Flight To Exile Read online

  “Looks like you got the trick of it,” a thin voice cut through the silence of the street.

  Galen spun around to squint into murky shadows. “Who’s there?” he snapped, dismayed that he had not sensed this presence so close to them. What was happening to his perceptions on this moon? “Step out where I can see you.”

  A slight figure separated from a pile of empty crates and Galen found himself looking down into the grime-smeared face of a street urchin, a young girl. “I’m thinking it’s you that don’t want to be seen,” she said. “What do you want with Aletha? If you plan to do harm on her I’ll have my friends after you. I have friends bigger than you, even. Plenty of them!”

  “You know her?” Chor lifted Aletha into his arms again.

  “Everyone knows her.” The girl tried to peer around the twins. “Is she all right? Aletha? Say something!”

  “She is not all right. Can you get us out of here?”

  “Course I can. Where’d you want to go?”

  “Where there aren’t as many questions.” Galen looked up, alerted to movements in the dark. “More people coming.”

  “It’s the emissaries, no doubt in my head. Dazai’s mercy, don’t be using any more of your magic. They can smell that from leagues away.”

  “Who? How would they—”

  “Come away, quick!”

  The twins followed her deeper into the alley and finally up a creaking staircase clinging precariously to the side of a warehouse. The door at the top was unlocked and they slipped into the building. Through some cracks in this loft they saw orderly rows of wooden kegs and stacks of crates lined up near the loading doors below. Something down there exuded a heavy, earthy odor, not unpleasant.

  “Safe here for a while,” the girl said. Busying herself with a candle, she gestured toward a pallet in the corner of the room. “No one knows about this place. Belongs to a friend. He’s very rich.”

  “I’m sure he must be,” Galen said doubtfully and lowered Aletha onto the pile of rags that appeared to be someone’s makeshift bed. He covered her with a blanket before shrugging off his sodden vest. The urchin ladled some water into a cup, obviously at home in this cozy, if shabby, squatter’s hideaway. The snug space was cluttered and in need of a broom, but it boasted a brazier for heat and cooking, and there were some treasured possessions, or perhaps stolen goods, displayed on upended crates. The drizzle outside allowed a little moonlight to slant through a grimy pane set into the wall.

  “You live here?” Galen lifted Aletha’s head to help her drink some of the water.

  “No, just a hiding place. My dad and me have a place down the way a bit.” The girl knelt beside Aletha and gently shook her shoulder. “Aletha? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Poisoned,” Galen said. He tugged her blanket aside to place a hand on the woman’s belly and the other on her chest. With a glance at the wide-eyed urchin he shifted it higher, near her throat. His twin touched her temples.

  “Hey! What are you about, Mister?”

  “Shh.” Minutes passed and, although distracted by the child’s restlessness, they managed to lend Aletha more of the energy she needed to combat the poison in her body. There wasn’t much to spare. They released her and fell back, slumping wearily against the rough wooden wall behind them.

  “We need a place to hole up for a while,” Galen said, his eyes closed. “Something tells me you know your way around.”

  “Do I! I’ll have you hidden away so good, the damn emissaries wouldn’t find you in a hundred years ever. They been looking for her for days. My name’s Yala. Yalarian, really, but that name’s bigger than I am, Dad says.”

  Chor pulled Aletha’s blanket to her chin and accepted a jug from Yala. After taking a long draught from it, he passed it to his twin. Galen winced when he felt the bite of the cheap liquor. When its warmth reached his tired limbs he took another drink. “I am Galen, and my brother is called Chor. What are these emissaries?”

  “How can you be unknowing of them? They’re evil hounds, who sniff out the likes of Aletha. She’s been hiding from them for years. I been helping her. But you’re not so smart. You don’t ever use magic when there’s emissaries about. You might just as well be running up and down the street, yelling ‘Descendants! Over here! Come and get us’. Gods, everyone knows that!”

  “My magic doesn’t frighten you?” Galen asked, amused. His experience with children was limited to seeing them from a distance, if at all. They were rarely found roaming the Homeworld on their own, and this one seemed especially adventuresome. Short yellow curls tangled by disassociation with brush and comb stood out in all directions and her clothes were a collection of rags topped by a magnificently embroidered vest several sizes too large. Pale and likely undersized for her age, Yala served as a good example of what he had seen so far of the motley population breeding among the wharves in this town.

  “Nah, around here no one’s ever been done evil to by no demons. Aletha helps us when she can. My dad’s got a bad leg and she’s made it good as new, almost.”

  “She’s a healer?” Galen asked. Aletha’s thin dress seemed hardly appropriate for the weather and certainly not for someone working as a physician. She was small, he thought, although possessing some rather interesting curves. A mop of dark curls surrounded an impish face made alluring by large, gray eyes. Considering that he had nearly purchased her as a pleasure slave, if not a magic user, he had begun to make some assumptions about her occupation in these dreary streets.

  “Aye, although for a coin she’ll look into your soul and reveal your future.”

  Galen lowered his head to hide a chuckle. “I see now why the slaver valued her so highly.” He had been surprised when his search for Aletha on this moon had led to finding her subsisting as a member of the Phrar’s lower caste. But what had he expected? Another pampered queen, perhaps, ensconced in her gilded tower, adored and feared by all whose talents fell short of her superior mind.

