Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (47 page)

Exile to Exile

A
dria awoke more suddenly than she would have liked, to the sound of rustling chain mail. As she blinked to awareness, she frowned a little.
I wonder how long I will feel alarmed at any indication of Heiland soldiery.

But of course it was not her father’s Knights approaching, but only Twyla, carrying a slender coat of mail and livery in her arms.

“I slept too deeply,” Adria explained aloud, to Twyla’s apologetic face, lit by a single soft candle.

Twyla smiled wryly. “I should think it a welcome change, Highness. How long has it been.”

“Fair enough,” Adria admitted, stretching her arms. As the maid lay the armor upon the dressing table carefully, Adria murmured uncertainly, “This is considered dress for sea?”

Twyla shrugged. “Steward Falk had it sent up for you, so I assume it is what all the seaworthy swags are wearing this season.”

“Very amusing,” Adria sighed dryly as she slid onto the floor rug beside the bed. She yawned once, eying the heavy coat of chain as Twyla swept it again into an over-encumbered dance pirouette.

“Oh, Sir Knight, you are simply dashing in your fine mail. Tell me, is it the salt water winds that have rusted it so, or has this merely become the fashion in the north?” Twyla laughed, then started as the candle in her hand nearly fell from its holder.

“My one day returned, and my maid nearly sets my room on fire.” Adria shook her head. “Do please be careful...”

Twyla set the candle and the mail down and pouted. “Her one day returned, and my mistress awakens in a foul mood, immune to my once-lauded wit and charm.”

Adria smiled, placating. “If we’re sailing the wide and windy seas simply to attend a Kelmantian ball, I will be pleasantly surprised. Perhaps the sailors and Knights aboard will even be able to tutor me in the current dances of the royal courts, and we’ll find our arms and armor merely ceremonial.”

Twyla answered, now more soberly, “I think that is the reason for your mail in the first place. To show you’re part of the same... ceremony.”

Adria blinked, considering a moment, then shook her head. “I will stand with them, but I am not one of them. I have not been knighted, and they will all know the difference as well as I. I am a woman, and recently an exile. Dressing as one of them will be… a mockery of their order.”

“I am... surprised you have such respect.” Twyla said.

Adria waved the implication away with a gesture. “Thank Falk for his considerate gift, but I am certain it is his alone. I imagine that everyone knows exactly how I dressed upon entering the keep. Bring these to me. Anything else I will have to earn from them with their respect, and they from me.”

Twyla nodded, and then waited a moment before answering, “I will do as you ask, and with all respect. But our time grows short together, Adria. I am not Steward Falk, and I am not your brother. I would ask you not speak to me as if I were.”

“I...” Adria blinked, a bit confused, and waved her hand, dismissive. “I only wanted you to communicate my reasons.”

Twyla shook her head. “No. You are trying to justify yourself.”

Adria stretched her arms above her head and frowned her doubt.

“You are cross today, Adria Idonea,” Twyla sighed. “It is not how you should want to leave, and not how you must join your brother.”

Adria nodded.

Twyla had certainly not finished. “You have refused the mail, whatever the reason, and I fully agree it is the best decision. And I understand you wish me, and Falk, and anyone and everyone else to understand why. But consider this... you are neither a knight, as you have said, nor is your presence likely wholly welcome.”

Adria could not have interrupted if she wished.

“What you are is royal, and an heir to this kingdom. This is what they must understand, and it will not happen by words alone. They must respect you before they can understand you. And they must learn this in the absence of justification. If any Knight needs justification to draw his blade or raise his shield in your defense, then you will be alone.”

For a moment, Adria could very much see the image of Kaye in her daughter’s expression, the set of her shoulders, the strength of her words.
Every bit her mother, and… something more.

“A prince needs no justification,” Twyla concluded. “A prince is born a prince, and so long as she acts as one, she will prove herself one.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Then, they both realized they had crossed their arms, and then both moved to uncross them, and the silence and tension was broken again with laughter.

“I shall miss you, Twyla,” Adria sighed. “Even more, this time.”

“Only one day returned.” Twyla smiled, wrinkling her nose. “And already I am abandoned.”

Adria nodded, embracing her friend. “It’s not too late, Twyla… come with me…”

“My true friend and mistress,” Twyla said. “And who would keep your home safe for you?”

Adria nodded, happily, sadly, as they broke their embrace.

“Please promise me,” Twyla nodded as well, smoothing Adria’s hair. “One day, return.”

The winds from Mount Chancer scraped the cobblestones clean. The bare stars shone startling bright in the pre-dawn cold. The withered black tree and fountain of the stony apples of her childhood — some of these, all of these, brought an old song to Adria’s lips.

She hummed the low part, then whistled the high part which followed, but she did not take up the words as she wound her way out of the citadel and through the city on the steed Falk had loaned her at the stables.

Adria passed the harbor gate without hindrance and made her way down the torch-lit switch backs and along the river road which led to the inner bay, where all but the largest of vessels might dock when approaching the castle.

She relished this last time to herself, the final moments in the land of her birth and life so far.

The Knights had been readying themselves in the courtyard, though neither Hafgrim nor any of the Sisterhood seemed to have been among them. Adria had drawn little notice from them, and certainly none of them had invited her to join them.

