Banished (28 page)

Still watching me, he says something to Thorn, and as the words leave his mouth, it’s as if he exhales dark black smoke, which hangs in the air, before dissipating around them.

Am I seeing things? I will Thorn to turn and see me, but he doesn’t seem to see anyone except Istvan.

He’s nodding again and his features look slack, his eyes drowsy. I stand and move towards them but only manage a few steps. Magic blazes across my skin as I walk into an invisible barrier.
I let out a gasp and look down at myself. I’m cocooned in fire, flames covering me from head to toe. There’s no heat, but I can’t move my legs. I hold up my hands to my face and
watch in shock as the ghostly flames run up my hands to play between my fingers. Through them I can clearly see Istvan’s calculating expression. I’m panicking now, wondering why no one
is running to help, but maybe they can’t see the flames? He touches Thorn’s arm, still murmuring to him.

The furl of blackness reappears on his shoulders and snakes across Istvan onto Thorn, where it briefly hesitates before soaking into Thorn’s skin. It’s only visible for a second
before it’s gone and Thorn looks his usual self, if drowsy.

Whatever spell Istvan’s cast, the Fae prince seems completely out of it. He can barely keep his eyes open. The men start moving, but it’s slow because Thorn can’t seem to make
his feet move properly.

I open my mouth to shout a warning but my throat is dry and aches badly. I reach out in desperation, swallowing against the band now constricting my throat and try to scream.

The satisfaction on Istvan’s face when he looks at me almost chokes me. He lifts a hand towards me in a pulling gesture and I feel the wildness of the magic nestled inside me respond to
him. He reaches deep into the secret place where I’ve worked so hard to keep the tainted magic locked away. This pit is where my real power and magic lie, the stuff I’m so scared of,
the stuff I know can destroy. Here, then, is the real well of magic I inherited the night I tore down the hill outside our village, crushing the Unseelie knight and his goblins.

I’ve not called on it since and it’s grown, a large reservoir of dark slick power and it answers Istvan’s summons with an eagerness that makes me sick.

I sense his surprise at finding my secret, but his look is triumphant. He gestures extravagantly, as if scattering something into the air. And as he does, my magic rips from me in the form of
blinding, searing heat. I scream as it ignites the ghostly flames Istvan summoned, and then pain is all I know.

I’m distantly aware of shouts and screams. I claw at my chest and throat, thrashing wildly. I’m burning, burning on the inside and the outside. I can’t breathe. I’m
dying.

As I writhe in agony on the plush carpet beneath me, the last thing I see before my sight goes black is Istvan and Thorn walking out of the tent.

‘Thorn!’

The shout is torn from me as I leap across the black abyss yawning at my feet. I have no idea where I am or how I’m leaping across fissures a good eight metres wide. I know that it feels
as if I’m on fire, as if every single particle that makes me me is trying to tear its way out of me. But I’m still running.

I can just see them ahead of me. Thorn and his captor. I don’t know how they are moving so fast, across rugged volcanic terrain. I remember watching a programme about Iceland after that
volcano blew and I recognize the black slabs of rock and the strange apocalyptic scenery. I’m slowing down and my breath is tearing through my lungs.

I stop and fling my arms back and scream my rage into the turmoil of clouds above me. There’s a slow roil of thunder and a bolt of electricity slams into me, into my head, splitting me in
two.

‘Stop fighting! Kit!’ Some very rude swear words are dropped and I realize that someone is trying to contain my wild swinging fists. I wrestle loose from a scrum of
bodies and stand, chest heaving, heart pounding, staring at everyone staring at me.

I don’t see Thorn. I do see everyone else: Aelfric, Dina, the generals, the Fae princes forming a barrier against the open flap behind them, but no Thorn. Olga is there too, watching me
with inscrutable hazel eyes.

‘Where is he?’ I rasp at them. ‘Thorn? He was here when I fell. Where is he now?’

There’s a shared look that tells me they think I’ve lost my mind. I clench my fists and do my best to compose myself.

‘Kit, you have to sit down, relax for a bit.’ Marc’s face is pale and he’s sporting a livid scratch mark along his cheekbone. ‘You just collapsed, screaming. Your
heart stopped beating and you died, Kit. You died.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ I say, although my voice wavers and I feel actually pretty crappy. ‘That man, Istvan, tried to kill me. And now Thorn is gone.’