  He smirked at the disheveled ragdoll on the pallet beside him and imagined her first meeting with the La’il, the perfumed and powerful perfection that ruled the Homeworld. It was something to look forward to.

  “The others’ll be damn glad when they hear she got clear of that slaver. It was a bad commotion, that’s for certain. Only I heard tell it was emissaries who took her, not slavers.” Yala shifted her eyes from Aletha to study the twins. “What are you, anyway? Descendants, for sure. But you’re not from here. Can I have a look at your crossbow, Mister? Where’s your company?”

  “This is pretty well it,” Galen said. Not for the first time had someone here mistaken him for a member of some roving band of mercenaries or guard for hire. He studied his twin who, in spite of being his mirror image, seemed to be able to strike fear in just about anyone by means of his scowl. Perhaps the crossbow was a little excessive. Their attempts to learn how to use it these past few days had been utter failures. Chor tossed her the weapon. “It’s yours.”

  Delighted, the girl turned the bow to admire its fine design. “We’ll be eating well this month!”

  “You don’t want to keep it?”

  “Who would I shoot? Food we can always use.”

  Galen fished a small crystal from a pocket. “How about this: you don’t tell anyone what happened here tonight and I give you this. You’ll eat well for another month.” He had no expectation that the scamp would be able to keep this secret but he hoped for at least a few days’ silence. Enough for the woman to recuperate and for them to journey to the launch site in the mountains where they would make the return jump down to the planet. If nothing else, he thought, the small fortune he offered the child would keep some people fed for a while.

  “That sounds like a fine deal.” Yala held the crystal into the light of the candle to assess its quality. Her bright eyes shifted to Galen. “You’ll look out for her?” she said, for the first time sounding unsure. “She’ll be well, I mean? You mean no harm?”

  Galen smiled. “None. Just find me
a quiet room. Somewhere where they don’t ask questions and where she can get well. And some real clothes for her. Then forget you ever met us.”

  Chapter Two

  Aletha woke slowly, aware of her pain before she opened her eyes. A steady thudding noise in her head matched the dull throbbing of her starved and poisoned body. Although it was dimly lit, she saw that this room was a rented one, serving various functions without any hint of permanent occupation. Two beds, some chairs, a table and little else. Wooden walls and floor and rough-hewn beams below the ceiling told her that she was probably somewhere on the harbor side of Phrar. The familiar, comforting sound and smell of the ocean confirmed this. She closed her eyes again, exhausted.

  She was not alone. There was someone near the window; another now approached her cot. She felt a confident peace of mind here, a serenity as calming as the sound of the dawn owls gliding among the rooftops. She recognized the creaking sound made by the leather he wore as he bent over her for a moment and then sat on the edge of the bed.

  “How do you feel now?” he said, an edgeless accent coloring his speech. She blinked at him tiredly. His face was an interesting collage of angles and panes that might have made his features harsh were it not for the gentler lines of jaw and chin. His eyes were soft, almost lazy, in the way that made women wonder what thoughts went on behind them. Although he seemed not much older than she, his dark hair was shot through with strands of gray. He smelled faintly of wood smoke and something like herbs or some strange, sweet spice.

  “I’ll live. Tired. Aching all over.” She peered around him at his twin. That one did not seem to care about her state of health. He had not even turned around when his brother had spoken but remained leaning against the window frame, his attention on something outside. She wanted to get another look at his face, remembering the brief glimpses she had had of the twins’ remarkable likeness the night before. The gray-streaked hair was the same; on the other twin it was neatly gathered into a short queue. Her eyes moved beyond him when the nearby door caught her attention.

  “What the…” Here was a simple wooden door with a flimsy lock, the type to be found in any inn of this sort. Most people would not find it extraordinary. Aletha, however, saw something not meant to be noticed. The lock stood out in the shadowed room as though someone held a lens over it. She could see every scratch on the metal and every shadow cast by the heads of the nails holding it in place. A slow smile tugged at her lips. It seemed that the twins, too, knew a trick or two. The whole lock seemed to be more there than any other object in the room and she knew that she was not the only demon here. She turned her attention back to the man sitting on the edge of her cot. “I’ll be all right in a few hours. I know some things about healing.” She raised her hand to explore her bruised forehead.

  “You do? And is that all?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Galen. My brother is Chor. We are traders. From the north.”

  Their eyes held, both of them amused by this game.

  “I would have taken you for an Inlander. And you trade in slaves? Or are you looking for a fortune teller?”

  “Telling fortunes is not our custom. Nor is slavery.”

  “What customs do you have in the north?” she said. “Is it your custom to bewitch locks?”

  His eyes shifted to the door. “Most people wouldn't notice that. Do all fortune tellers here see as well as you do?”

  “Most fortune tellers do well to keep promising wealth and happy marriages to the gullible,” Aletha replied, her mood suddenly sour. “True sages are more feared for their talents than paid for them.”

