of Reid Nightwalker galloping through the trees in the buff. “If you think about it, sir, you’ll realize that can’t be true,” she said, choosing each word before she spit it out. “Anyone who goes naked in the mountains would be cold and uncomfortable even in summer. In a northern winter, he would freeze to death.”

“They are accustomed to the cold,” the dedicate said. “They don’t even feel it.”

“We are accustomed to the cold,” Raisa said. “Much more than flatlanders. But there are limits. The clans are famous for their metalsmithing, so they do wear jewelry. But they also wear leather and fur and woven fabrics, too,” she said, recalling the great looms in constant use in the lodges.

“Some say the savages grow heavy fur in the winter, like wolves,” Tourant said, as if it were a matter of real debate among scholars. “That’s why they call them the wolf queens.” This was met by a scattering of laughter, but many of the students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “Is that true, Newling Morley?”

“That’s not true!” A statuesque girl with coppery skin and a Tamric accent spoke up without being called upon. She wore Isenwerk robes and elaborate jewelry. “My family deals with clan traders all the time. The one who calls on us is well educated and fully clothed; certainly not a savage—though he does drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, now, Newling Haddam,” Tourant said, winking at her. “Sounds like you’re sweet on him. When you say he drives a hard bargain, what exactly does that mean?”

Haddam flushed angrily and opened her mouth to speak, but Tourant pointed at another student, who was eagerly waving his hand. “Gutmark. What do you think?”

“The queens of the Fells are witches,” a solemn boy from Bruinswallow said. “They charm the men into letting them rule.”

“The queens of the Fells rule for the same reason that the kings of Tamron and Bruinswallow rule,” Raisa said. “Bloodlines, history, education, and ability.”

“There’s demon magic in the northern mountains,” a Southern Islander said. “That’s where the Demon King come from, and that’s where he died, and his bones, they infect the land to this day. The soil blisters your feet, and plants just wither in the ground.”

“Plants grow there,” Raisa said. “Just not the same plants that grow here. Where do you think all your medicines and scents come from?”

“Sorcery,” the Ardenine dedicate said, with a pious shudder. “I wouldn’t wear those wicked perfumes. They cloud the mind and lead to sins of the flesh. After I graduate I am going to be a missionary. I’m going to go and live with the mountain savages and help civilize them and bring them the true faith,” she said.

Raisa tried to imagine this naïve girl facing off with her father, Averill Lightfoot, Lord Demonai, and attempting to civilize him. Her grandmother, the Matriarch Elena Cennestre, would devour her alive.

“Well, good luck to you,” Raisa said, rolling her eyes. Then flinched as a voice boomed from the back of the room.

“Proficient Tourant, have you ever been to the Fells?”

Everyone swiveled to find Master Askell standing in the back of the lecture hall.

Tourant colored. “No, sir, it’s hardly I place I would—”

“Who has been to the Fells?” Askell said, looking down over the rows of seats. “Stand up.”

Raisa slid out of her chair and stood. She was the only one.

“No one else? Not even briefly?” Askell said. Everyone stared at the floor. “Anyone have friends, relatives, business associates from the north?”

This time Haddam stood in a rustle of fabric, glaring at Tourant.

Askell sighed. “Sit down, Morley and Haddam.” They did. “As master of Wien House and faculty here at Oden’s Ford, I like to think that I play the most important role in your education. But that’s not true. What makes Oden’s Ford so effective is the diversity of its students, who come from all over the Seven Realms.

“Smart cadets will embrace this opportunity. They will shut up and listen to the experts among them, those who speak from personal experience. In future, whether you meet them again in war or peace, you’ll be better prepared to do your job. Those that rely on evidence will succeed. Those that embrace myths, innuendo, and rumor will fail. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” rolled through the hall.

Askell smiled faintly. “Carry on, Proficient Tourant,” he said, then turned and walked out the door.

Raisa turned back in time to catch Tourant’s poisonous glare. Well, she thought. I’ve made an enemy.

After that she saw a lot more of Master Askell in her classes. Especially the recitations. Raisa would notice a shift in Tourant’s attitude and demeanor, and look up from her note-taking to find the master leaning against the back wall of the classroom.