‘Istvan?’ Aelfric looks around the group. ‘He was here a moment ago.’

‘Do you even know what he is?’ I ask Aelfric. ‘He’s the traitor. He must be the one that sent Ioric to kill me and take Thorn.’

‘The girl must have knocked her head.’ Aelfric waves a hand dismissively. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Perhaps ask for one of my physicians to come
see to her.’ There’s movement by the tent flap and I sense someone running off to do their king’s bidding.

‘No! You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ My anger has taken me well beyond caring about royal protocols. As I advance on him, I notice one of the guards shadowing
my movement to the side, tracking me in case I attack the High King of Alba. I hold my hands out, to show that I’m carrying no weapons. ‘I saw him, talking to Thorn, I saw the darkness
seep into your son, Aelfric. Did you never stop and think for a second who the traitor was in your camp? He was right under your nose all along, listening in on all your talks, all your plans. How
could you not know this?’

Aelfric’s face is pale and I can’t be sure if it’s shock at the way I just spoke to him or at what I’m telling him.

‘Where is he, do you think? Did he nip out to the loo? I don’t think so. He’s managed to take your son, right from under your nose. He’s been hunting Thorn for days and I
kept him safe. Yet he’s here for not even two hours and he’s been taken. Not good going, your majesty.’ I feel as if I’m pushing my way through molasses. My limbs are
quivering with fatigue and my head is pounding with the start of a migraine that I know is going to knock me out for at least twenty-four hours.

The tableau in the tent remains frozen as I stalk towards Aelfric. I can spot when my words hit their target and I actually revel in the shock I see on his face. But it’s Dina who reacts
first.

She lets out a moan and spins to two anxious-looking Fae guards hovering in the background. She says something to them and they speed out of the tent.

‘What did you see?’ Her voice is low and measured but her horror is clear in her dark eyes. ‘Girl. What did you see?’

‘Istvan, talking to Thorn. And Thorn listening like I’ve never seen anyone listen to anything before. With everything inside him.’ I frown at her and think hard. ‘He
walked your son out of here and you didn’t even see.’

‘Do you know where Thorn’s been taken?’ One of the Vikings moves forward through the crowd and comes to stand in front of me. He looks like Thorn, but older; I don’t know
how I know it, but I know I’m talking to Petur, Aelfric’s eldest son. The entire tent, including my family, is now staring at me as if I’ve got the answer to the world’s
biggest riddle.

‘I don’t . . . I have no idea,’ I say. Without my anger to fuel me, I suddenly feel very embarrassed to be the centre of so much attention.

Dina looks visibly shaken and clutches at Aelfric’s hand for comfort.

‘Find where they’ve gone,’ Dina says, turning to Petur. ‘I can’t lose him, not again.’

Suddenly everyone is talking, but not to me. Then Marc is by my side, supporting my weight. ‘Olga hit you with electricity, to start your heart,’ he says softly, in my ear.
‘You need rest.’

‘I can’t rest. He took – that man took Thorn.’ But I know I need to rest, because if I don’t I’ll break.

There’s a commotion by the entrance, angry voices and then one of Dina’s guards is back inside, stalking towards us. She’s soaked through and her face is pale. She drops into a
brief bow and clasps her hand to her chest in salute.

‘My queen, Lord Istvan has killed three of the sorcerers and incapacitated the others. He also killed their bodyguards.’

‘What of the gateway?’ Aelfric asks, looking genuinely shocked. ‘Is that secure?’

The girl looks from Dina to Aelfric. ‘I don’t . . . we don’t know, sir. There is some damage.’

The chaos that hits the tent gives me my chance. With everyone talking and questioning the guard, I slip out without anyone noticing. Or if they do, they don’t think anything of me
leaving. I duck my head against the driving rain and run along the planks that have been put in place to keep our feet dry. The entire camp is in uproar. Guards and soldiers thunder by; everyone
looks armed to the teeth and focused. I stay out of their way as much as I can and try and make my way back to our tent, but darkness has fallen and I get turned around several times.