  He helped her up to lean against the bed’s headboard, which she managed with a few winces and groans. Once she was upright, the thin blanket tucked around her frail body, he pulled up a chair and described what had happened after she had blacked out. She had only fragmented recollections of having been hurried through Phrar’s back alleys and none of her stay in the warehouse. A smile curved her lips when he told her of Yala’s part in her rescue.

  “Those weren't frightened peasants back there,” he said finally, reaching for a jug of water on a nearby shelf. “You're not a fortune teller and they knew it.”

  She took a cup from him but simply stared into it as if to find her words there.

  “You can trust me,” he said. “Why are these emissaries after you?”

  “I’m a Descendant. Why else would they be after me?”

  “What’s a Descendant?”

  She frowned. “You don’t know? You must have traveled a long way.”

  “We have.”

  She considered her answer for a while. “You’re right, I'm not a seer. I’ve never known anyone who can look into the future and it’s certainly not something I can do. Sometimes I find bits of, well, I don't know, magic I guess. It helps me understand what they feel, which I suppose makes it seem like I know what they are thinking. It isn’t difficult then to imagine things to come for them and make it ring true.”

  “Clever.”

  “But there are times when this magic will let me do other things. It isn't much but it frightens people anyway. I try to hide it. I don't know how to explain...” She looked at the door. “I guess I don't have to explain it, do I?”

  He shook his head.

  “Years ago, many people here were demons like me but they were driven away. All we have now are stories about sorcery and anyone with any knowledge of the magic is hunted, killed. Or sold into slavery. We are the Descendants of the magic users. They were powerful back then, much more than we are.”

  “There are more here like you?”

  “No, not like me. I wasn’t born in this town. I was a foundling and raised in the islands, where we aren’t hunted. It’s just too far for them to bother. Some of the people out there know about the magic. They use it to make themselves stronger or to keep warm. But…” she bit her lip.

  “But you can do more, right? For some reason you can use it to heal, or know who’s coming down the hall outside.” He jerked a thumb at a rodent rustling busily behind the wooden wall. “You can see things, smell things others can’t and your ears are also very good. You can probably move things around without touching them.”

  “Yes!” she whispered. “It scares me. There is no one who can tell me what I am, or why these things are. It’s dangerous to even speak of it.”

  “You’d be killed by these emissaries, whatever they are?”

  “No priests in the north, either?” When he gave her only a bland smile she shrugged. “The emissaries are a circle of men whose only mission is to hunt and destroy Descendants. So I hide the things I do. Or most things. I help my friends when I can. People who treat me well and who aren’t afraid of me.” She dropped her eyes. “But how have I repaid them? When I was taken, those men killed two of my friends. They're dead because they tried to help a demon!”

  He shook his head. “Demon! You're not a demon and neither are we. Not even your young friend believes that. It’s a talent. A gift.”

  “A gift! What good is this gift if I can’t rely on it? Two people are dead because of it. Why could I not even notice those men in time to save them? Some talent!”

  “Talents need to be practiced.”

  Aletha closed her eyes against the still throbbing headache. “Look, whoever you are, I have to sleep. I can't think while I'm like this. I need to put myself back together.”

  He nodded and rose. “While you do that I'll get us something to eat.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you here?”

  He walked to the door. “Later. Get well first.” He passed his hand over the lock. “You need to leave this town. Soon.”

  Aletha stared at the door after it had closed behind him. “Advice easier given than followed,” she mumbled.

  “Why is that?”

  She turned her head, the sudden movement sending a new jolt of pain through her skull. She had forgotten about the other man in the room. He had left hi
s post by the window and now stretched out on the second bed.

  “Where would I go? What's your name again?”

  “Chor,” he said in her direction but his eyes were focused on some far distant point. He seemed preoccupied, as if hearing something she could not. He raised a hand to wave it indifferently at the door, which locked again. “You should sleep now,” he said, apparently about to do the same.

  When he said nothing more, she closed her eyes, not just to find sleep, but to use her gifts to heal her body. Slowly, she felt herself mending, the bruises fading and the terrors of the previous night receding. She fought off the last of the poison before she fell asleep, still wondering about this pair of twins and what might have brought them here.

  * * *

  She woke to the certainty that a long time had passed. There had been nightmares and a strange aching pain as the effects of the slaver’s drug faded, leaving her weak and thirsty. Moments of lucidity had followed restless sleep and at times she had felt someone’s hand on her forehead to soothe her dreams.

  Aletha turned to see one of the strangers at the table, his brother asleep on the other cot in the room. He looked up from his meal as if he had sensed her wakening.

  “How do you feel?” He gestured at a bundle placed at the foot of her bed.

  She rose gingerly, annoyed by the wobbly feeling in her knees. The parcel contained new clothes and a few items she recognized. “These are mine,” she said when she found sandals, a comb and a small, bejeweled dagger she had stolen somewhere and liked too much to trade.

  She turned to find him watching her, his eyes on her legs. “Seen enough?” She gazed at him with an arched eyebrow until he turned his back to her. Quickly, she discarded the thin gown and slipped into blouse and tights, covering them with a long tunic tied at the sides. “I’m not sure I want to know how you knew these would fit me,” she said, grateful to be appropriately dressed again.