Galthain's Bones (Exile, #1)

Contents

Books by Krystine Kercher

Galthain’s Bones

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Ballad of Bjorn’s Quest

The Wager

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Appendix

Glossary

Excerpt from A Shadow on the Land

Galthain’s Bones

Exile, Book One

Chapter 1

"Hear the Dreamsender’s promise! After five hundred years, a son of my house will return to contend with wicked Vodan. He shall bear Eiathan’s dagger that I hold in my hand. He shall declare himself as Eiathan’s Heir.

Eiathan’s Heir shall love truth, be humble, gracious and just. He shall be quick and valiant, but only of middling height. He shall have fought and vanquished the dragon. His name shall be Bjorn. His kin shall attend him.

By his willing sacrifice shall you be freed from your terror of the elves. The Dreamsender shall avenge Eiathan Prince’s death, destroying Vodan. Eiathan’s Heir shall rule, victorious, and all Kandia rejoice."

Thus spoke Galthain Prince, the Seer of Astarkand, as he departed Astarkand, this year 1134 KGA.

Yes, but—am I the Bjorn? Bjorn Horsa asked himself as he leaned against a worn tree-trunk pillar near the back of the Thain’s Hall, staring at the lengthy inscription carved into the granite blocks that formed the load-bearing wall directly behind his father’s large chair of state on the far side of the large room.

An outsider might have mistaken the chair for a throne because of its size. Cunningly fashioned of raw, twisted tree-limbs joined together with no visible pegs, nails, or rope, the chair was otherwise very plain. Form followed function: Herri Horsa was a large man with broad shoulders and a hefty frame. He needed a large sturdy chair to sit in, so he had provided one.

Forty-three mismatched chairs, benches, and stools created two rough circles that began at Herri’s right and wound around to end on his left. More benches and stools were stacked along the walls. A thain moot to confirm an heir would bring out more than two hundred thains and their heirs to fill the room to standing room only capacity. Today’s business wasn’t all that exciting. Bjorn knew his father was pleased to see even forty-three thains show up to discuss it.

Herri Horsa leaned forward, and slightly to the left as he listened to something one of the thains sitting across the circle from him said in a voice almost too quiet to hear. Thain Edelbert’s naturally quiet voice had diminished to a whisper as he aged. Bjorn stood nearer Edelbert than his father sat, but because the thain’s back was to him, he couldn’t really hear what the man said.

Herri nodded, and said, Good point, Edelbert. We can’t have quarrels over wells getting out of hand and spoiling relations with our desert neighbors. Come to supper. We’ll see what we can do to address this source of irritation before it boils over again.

Oh, that was the matter with the water rights out by Plainstree. Bjorn allowed his eyes to wander back to the inscription as he heard Edelbert say a little louder than before, Perhaps if you sent Sir Kyle? in a wobbly, hoarse whisper.

Herri waved his hand, palm down, dismissing this suggestion. Oh, I’m sure Sir Kyle could solve this for us, but...is he really needed there? Between us, we should be able to find an excellent solution to the problem, which I’m confident you’ll be able to put into effect without further ado.

A smirk tugged at the edges of Bjorn’s lips. Thain Edelbert’s efforts to avoid dealing with conflict were legendary. A sharp dig in the ribs from his older brother, Knute, reminded Bjorn to keep his expression under control. He risked a look past Knute to where Hans and Melchior also waited and listened to the deliberations under way. Their faces properly showed no hint of emotion or interest in the proceedings.

Bjorn and his brothers served as pages during Thain moots: carrying messages, fetching water and refreshments, more paper or ink for the scribe, or anything else the moot needed. Their father viewed attending the meetings as necessary training for when they came of age and were confirmed as thains in their own right. He expected them to listen and remember the topics under discussion, and to be able to dissect all of the important arguments afterward. He also expected them to show proper respect and to keep their expressions attentive and sober.

Bjorn suppressed a bored sigh.

Late afternoon sunbeams inched across the floor from the open doorway. In a nearby shady corner, a sleepy hen stood and ruffled her feathers, cocked a beady eye in the direction of a brace of hounds, and bustled back out of the open doorway. One hound opened his eyes, stretched and yawned, sniffed toward the circle of chairs, and flopped back down again with a quiet whine.

