King's Exile: Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound: Book 1 Read online

  He rolled over and got comfortable again. The night went on, but his determination faded shortly after his anger. He had been brave enough to get this far, but would he have the courage to continue? He did not fall back asleep quickly.

  #

  Seven days after he had fled the castle, Dax leaned on his walking sticks atop a wooded bluff overlooking the Merrywell. He gazed down at his aunt and uncle’s farm beyond. A gray heron fished in the shallows at a bend in the stream below. A hawk turned lazy circles above the pastures. It was midafternoon, and small, puffy clouds dotted the sky. His stomach rumbled as he thought about sitting down at his aunt and uncle’s table to have a real meal this evening with his cousins beside him. He wanted to dash down the hill to the bridge on the road below, but he hesitated. After traveling for days, caution was a habit. Something did not feel right, so he found a sheltered spot to sit. He watched, not sure what he was looking for.

  The house, large and sturdy, had been constructed of roughhewn timbers darkened with pitch. The timbers sat on a foundation of carefully laid river rock. The wood and stone kept the house snug in all weather. He remembered the exact layout inside, and that thought triggered memories of playing with his cousins around the great room’s warm hearth the winter before last. Trainers, grooms, and the other help lived in a large wing at the rear of the main house. Farther back from the road stood three large horse barns. They were the largest of the outbuildings, and their heavy log walls, like the house, were chinked against the weather. The large privy had been protected from the weather too, but other buildings, including a large hay-drying barn, offered protection from the wind and rain, but little else.

  As he studied the scene and remembered, he noticed other details. Suddenly it came to him what was wrong—no horses. The farm had many fenced pastures around all three horse barns. Every time Dax had visited in the past, there were always horses grazing, colts frolicking, and trainers working. Now there was nothing. Everything around the farm was still.

  He sat there in shock. At last he understood what had happened. He could scarcely breathe. The men on the road had been taking horses back to Tazzelton. He had been monumentally stupid—again! With Dax gone, his aunt Lesley Tremayne, his father’s sister, was next in line for the throne, and his cousins after her. How could he have not realized Mathilde’s plot to seize the throne would include eliminating all direct lines to the Ambergriff throne? After a pulse of recrimination, he forced himself to stop thinking about his mistakes and consider his own situation.

  He took a deep breath and leaned back against the tree. He tried to gather his thoughts. The farm appeared deserted, but was it? Suspicious now, Dax tried to imagine what the plotters had done. Mathilde wanted to eliminate immediate claims to the throne, but could she also have had a suspicion Dax would head for the farm after he disappeared from the castle? If so, the gang might have left someone behind at the farm in case he showed up.

  Dax found a more comfortable spot where he could watch the farm from under cover. While he watched, he thought about his predicament. Where could he go? After his days on the road, food and shelter were his biggest concern. He was a boy who had been raised in a castle. While he had enjoyed hunting trips with his father and Herne, they had not prepared him to survive on his own in the wild. It would be hard. Maybe it would be impossible. He had not yet had any success catching or killing game with his crude bow. Besides, if he stayed in the wilderness, survival would be a full-time job. His frustration increased, and with it, a tendril of fiery wrath tightened his chest. He had been forced to flee, but he could not stay where he was. No, his anger demanded more than that. He had to fight back. He had to do something besides just survive. What could he do to make things difficult for the plotters?

  The only thought that calmed the ire burning in his heart was the idea of heading back to Tazzelton. He would think about a plan on his way back. The castle was the heart of the plot and the center of danger. But perhaps in a city surrounded by people, it might be easier for him to escape notice than if he stayed in the sparsely populated countryside. Could he become just another young tough on the streets? How tough would he have to be? His anger flared. The answer was easy. He would be as tough as he needed to be.

  He would return to the city, but he had to get down to his aunt and uncle’s farm. First he wanted to know if his aunt and uncle and their family were imprisoned there. If not, maybe he could tell if they had been taken back to the castle with the horses. As soon as he had that idea, another thought chilled his heart. Could Mathilde have ordered the whole family killed on the spot? He remembered the men talking about doing nasty work. His fury surged, but he forced himself to stay still and wait until the anger passed. He had to keep control. This was not a time for fighting. He had to think.

  Once he had ordered his thoughts, he knew he was ready. He needed a closer look at the house, but how should he get there? From where he sat, he had only a limited view of the farm. He backed down from the crest of the rise until he was hidden behind it. Heading away from the road, he stayed under cover. He kept moving until he could see past the blocky horse barns. The north pastures were empty, but that told him nothing new. If he wanted to find out what had happened to his aunt and uncle, he had to get to the house. He also needed supplies. His walk to the farm had taken much longer than he had planned, and he had eaten most of his food. If the farm was deserted, he would find food in the pantry or root cellar. Unfortunately, if anyone was in the house, he would not have any hope of getting into his aunt’s pantry. While he watched and pondered, his suspicions were answered directly. A man left the house to visit the privy—a man dressed rough like the others he had seen on the road. Sent by Mathilde, the man was a threat, but now Dax knew what he faced.