I eventually stop at a junction between tents to try and get my bearings. I ache inside where Istvan reached in and tore at me, ripping through the wards I had placed there, guarding the
darkness only I knew of and didn’t like thinking about or even acknowledging. I lean on my sword and try to catch my breath. The world whirls around me and I have to step to the side to be
sick, heaving up the godawful wine Megan gave me and whatever food I had left in my stomach.

I stagger upright, my head feeling lighter, and I cling to my sword. I have to concentrate, to think. If Istvan damaged the gateway, how then did he get himself and Thorn to Alba? It makes sense
that they’d go there because really, where else? And damaging the gateway meant Aelfric would struggle to follow, plus being massively inconvenienced in getting his forces to Alba to confront
his brother.

Three soldiers standing nearby have witnessed my rather unlady-like throwing-up and are watching me curiously. The middle one, slightly shorter than me, with a wiry build, moves towards me and
his smile is friendly, if tentative.

‘You are Prince Thorn’s friend,’ he says, in careful accented English. ‘How can we help you, my lady? Are you lost?’

At any other time, it would give me a kick to be called my lady by a guy in full medieval armour – and to be looked at in a way that indicates definite interest. But right now, a sense of
urgency is burning through me and I smile weakly.

‘I am a bit, thanks for asking.’ I rub my wet face and push my tangled hair out of my face. ‘What is in the tent?’ I ask, suddenly so cold that I don’t mind begging
a favour for something to protect me against the weather. ‘Would you have a spare cloak or something in there? I’m soaked.’

The guard nods to his companion, who ducks in to fetch a neatly folded garment.

I swirl the thing around my shoulders and, even though I’m feeling wretched, once the cloak’s settled around me, I feel as if I can walk a hundred miles. I catch the fabric between
my fingers and see the spell woven into it.

‘Thank you,’ I say, nodding gratefully. ‘And can you tell me how to get to Lord Istvan’s tent? I really need to find Prince Thorn.’

The younger soldier directs me. ‘You can’t miss it, my lady. Just keep ahead here and where the road forks, take the right fork. The tent will be the only one that looks dry in this
infernal weather.’

I leave them quickly, with my thanks. The cloak, I discover, actually has a hood. I throw that up and hurry, feeling marginally better and warmer. The camp is busy and although I see plenty of
soldiers, no alarm’s been raised.

I wonder why things aren’t in more of an uproar. What is Aelfric playing at? Surely he would care enough about his son being kidnapped to launch a full-scale search? I come to the
junction, go right as instructed and it’s pretty evident which tent belongs to Istvan. It is the only tent that’s remained dry under the constant rain.

I unsheathe my sword and walk towards the open tent flap. The interior is simple: just a cot, a table and chair.

I push forward into the tent but an invisible wall halts my progress. I look around and find a small rock, which I throw inside the tent. There’s a bright spark from the barrier and the
rock drops to the ground, neatly sheared in half.

I ponder if it’s worth persevering, then there’s noise ahead and I see a group of soldiers moving towards me. In front marches a small, determined-looking man in an odd pointed hat.
If a bulldog ate a wasp, it would wear just that expression.

I retreat to a safe distance to watch.

‘Get in there and tear it apart,’ the pointy-hatted man tells the soldiers. ‘Show me everything you find.’

The first two soldiers approach the tent as directed and, just as I call out to them to be careful, there’s a blinding flash of light and I’m lifted off my feet.

A passing soldier lets out a surprised yelp as I land in a heap at his feet and he stops to help me up. ‘Are you all right, my lady?’ he asks, his eyes searching my face. When I nod
and look as if I can stand on my own, he leaves me and runs to help his comrades, who are far more in need of assistance than I am. I check to make sure none is seriously hurt before hurrying
away.

I have no idea where I am in relation to the main tent or our tent and everything looks wet and dark. I stop and lean against a tree and take a breath, rubbing my hands together. I close my eyes
for a second, trying to sort out my head. Leaving the royal tent with no clue what I was doing was possibly stupid, but it was better than staying there watching people argue.

I take some deep breaths to calm myself. If I were a bad guy, where would I be? I ask myself. How would I make my getaway?

It’s likely that there is another gateway nearby – how else would Istvan have left without trace? A hidden one. But how would you even find it? Megan always told me that my magic lit
up the sky when I used it. It was just a thing she always said, but it now makes me wonder. What if she’s right? What if I could track down the gateway by focusing on the leftover glare of
the magic used to operate it?