She’d turn away from the chalkboard in her finance class and Askell would be conferring with her teacher in the back of the room. At the end of language recitation, she’d spot him sitting among the students, and wonder how long he’d been there. He would often slip in unnoticed during the heat of discussion or in the midst of an oral examination. He’d leave again when he’d seen whatever it was he’d come to see.

Raisa’s performance in the physical part of soldiering continued to improve, but she realized she’d never be adept at it. She was too small and lightweight for most flatland weapons, even though she’d been remade with a layer of muscle. She was a decent archer and a skilled rider. She excelled at geography, way-finding, and survival skills, courtesy of her training in the camps.

She was also good at finance, a benefit of her time in the clan markets.

She liked sharing a room with Hallie and Talia. As they spent more time together, they began to treat her more like a peer and less like a breakable object.

Hallie seemed like a grown-up compared to her fellow Wolves. She was big, loud, strong, and gregarious, but she would go silent and sad when conversation turned to her daughter. She had a small sketch of Asha that she pulled out and studied several times a day, as if afraid she’d forget what her daughter looked like. She sent letters every week, and small gifts, never knowing if they reached their destination.

Raisa asked Hallie to see Asha’s picture one night when they were both up late, studying for exams.

“She’s beautiful,” Raisa said, examining the drawing of a solemn-looking girl with enormous blue eyes and a halo of fine, pale hair. “Who did the drawing for you?”

“It was Corporal Byrne’s sister, Lydia. He asked her to make it when I signed up for school and joined the Wolves.”

“It must’ve been a hard decision. Coming here, I mean,” Raisa said.

Hallie shrugged. “I was in the regular army—the Highlanders—when I found out I was expecting.” She looked at Raisa. “I an’t a fool, I was taking maidenweed, but it’s hard to keep a schedule when you’re in the army, traveling all the time.

“I came home to have my girl, but I needed to work to support her. All I know is soldiering, but I hated going back to the army because I’d be away from her all the time. I thought of joining the bluejackets, but you need schooling for that these days.” She hesitated, as if deciding how much to share. “I thought I’d have to try and find a good streetlord, join a crew. Only, if anything happens to me, Asha’s on her own. I keep her and my mam and pap, both.”

These people make gut-wrenching choices every day, Raisa thought. And I thought life among the working class was simple.

“Then Speaker Jemson at Southbridge Temple said there was something called the Briar Rose Ministry,” Hallie went on. “He said he could get me money to pay my fees at Wien House if I could get in.”

The Briar Rose Ministry! Raisa’s head came up. “Really?” Impulsively, she gripped Hallie’s hands. “Oh, that’s wonderful news!”

Hallie squinted at Raisa, tilting her head. “Well. Right. So you can guess the rest. I got in and here I am. And every Temple Day I buy a rose from the flower girl on the bridge and leave it on the altar for the Princess Raisa. And when I get back home, I hope I’ll be assigned to her service. I can be with Asha and I can keep the lady safe.”

“Maybe it will happen,” Raisa said, clearing her throat.

“Maybe it will.” Hallie tucked Asha’s picture away.

In class, Raisa studied battle strategies developed by Gideon Byrne centuries ago. Lila Byrne had designed the prototype of a double-edged rapier that was still in use today. Dwite Byrne had made innovative use of mounted soldiers at a time when the cavalry had fallen into disuse.

Raisa and Amon had this in common: they both felt the pressure of being the living heirs of an ancient dynasty of accomplishment.

Amon was skilled with weapons, and performed well in his course work, but he wasn’t the biggest or strongest or richest of the cadets in his class at Oden’s Ford. He didn’t win over his classmates by buying ales and ciders for them on Bridge Street, then staggering home arm in arm with them in the small hours.

He radiated a calm focus—like he knew who he was and where he was going. He was a steady mooring in a sea of change. He was honest and he kept his word, and he was unrelentingly fair. It made people want to follow him.

I can learn from him, Raisa thought. I tend to stir people up, not settle them down.

Amon continued to train her in sticking, using the staff Dimitri had given her. Some days it was all she saw of Amon—he left the dormitory before she crawled out of bed, and she was usually fast asleep when he came home. As class commander, he attended endless meetings and participated in the governance of the school. That was the story, anyway. It still seemed to Raisa that he avoided being alone with her.