  #

  Although he was impatient to act, Dax waited until near sundown to approach the house. Earlier in the day he had scouted the Merrywell upstream to find a place to cross without using the road’s bridge, which was visible from the house. Once across the stream and onto the farm, Dax made his way closer to the house and hid himself in a patch of brush north of the horse barns. He had a good view of the house from there, and he kept careful watch on the comings and goings. During the day he had seen at least three men staying inside the house itself. He had not noticed any activity in the other outbuildings except for the smallest horse barn closest to the house. One of the men went out there two different times, and the last time, Dax had been close enough to hear horses nickering and muttering to themselves as the man tended to them.

  When the sun dropped below the trees and dark shadows offered concealment, Dax moved closer yet. He stayed low and under cover as he moved toward the barn where the men’s horses were stabled. Once he had the weathered wooden walls between himself and the main house, he crouched under a hay rake and listened for sounds from inside the barn. Satisfied that nothing was stirring, he slipped through a back doorway into the barn. The darkness inside brought him to a halt. For several heartbeats he thought he had waited until it was too dark, but his eyes adjusted to the gloomy light. Soon he could make out shapes around him. He smelled hay and horses, but he did not relax. Standing stock-still, he focused on absorbing everything around him before he moved. Herne called it listening with your ears and your skin.

  Finally Dax was satisfied that he was alone with the horses. He picked his way toward the front of the barn, avoiding the large objects he could see, but he moved his feet carefully to avoid stumbling over a discarded harness or other scraps. The horses heard him, and they shuffled in their stalls. Moving slowly, he stayed as far from them as he could. They had been fed not long ago, but they were nervous at the intrusion. Calm, he thought for his own sake and for the horses. Slow and calm.

  Where were the men’s travel packs? Most people kept them near their horses, but Dax worried they had taken them inside. He hoped the men had found his aunt’s kitchen with a full pantry of food and had left their packs, with their travel rations, behind. H
is uncle also had a large wine cellar. He smiled to himself. If they found the door under the stairs that led down to the wine cellar, Dax might even be able to get inside the house. Best not count on that, he told himself cautiously.

  The travel packs were on the farrier’s bench just inside the main door. In the shadowy gray light, he counted four packs, not three. Four? Had they left a guard in the barn? Dax stayed silent and listened intently. The only sound came from the horses shifting in their stalls from time to time. From the direction of the house, he heard voices. As he listened, they got louder and more raucous. When he heard a few bars of a tavern song, badly sung, he smiled to himself. The wine cellar indeed. He could not imagine a man spending the night in a barn while his comrades carried on in the house.

  Light was fading fast in the barn. Time to move. He went through the packs quickly. Among a variety of gear, there were ration sacks with enough biscuits to fill up his own sack. He collected food from the packs but scattered the rest of the contents across the packed dirt floor of the barn. He left one pack spilled out on the bench to make it look as if night scavengers had gotten into the men’s belongings. He looked longingly at the horses and thought about riding back to Tazzelton. No, that would be too dangerous. Let the men blame a ground squirrel for getting into their packs. That would keep them from imagining a night raid by their rightful sovereign lord. A missing horse? No ground squirrel would take a horse.

  The sun was gone when he emerged from the barn, but the deep-blue sky was gaudy with a grand array of orange clouds in the west. The men were still singing in the house, and he decided to chance a look inside. He left his pack behind and crept closer. A fire burned in the hearth in the great room, and he saw three roughly dressed men cavorting in the firelight. Where was the fourth? A shape turned over on a divan across the room, and an empty bottle fell from the man’s hand. One down already.

  No family members were in the great room. He tried the other windows, but there were no lights in any other rooms. Even though the men were well into the wine, Dax did not have the courage to enter the house to see if any captives were in other parts of the building.

  Dax retrieved his pack and went back past the barn where the horses were stabled. He headed back the way he had come, but he stumbled over loose dirt. He froze, then knelt down and felt around the patch of raw earth behind the barn. On his way in, he had glanced at it and thought it was a garden. He could see little in the dim light, but this dirt was freshly turned, raw, and unworked. Now that he was no longer focused on his earlier concerns, he knew nothing was planted here. No crops, anyway. Could his aunt, uncle, and cousins be buried in this rude plot? Maybe the men had injured a horse and put it down because they could not take it with them? He tried to hold on to that last thought, but visions of the first horrific possibility haunted him.

  #

  The little light that remained allowed Dax to return to the hidden campsite he had prepared. Earlier it had seemed a little too close to the house, but from what he had seen of the men, any early search of the area was unlikely. He planned to be up and on his way at first light. Hungry, he tried one of the biscuit rations he had taken from the barn. It was hard and tasted old. He ignored the harder bits that crunched as he chewed. The biscuit could not compare to the provisions he had taken from Ma Cookie’s kitchen, but it was food. He could live on it.

  Dax pulled up the collar of his coat and leaned back against the stump of a tree to relax. The emptiness of the night stretched before him, and it echoed his own emptiness. His plan had dissolved into shambles. The last of his family was gone. He had no one to turn to—only himself. The world was big and dangerous. He was small and powerless. He tried to summon his earlier grim determination, but he only managed a faint memory of resolve. It did nothing to bolster his flagging courage. What did it feel like to be brave? He pulled the dragon’s egg out of his pack and put it under his coat next to his chest. Its warm affection reassured him, and gradually he relaxed.