Herri smiled in his sons’ direction. We’re almost through for today, he said.

A long shadow spilled into the doorway from the left and stretched rapidly across the floor, followed by a slender slip of a girl with deeply tanned skin and black braids. Sunshine limned her form, making it hard to see her face, but Bjorn recognized Kera, the Seeress from Lost Creek from the easy sway in her hips as she walked. She had joined the Traders the spring before while they were out on their yearly trading route. This was her first spring in Hevla.

He nodded to her and smiled. She wasn’t all that much younger than he was. She deserved a smile. Besides, smiling was allowed when someone entered the thain moot to address the thains.

My lord thains, most estimable Horsethain, five hundred years ago, she said, A man with hair more white than yellow came down out of the passes from Taesleica and found this verdant plain. He was hard-worn by grief, and yet his was a powerful presence. His sons, his daughter, their families, and many men and women of your kind followed him. He set up a camp by the River Savria in the foothills north of Touffrie. When his people had been provided for, he took a deputation to pay his respects to the emir of Old Dracaena, and to request land-right. What transpired there, that brought his hoary head low in death before his time?

Bjorn froze. She hadn’t waited for permission to speak. The seers and seeresses of Lost Creek had never shown much respect for ceremony, but how would his father respond? After traveling with the Traders, surely Kera should know better.

Welcome, Seeress. As we all know, he was most foully mistreated and murdered. The Horsa dipped his head in courteous welcome. And then Old Dracaena shuddered and fell, and the desert claimed everything, Seeress, as you yourself know, having walked it. I assume you have a good reason for coming before the moot?

It is not my reason, but yours, my lord thains—and also the Dreamsender’s will. Where are the records of your house, Herri Horsa, of which this fragment carved upon stone is but the merest collection of scratches and gouges?

She made the prophecy sound like a mere nothing, but far from the gasps of outrage her words might have elicited, the entire moot hummed with excitement.

Bjorn held his breath until dizzy on the reason for that excitement. The Horsa’s greatest mystery, their most terrible loss, and she was going to reveal it to them!

A corner of her mouth twisted upwards. You will find them with him, buried in a field at the corner of the Street of The Well Diggers and the Street of The Dung Shovelers in Goldwater-that-was.

The gathered thains drew in their breaths with a loud hiss.

Bjorn heard Lars hiss too, and Melchior mutter at him. No one named the ruined city if they could help it. Once a fair, prosperous city thronging with people, Goldwater had become a place of terrible ill-omen. The maps in his father’s study now labeled it Deathwater for the poisoned river that had destroyed it.

The girl cocked her head. Surely you did not imagine him as buried in some lovely garden spot, attended by statues of angels or other reliquaries? Gentle sarcasm segued to a softer seriousness. By the time they buried him, your ancestors were fugitives running for their lives.

Herri gave her a sharp look, eyes narrowing as his fingers tapped the arm of his chair. Galthain Prince is held in the highest honor among us, Seeress. Had we known the whereabouts of his burial before now, we would have made great haste to retrieve his corpse and given him a proper burial with the full honors of his princedom attending him.

The Seeress nodded. One slender arm dropped as she pointed with the other hand—at Bjorn. Her eyes held Herri’s.

You have named your son well. His calling is upon him. Bjorn Horsa’s first task is to retrieve his ancestor’s bones—and—his writings. You named Galthain prince, which he most truly was. We of Lost Creek named him something more: Seer. His mortal remains, although you do them honor because he was your prince, hold not the greatest worth for you. His writings are invaluable. They must be recovered! They will see Bjorn’s feet set true upon the first steps of the prophecy’s fulfillment.

Bjorn’s jaw dropped open. So the prophecy really was about him, and it was going to come true! He wanted to jump up and down, and dance with glee, but of course, how could he, with Knute pinching his arm like that? He frowned up at his older brother as he sidled away, before turning back to Kera with a broad grin.

She ignored him.

Very well. Herri nodded. He looked around the circle at the members of the thain moot. This is a solemn and holy occasion to us. We shall each choose worthy men to accompany my son on this quest to recover our ancestor’s b—

The Seeress interrupted, My lord Horsethain, you may choose only six companions to attend him.

