Cinda Chima - The Exiled Queen

Han finished his meal and sat back, relaxed and sociable.

“You ready to go up?” Dancer said, having finished long before Han. As usual, Dancer was eager to go upstairs to read and study charms, away from the crowd.

Han, however, had no desire to leave the common room and hide out in their tiny, windowless room in the attic. It would be stuffy and hot, and they’d have to sit in the dark or pay for candles, since there was no natural light. Plus, one of the pretty servers had winked at him, and he was waiting to see what developed.

“Let’s stay a little while,” Han said, slathering butter on soft tavern bread, so different from their hard waybiscuits.

Dancer shrugged and nodded, yawning to make his position clear.

The priest had raised his peculiar spectacles to his eyes and scanned the room. When his gaze swept across Han and Dancer, he stiffened and fixed on them, his eyes unnaturally large and owl- like through the lenses.

The priest lowered the spectacles and glared at them. “Sinners!” he said. “Idolators!”

Han and Dancer sat frozen for a long moment. “Does he mean us, do you suppose?” Dancer asked without moving his lips.

“How can he tell we’re sinners?” Han whispered, aiming for a look of polite confusion. Was that what the spectacles were for? Identifying sinners?

The priest rose in a swish of fabric and stalked toward them, one arm extended, the other clutching his rising- sun pendant like a wizard might grip an amulet. “Repent, northerners!” he said. “Repent and accept the holy church and ye shall be saved.”

Han stood and nodded toward the stairs. Perhaps if they just retired upstairs, as Dancer had suggested, it would calm the man.

“Leave off, Father Fossnaught,” the gifted soldier said, grinning. “If you drove out the sinners, this place would lose all its patrons.”

Two other soldiers rose and gathered up Father Fossnaught’s books and papers, handing them to the priest. “You go on home and pray for them, all right?” one said.

The priest departed, flinging black looks over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Han said to the gifted soldier. “Does he do this very often?”

“Father Fossnaught is harmless— just a bit overzealous in sharing the good news of the Church of Malthus,” the soldier said. “No harm done, I hope.” He stuck out his hand, and Han took it, wondering if the soldier would notice the sting of wizardry.

In addition to leaking power, the stranger’s hand was heavily calloused from weapons. “Name’s Marin Karn,” he said. “I’ll buy another round to make up for your trouble.” He gestured toward the bar. “Cider, was it?”

Han nodded, seeing no way out. He wanted to decline, and he knew Dancer did too. If they’d gone upstairs to begin with, the incident would never have happened. But it seemed smart not to offend those who had intervened on their behalf. Particularly since they were soldiers. Particularly since this Karn might know they were gifted.

Karn fetched two mugs of cider from the bar.

“So, seems you two are northerners, from your speech,” Karn said, pulling a chair over to their table. “What brings you to Arden?”

“We’re traders,” Han said, following their established story. He took a swig of cider, which tasted more bitter than sweet. Must be the dregs at the bottom of the barrel. “We’ve got the finest fabrics, beads, and trimwork you’ll see in all the Seven Realms. Do you have a special lady friend? We got fancies that would win any lady’s heart.”

Karn shook his head. “No, no lady friend.” He eyed Han speculatively, then leaned close and said, “You wouldn’t have any magical pieces, would you?”

Han shook his head. “That an’t allowed here in the flatlands.”

Karn laughed. “Just checking, my lad. Have to ask. No harm meant.”

“You and your comrades,” Dancer said. “Are you king’s men?” Likely, Dancer wondered if Karn was inquiring after magical pieces in any official capacity.

“Us?” Karn shrugged noncommittally. “We’re sell- swords, between assignments, I guess you’d say. We’re waiting to see how it all comes out.”

Dancer yawned again, resting his chin on his fist, looking even more droopy- eyed than before. He’d downed his cider quickly, probably hoping they could go on upstairs.

Han took another long swallow of cider, draining it nearly to the bottom. There it was again, that bitter taste against the cloying sweetness. His mind seemed fuzzy and unfocused.

He looked over at Dancer, who now lay sprawled over the table, head down, his breathing deep and even.

“Guess your friend’s had enough,” Karn said. “He drank it up kind of fast.”

Dancer had, but cider didn’t have the kick that . . .

Turtleweed. Han blinked at Karn, clubbed by the realization. It was turtleweed, and lots of it, mixed into the cider. Turtleweed would knock you out in no time.

Gripping the hilt of his knife, Han yanked it free. He tried to rise, but his body no longer responded to his commands. He was overpowered by fatigue, his eyes drooping, shut of their own accord.

“There, now,” Karn said, wresting his knife from him. “Guess that cider was stronger than you thought. We’d better help you two home.”

“Leave go. We’re staying here,” Han mumbled in protest. His lips felt numb.

Karn thrust his meaty hand under Han’s shirt and grasped the serpent amulet.

“Aaaaagh!” he shrieked, letting go of it and slapping his hand against his thigh.

Han curled protectively around the flashpiece. “Leave it be, you angling lully prigger, or I’ll . . .” He trailed off, unable to remember what he meant to do.

Karn made no further attempt on the amulet. Instead, he and one of the other soldiers hauled Han to his feet. Two other soldiers dragged Dancer out the door.

What is this? Han thought, clutching his amulet and ineffectually scuffing his feet against the floor. What do they want from us?

And then he didn’t think anything anymore.

* * *

Han awoke to a crashing turtleweed headache and a sick stomach. Sign of poor- quality product. He’d never dealt in that kind of stuff.

He lay on a straw pallet on a stone floor, covered with a filthy wool blanket. Once his head stopped spinning, he gingerly sat up. It wasn’t easy— his hands were bound tightly together behind his back, his ankles bound also. He tested the knots, trying to slide his hands free or rub the cords loose on the stone floor. He got nowhere, ending with bruised and skinned wrists. His wrists were wrapped so tightly his fingers felt like fat, clumsy sausages. He was all dressed up like a warm mark on Temple Day.

Dancer lay facedown a few feet away, similarly bound, still sound asleep. They lay in a dark room, faintly illuminated by the moonlight that sieved through the tightly shuttered windows and under the door. Cool night air leaked through imperfections in the wall and ran along the floor, chilling Han. There was no stink of the city in the air. The rattle of branches overhead and chirp of crickets said they were out in the country.

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