  He lay there in the dark and saw an image of his father lying wasted and dying on his bed. Aunt Lesley stood at his father’s side. He turned to say something to her, and the image faded—a dream. He blinked in the darkness and turned to find a more comfortable position on the hard ground. Wide awake now, Dax thought about the events of the last week and despaired. His grand idea that he could avenge his father and take his rightful place on the throne had faded just like the dream. What could he hope to accomplish? How could he even survive? What had happened to his aunt and uncle and their family? He tried to put these thoughts away because he needed sleep.

  A flash of light startled him, but he lay still. In a moment he heard a low rumble of thunder. Lonely and afraid, he lay curled up with his egg clasped to his chest. The first drops of rain patted on his coat. He wished he were somewhere warm . . . and safe. The egg was warm . . . comforting. Slowly he relaxed. He was exhausted, and now with the reassurance of the egg, his fears faded. He fell deeply asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Kolla Teirtu used a pad to open the oven door and smiled in satisfaction at the golden crust covering the pie inside. Done. She pulled the steaming pastry from the oven and put it on the counter. Redolent with the aroma of savory stew, the fragrance filled the kitchen. She poked the crust with a finger . . . warm and flaky. She smiled. Perfect. Again. Kolla knew she baked the best meat pies in the neighborhood. She and her husband received invitations to many parties, and she always took a pie. There was never any left to take home.

  The pie needed to cool, and she set it in the open window. Across the alleyway, she saw Mrs. Tutts taking in some wash and waved. Mrs. Tutts pointed at the pie, then rubbed her stomach and licked her lips. Kolla smiled and made a dismissive gesture in return. Their children were of similar ages, and the families were close friends. She made a note to invite them over for pie sometime soon, but this pie was going to the temple festival tomorrow evening.

  The sun had been on the back of Kolla’s home all afternoon, and now that the pie was done, she needed to get her wash taken in. She gave the empty basket a little twirl on the way out to the clothesline. She enjoyed bringing in a basket of fresh-smelling clothes much more than lugging the heavy basket of damp laundry out to the clothesline. Piece by piece she took down the garments, giving each a quick fold before she dropped it in the basket. She had hung the clothes close together because she had had so many items to wash today, and her basket filled up quickly. The last item was the throw blanket for Mit’s comfy chair, which he kept by the fire. She tucked its edges in around the sides of the basket to help keep any loose items from falling out.

  On her way back into the house, Kolla noticed an errant clothespin on the ground and stooped to pick it up. As she straightened, she glanced around the corner of the house. A young boy stood there staring up at the window where the pie sat. His face was gaunt, and his clothing dirty. A typical street urchin, she thought. She was about to raise her voice to chase him away, but for some reason she watched a moment longer. The boy looked hungry, and his attention was focused on her pie. She expected to see him take a furtive glance around and make a move to take it. She was ready to shout at him, but he just stood there and looked at it.

  Finally the boy dropped his chin and stared at the ground a moment before he walked away. Kolla edged forward and kept him in sight as he made his way down the alleyway to a shadowed nook where he disappeared. Ah, she thought to herself, he’s hiding in the back of Gerege’s old tool shed.

  She headed on into the house. Not the only funny thing going on either, she thought. Three weeks ago a guardsman had stopped at every house along the street, asking if anyone had seen a young boy. He had told a story about a nobleman’s son who had been stolen away, and they were searching the town. The story had not sounded right at the time, but maybe this was the boy?

  The guardsman had worn a uniform with a yellow sunburst, which no one had seen before. The man had explained it has a special group of the guard, the Sun-Blaze Guard,
created to protect the castle. If he was some sort of a special castle guard, what was he doing down in New Town? The last few days, people had seen any number of patrols of guardsmen in the same uniform on the streets. She had heard stories about strange happenings up on the rock, but she had not given them much thought. It was not as if the doings of the boy king were any never mind of hers. The less common folk got involved with goings-on at the castle, the better off they were.

  Her pie was out of danger, and her thoughts turned to her husband. Mit would be home before long from his job at the mill. They always closed a little early at week’s end. As she climbed the back steps, the boy’s face haunted her thoughts. Hobel had been just about that age when he had died of the fever. She and Mit had three other children. Sar, the oldest, was married now, and Kolla hoped for news soon of a grandchild on the way. Still, the vision of the boy staring at her pie made her think of Hobel and the way he had loved her pies.

  Back in the kitchen, she made a decision. Tonight her family would feast on the meat pie, and she would bake a fresh one in the morning. Her perfect pie filled the kitchen with its warm, rich aroma, but without another thought, she sliced out a generous piece, put it on a plate, and set the plate in the window.

  A few minutes later she went back to the window. The boy was standing there again looking at the pie. He started back when he saw her, but Kolla held up her hand and made an offering gesture at the pie and smiled. Although the boy’s face was grimy, his teeth were white when he smiled at her. She felt a connection when he looked at her with his dark eyes from under the brim of his large hat. She thought of Hobel and smiled again.