Several thains grumbled loudly.

Who is she to tell you what you may and may not do? Thain Gevan, Herri’s cousin complained from next to Herri on his left in the circle.

Bjorn tried not to roll his eyes. As a seeress, Kera could say anything, do anything, and not one thain cared how she did it as long as she was giving all of them what they wanted. Now that she was putting limits on her gift, though, of course Uncle Gevan would seek a way to use it to his own advantage.

Patience, cousin, Herri rested a hand on Gevan’s forearm as he frowned at the Seeress. I assume you have your reasons?

The Seeress inclined her head. "They are not my reasons, my lord thains, but the Dreamsenders’. His reasons are two:

As you know, water is scarce in the ruins, and not always safe to drink even when there is enough. You also know that those who scavenge for a living would feel threatened by a larger number, and gather to contest their efforts. You cannot safely send a large entourage befitting the prince’s station. An army would die of thirst or from poisoned water; a smaller entourage would be set upon, robbed and killed for their resources."

She looked in turn at each of the frowning faces turned her way. The Dreamsender assures you that seven may safely pass where more would not. Send seven.

Very well, we shall send only seven, Herri said, And we will gather a cortege at the Crossroads Oasis to await their return and to bear Galthain Prince respectfully here to rest with his kin. But we do not know the streets you have named. Will you also go with Bjorn?

She shook her head, her braids wiggling against her slender shoulders. This is not my task. I may not go.

Who will go in your place and show my son where to dig?

I will draw a map for Bjorn. If asked, Aldrachan might send Master Giles. He has lived in the desert and knows their speech. He can introduce you to those who might be useful; to those who will know the way.

Master Giles was a large man with a very ugly face. When he smiled, people tended to forget his size, but when he frowned—Bjorn repressed a shudder. Master Giles was also a very capable fighter with his fists and feet, as well as with a quarterstaff and his wickedly curved sword. No one crossed him. He would be a very good man to take along.

For the first time since she entered the Thain hall, the Seeress looked directly at Bjorn. You might also take Ser Anafi with you. She pronounced Ser ‘sair,’ in the manner of the desert folk. Ser Anafi was a scholar and poet. Ser was a title, but it was also his name. He was very famous. He wasn’t a knight, but the desert people didn’t care for Kandian titles, nor did they care how odd it sounded to Kandian ears to have a desert person named a ser. A scholar was a ser to them, regardless of how any Horsa felt about it.

The scribe from the Crossroads? Bjorn protested. But he’s old and frail. What if he dies on us? Surely I will be blamed!

The Seeress shrugged. Ser Anafi is tougher than he looks, but you are free, as always, to ignore my advice.

Ser Anafi goes, Herri’s tone brooked no further objection, If he is willing.

Bjorn dipped his head in obedient respect. Yes, Father.

Chapter 2

Have you filled all of your water skins? Sir Kyle asked for the third time the next morning.

Yes! You don’t have to keep asking, Bjorn exclaimed.

Bjorn! Melchior, his oldest brother scolded him. Show respect for Sir Kyle.

Yes, Sir! I have filled all of my water skins, Sir! Bjorn snapped, and glared at them both, before turning and storming off behind the barn in search of a little space to calm down.

He was growing very tired of being ordered around. This was his quest, and he was supposed to be leading it, yet he had almost no say in whom to take with him on the journey; which route they were to take; where they would stay; or anything else of any import. Kyle had given him a list of what to take along and ordered him to collect it.

He had finished long before bedtime the night before, despite multiple people stopping him to check on his progress, offering him loads of useless advice, and ordering him to collect his supplies in a different order or see someone else to fetch a certain item than the person he’d been intending to seek out instead. He’d even said goodbye to his father and awkwardly given his mother a quick peck on the cheek—out of sight where the men wouldn’t see him.

Now, Kyle was repeating the checks all over again to be sure that nothing had been forgotten. Bjorn glared at the yearlings trotting about in the paddock. How was Kyle’s anxiety over his preparedness any of Bjorn’s problem? To open him up to Melchior’s criticism, too, was intolerable! It would be good to get away from the many people who tried to run his life for him for a score of days, maybe even two-score, depending on the difficulty of finding the burial site.