Though it might have benefited her to make their acquaintance early, Adria had done nothing to invite or initiate the possibility. Still Aesidhe-clad, she had refused not only the mail, but any of the offered Heiland garb. And she even rode full in the saddle, instructing Falk to make the change. Though an act half-scandalous for a Heiland female, he had, to his credit, taken her instruction without hesitation.

It comforted Adria to remain as she was, and she realized that this, more than the reasons she had given to Twyla in her officious proclamation, was her reason for not yet adapting. Her pack lay behind her, just as she had brought it, her black bow and quiver strapped beside, and her Moresidhe-made blades sheathed at her belt and boot.

She had made two concessions to Falk’s ministrations, however — opposite her Aesidhe weapon hung an Aeman long sword, its grip wrapped in gold wire, and in her pouch beside this she had put a bag of Heiland coins, a pragmatism which she might otherwise have neglected.

To her right, the still-dark countryside was dotted with a few points of light from those who arose before dawn in the hamlets, camps, and toll stations along the roads and paths in the valley below Windberth. Adria focused on the horizon, imagined she could still see the deep forests of the South, though she knew better, even were the still snow-covered Steps of Amos not in the way.

My last chance
, she realized. 
I can leave this horse tied to a torch post for the Knights to find when they descend. I could disappear into the darkness and rejoin the People. I could say that my brother would not see me, and speak the truth.

She smiled at her whimsy, for it was nothing more. An Aeman mind might accept such words as truth, but not an Aesidhe mind.

Even a child’s promise must be realized by the adult she becomes
, Adria thought, turning her head back down the road to where the lanterns of the harbor and its ships grew nearer. 
Whether Hafgrim would see me or not... whether he would have me at his side or not.

Soon Adria could see that her brother and the Sisters had gone ahead, as was probably appropriate, and stood waiting upon the dock beside the gangway of The Echo, a somewhat larger vessel among several now docked in harbor — and not the only one hastening to ready itself for the first tide, which Adria knew had to be measured with some care.

Adria dismounted near their group, then unstrapped her pack from the saddle, shouldering it as a dock hand led the steed to a crane ready to raise him up and lower him into the hold of the ship.

The three Sisters first commanded Adria’s attention, robed in violet, cloaked in fine heavy black furs, with diplomatic white sashes and trim. Despite the uncertain light of a few torches and lanterns, Adria could see that they were young, so much so that Adria was forced to disguise her surprise as she turned her attention to her brother.

He was in full ceremonial dress, as Twyla had put it — not merely the mail, tabard, and cloak of a Knight of Darkfire, but with a half-plate suit covering his torso, arms, and thighs, and even a plumed helm, crownless, cradled in his arm. He had grown strong enough to wear this armor well, and betrayed no discomfort with the weight that was usually reserved for imminent battle or tournament melee.

He wishes to mark himself as more than a knight, when even this status is all too fresh.

They exchanged nothing more than a careful nod just then, and Adria turned her attention to the nearest of the group, a sailor with the markings of a naval captain, and the only one present with more than twenty-five years of life behind him — and probably twice that, in fact.

It was to him that Adria first spoke. “You captain this vessel, Sir?”

“I do, Ma’am.” He bowed. “My name is Falburn.”

“Captain Falburn, I am Adria Idonea, Princess of Heiland, and I humbly ask your permission to board.”

After a beat, the captain bowed again. “Of course, Your Highness...”

It was then that Hafgrim interjected, “This is a sensitive mission, Captain. Perhaps some... oath of loyalty should be administered.”

“You forget,” Adria responded at once, glancing quickly to the Sisters and then turning her eyes to meet his. “I am already here fulfilling one.”

There was only silence. Adria had preempted the captain’s need to respond with her own words, and now it was up to Hafgrim.

I could not have hoped for him not to challenge me at all
, she reasoned. She could see that he was calculating, trying to take some measure of her, and for a moment, she thought he may challenge her further. But he said no more, turning a little aside in ambivalence if not acquiescence, and Captain Falburn politely inclined his head and waved his arm for Adria to board.

Her eyes remained on Hafgrim until she passed, and she wondered, If he had thought to challenge me, why did he not used the opportunity of a dinner with me to assess me beforehand? But one glance at the Sisters had answered this. She knew how they were trained, and these three were young and unpracticed. Despite their efforts, Adria knew at once that they were under orders to allow her to board — and that Hafgrim could not have denied her, no matter what he wished.

Taber wants us both in Kelmantium... or at least aboard this ship.
 Adria sighed as she walked up the gangplank. 
It has been decided, and I fear I may be making a terrible mistake.

A fair-haired ship boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years, bowed as she stepped upon the main deck itself. The sleeve of his tunic brushed the planking, and his face showed only a little curiosity at Adria and her attire. He gave no greeting, which was not unexpected, and simply turned to lead her to her quarters below the forecastle.

Though small, her room was private — a consideration which evoked both surprise and relief in Adria.

Either I am given some real respect for my status, or someone wishes to make it easier to murder me in my sleep without all the bother of needlessly awakening anyone else.
 The cabin contained only a wooden bunk with wool covers, as well as a square chest that also served as a table for a bowl and small lantern, the latter of which the lad lit from his own light with a bundle of rushes.

Adria thanked the boy, who bowed again, smiling pleasantly, and closed her door behind him. She noticed the latch upon it, but knew it would do little to deter a willful intruder. She set her pack upon the bunk with a sigh, took up her lantern, and returned to the deck.