Boots crunched on the gravel walk that came around the corner of the barn.

Bjorn, I apologize, Sir Kyle said from behind him. I wish I hadn’t exposed you to Melchior’s annoyance.

Bjorn turned to face him. I forgive you. Sir, He took a deep breath, I apologize for my temper. I’m as ready as your lists can make me. Have you seen anything yet that either of us has forgotten?

Sir Kyle didn’t consult the sheet he held in his hand, but closed his eyes and recited, One mount and three remounts: check. Twenty water skins: check. He opened his eyes and said, I think that older one might be leaking. There’s a damp spot on the underside. Use it up first.

Bjorn gave him a short, sharp nod.

Sir Kyle closed his eyes again. One bedroll, two sacks of oats, three changes of clothes, of which one is your best, check. One pick-axe, one shovel, one cooking pot, one bucket, check.

One saddle, one bridle, one saddle cloth, check. Bjorn’s lips quirked up in restored humor. Tell me again who is coming with me? Besides Trehan and Vaalon, of course. (His father’s one rueful concession to Bjorn’s desperate pleading.)

Your cousins are only going with you because they can be counted on to run away from home and attempt to follow us if we don’t include them, Sir Kyle frowned sternly down at Bjorn and gripped him by the shoulders. But do not, any of you young fools, disappoint your father’s trust in you, or you will be parted from them after this. Do you understand me?

Bjorn nodded as he tried his best to look innocent of all wild, rash ideas that might possibly disappoint either Sir Kyle or his father. Yes, sir. Who else, sir?

Kyle’s lips quirked slightly, and he ruffled Bjorn’s hair. I’m sending Sir Will Gray with you, and also Sir Egbert—

Sir Will the cartographer, and—my father’s tailor? Bjorn blurted. He screwed up his face. I understand why you’d send Sir Will, but—why a tailor?

Because tailors are good at mending things. Sir Kyle looked both ways and lowered his voice. He’s to sew the prince into a proper burial shroud. We’re sending it with him.

Oh. Right. Legend said that Galthain Prince had been buried without one. Bjorn nodded.

We need to gather our group together and be off, Sir Kyle clapped Bjorn on the back and headed for the other side of the barn. I’m to go with you as far as the Crossroads. If Ser Anafi will not, for whatever reason, go with you, I will be taking his place.

Bjorn would much rather have Sir Kyle with him than a shriveled up old man who cackled twice as much as he spoke, but saying so wasn’t going to keep him in his mentor’s good graces. He followed the knight back around the barn to where their group had gathered.

Trehan and Vaalon waited by the fence with their horses and gear.

There you are, Vaalon said. His voice cracked, and he squeaked, What’s taking you?

Melchior put him in a temper, Trehan said, but Bjorn knew he was guessing. He hadn’t been there five minutes before to witness their exchange.

Bjorn lifted his chin. Melchior and Sir Kyle, but Sir Kyle at least had the grace to apologize. He hurried over to his horses, and swung into the saddle as Kyle called for the men to mount.

Before Melchior, leaning on the fence and watching them, could say anything more than, Say hello to Ser Anafi for me! Bjorn and his cousins had ridden out of the yard with Sir Kyle and the other men following.

Chapter 3

As Bjorn and his entourage traveled west toward the Crossroads Oasis, the high rolling hills of the Horse Plains changed from tall lush green grasses to browning short grass, and finally to desert sages widely interspersed with patches of sand and cactus. The hills sank lower as they neared the desert on the second day of their journey from Hevla. There wasn’t a convenient stream from which to water the horses that night, but instead they used a well a little way off the road, protected by a heavy wooden cover.

As they watered their horses and made camp for the night, Bjorn said to Vaalon, We might have slept this night in the Caravanserai at the Crossroads, but Sir Kyle thought it would be better to arrive in daylight.

Vaalon nodded and grinned. That way we can see the scorpions hiding in the dim corners of the huts, and chase them away.

Oh, you won’t be staying the night at the Oasis tomorrow unless things go badly awry, Sir Kyle looked up from grooming his second-best mount, and smiled at them. If all goes as planned, we’ll speak to Ser Anafi first thing tomorrow, and send him on his way with you.

What if he creates delays? Bjorn asked. The sunken way is hazardous in the noonday heat. He patted Winder’s lean flank, and offered him a wrinkled apple from his saddlebag, before fishing one out for himself.

Yes it is. Kyle seemed remarkably unperturbed by this admission. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry over-much about it, Bjorn. Ser Anafi is sure to create a certain amount of delay once he learns of our errand. He might be ready to set out by noon, but my suspicion is that he’ll still be dragging his feet at that hour, and not be ready to set out any time before two in the afternoon. By the time you reach the Sunken Way, the sun will be setting, and the jackals will be howling from the cliff-tops.

And if we miss the watering holes in the dark because of setting out so late? Trehan asked from where he was laying out their bedrolls.

The first water hole is very hard to miss. We’ll hear the water long before we see it, Giles the Trader hawked and spat in the dust, before taking a pick to his mount’s near fore hoof. The horse endured his ministrations patiently.

Bjorn grimaced. He needed to attend to Winder’s hooves as well, but would Winder let him do it? After two days on the road, the Akhal-teke was less twitchy than he had been before they rode out of Hevla, but he still had stamina to spare, and he hated the hoof pick.

Bjorn took a deep breath, and ran a hand down Winder’s front right wither, grabbed his hock, and quickly manipulated the joint into an angle that allowed him to clean the hoof. The horse squealed and reached around to nip him on the shoulder.

Cut that out! Bjorn ordered.

His horse blew out a damp, derisive raspberry and shook his head, before trying to back.

Bjorn quickly finished with that hoof and moved on to the back hoof on the right side. As he bent down to grab it, Winder tried to kick him, but Bjorn grabbed the hoof and braced—

Winder snorted.

You know, you can quit this nonsense anytime now, Bjorn told him. He carefully cleaned the back hoof before walking back to where he could look the creature in the eyes, and dare him to create any more trouble. Winder, you are a big spoiled nuisance! Why I put up with you...!

Sir Kyle laughed. You put up with him because he’s the best mount you’ve ever ridden, even if he does hate to have his hooves cleaned.

Bjorn laughed. If you’ll hold his head, I’ll clean the last two. He’s got that glint in his eye again that I don’t like.

Kyle came over and grabbed Winder’s bridle up short near the bit. See here, you ornery hoss... His voice lowered to a hypnotic murmur as Bjorn worked his way around to the other front hoof, and cleaned it before cleaning the back and final hoof. With Sir Kyle murmuring in his ears, Winder stayed as still as a statue.

All done. Bjorn pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped his face. Why that trick works for you and not for me is a mystery. He looked Sir Kyle in the eye. But thank you.

They rode into the settlement around the outskirts of the oasis in the chill, dusty dawn of another desert day.

Cocks crowed loudly from the rooftops of some of the nearby huts, answered by other fainter crows from farther away. Chickens scattered, clucking, from under Winder’s hooves. Winder’s smooth gait roughened as he balked and snorted. A tardy chicken dashed between his legs, cackling.

Winder snaked his head down, following the foolish fowl’s flight, and snapped at its tail feathers.

Bjorn smacked his mount on the shoulder and ordered, Cut that out!

The Akhal-teke shook his head and spat out a few stray bits of fluff coated with foamy spittle.

The alarmed fowl flapped and squawked as it ran around the front of a nearby hut.

Winder settled down again as they passed the ruder, more ramshackle huts of the poorer inhabitants, and entered a dusty street running north toward the central market. The huts gave way to small houses clad in softly weathered desert sandstone ornamented with plaster, followed by larger houses that were fully plastered, some with walls surrounding them; and some houses large enough to surround a courtyard.

Bjorn drew up to a gate carved with geometric shapes painted in ochre, purple, and red. The gate was set in a very long, but well-repaired white plaster wall decorated with a diamond pattern formed from red bricks. A dusty purple silk rope pull, threaded through a hole in the right gatepost, hung limp in the growing light. A plume of smoke rose milky-white on the dawn air from the tiled roof of a building that peeked above the wall on the left. Not a breath of air stirred the dust in the street.

Sir Kyle rode