The Exile's Curse Read online

  The Exile’s Curse

  Daughter of Ravens Book 1

  M.J. Scott

  emscott enterprises

  Contents

  Free Sneak Peek

  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

  A note from M.J.

  About the Author

  Also by M.J. Scott

  Acknowledgments

  Free Sneak Peek

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  Copyright © 2021 by M.J. Scott

  Excerpt from Shadow Kin © 2021 by M.J. Scott

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by emscott enterprises.

  Cover design by Whendel Souza.

  For those chasing those second chances…

  Chapter 1

  Chloe de Montesse pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to keep her face impassive as she watched the sailors maneuver the gangway into position. This close to the dock, the sway of the ship seemed worse than it had during the crossing from Anglion, and she wasn't entirely sure she wasn't about to disgrace herself. Though, if she was honest, the churning in her stomach was part excitement, part confusion, part terror. But easier to blame it on the swaying ship than try to untangle the swirl of her emotions.

  Home.

  She was home.

  In Illvya. In Lumia. Where, until a few months ago, she had never expected to be again.

  Her eyes stung and she swiped at them quickly. It was only the sea air, not emotion.

  There could be no giving in to emotion here or she might drown in it. As surely as she would if she stepped off the side of the gangplank into the dark, cold harbor waters instead of proceeding down it in an orderly fashion when the command came to disembark.

  To distract herself, she searched the faces of the people waiting on the docks.

  Illvyan faces. There was nothing that should immediately identify them as such, but she felt the certainty of it in her bones as she drank them in. A sharpness to their features. Subtle differences to the tones of skin. Different fashions than the ones she'd been wearing in Anglion all this time. But she couldn't focus on strange faces and the fact that she was finally about to set foot back in the empire after ten years in exile.

  Not when she was frantically searching for faces she knew. She'd sent word that she was returning to her father, including details of the ship the emperor had provided her passage on. But there'd been no time for a reply, and even though Sophie—one day Chloe might get used to the fact that the young Lady Sophie Mackenzie was now Queen Sophia of Anglion—had assured her that her father missed her and loved her and very much wanted her home, Chloe couldn’t bring herself to entirely believe it.

  Not when the last time Henri Matin saw her had been a few scant hours before Chloe fled the country in fear, tainted by her husband, Charl’s, disgrace and leaving her family to face what consequences may come.

  What if she couldn't find him in the crowd? Couldn't recognize him? Ten years was a long time. A span of years that scarcely made sense now that it had ended. She'd yet to turn twenty-five when she'd left. Now she was ten years older and her father closing in on sixty-five. So much time gone by had wrought changes on her face. It would have changed him as well.

  But just as she was starting to think she'd been right to fear that no one would come to meet her, that no one truly wanted her to return, she caught a glimpse of gray hair and long limbs moving through the crowd with a gait so familiar it almost stopped her heart.

  "Papa," she called, waving one arm wildly in the air, all concern with not disgracing herself gone. "Papa, I'm here."

  He must have heard her somehow because his head swung round and pale blue eyes caught hers and suddenly she was pushing through the other passengers and racing down the gangplank, heedless of the sailors shouting at her or the fact that it was barely fixed in place, and then her father's arms came around her and she was finally and truly home.

  Chloe didn't let go of her father's hand as they made their way through the crowd, and from the strength of his grip, she wasn't sure he ever intended to let go of hers. The feel of it, so familiar yet strange, so steady yet overwhelming, made her eyes prickle all over again. She had already made a spectacle of herself, dissolving into tears as she'd hugged Henri. Perhaps she should just accept that the next few days and weeks were likely to be messy and emotional—things she had avoided for a very long time.

  In Anglion, her carefully regulated and arranged life had been simple. She’d kept her head down and not let anyone get too close. No risk that way. It had taken two years before she'd even let herself take the slightest risk of breaching the Anglion laws when she'd created the portal beneath her store. Technically refugees weren't supposed to have portals, but she'd wanted an escape route if she needed one in a hurry.

  Perhaps the fact that she was concentrating so hard on not letting herself burst into tears was the reason she almost walked into a man who stepped unexpectedly into her path. As she half jumped backward, trying to avoid the collision, her eyes flew up to his face, a warning to be careful about where he was walking on the very tip of her tongue.

  Where it dissolved into chaos and silence when she registered the face staring back down at her, storm-green eyes wide with shock.

  Lucien de Roche. Dear goddess, no. Where was that damn portal when she needed it?

  The one man in all the empire she least wanted to see. The man whose continued existence had given her no little pause for thought when she'd been coming to her decision as to whether she would return home.

  "Chloe," he breathed.

  The word felt like a slap despite its softness.

  Lucien.

  She stared back at him, unable to think or come up with any sort of response. Once upon a time, Lucien had been Charl's best friend. Tall and quiet and blond in contrast to Charl’s dark and dazzling. One of her best friends as well. They'd been a trio of sorts, a small gang of their own. Bright and glittering and full of the certainty that their futures would be blessed.

  Until it had gone so horribly wrong.

  Thanks to Charl. Who had been charming and irresistible and, as it had turned out, entirely incapable of making good choices when they were most needed. Pity she'd only learned that—or perhaps only let herself see it—after she'd married him.

  Lucien, on the other hand, had always done the right thing. Solid as the earth. And just as unyielding, as it had turned out.

  Lucien de Roche. The reason why Charl was dead.

  The man who'd stood up in court and prosecuted his best
friend, knowing the penalty for the charges Charl faced was death.

  The man who'd ruined her life.

  The man who'd maybe saved it. Lucien had come to her after Charl's execution, given her a warning that she was not entirely safe in the wake of Charl's conviction. Suggested she might want to make herself hard to find.

  Presumably he'd meant just for a short time.

  But she'd been young. Broken by grief and betrayal, and wild with fear that what had befallen her would yet engulf the rest of her family. So she had run, leaving Charl's body barely in the earth and all manner of trouble strewn behind her. Fled to Anglion, where no one from the empire could reach her. Where no one could hurt her again.

  No one had come after her.

  Least of all Lucien de Roche.

  Who, no matter that he was apparently still one of the most handsome men the goddess ever foolishly allowed to walk the earth, could never be anyone but her enemy.

  "I believe that is Madame de Montesse to you, Ser de Roche," she said, channeling all the control she'd gained hard fought from her years in exile and all the disdain she felt for him to ice her voice into something smooth and glittering and deadly as a blade. She turned away from him. "Papa, we should go. I find myself quite fatigued from my journey."

  Henri's pale blue eyes studied her a moment, then flicked over her head to where she was all too aware that Lucien still stood. "Of course," he said, then offered her an arm to guide her away through the crowd and away from the past she was entirely unwilling to face.

  When they were settled in a carriage and some distance from the port, her father said mildly, "You got his title wrong. He's the Marq of Castaigne now."

  There was no reproach in his voice, but she wondered why exactly he was telling her. Warning her that Lucien had more power now? That she should at least be polite? Not that the man needed any more power. He was a Truth Seeker, wielder of a rare form of the Arts of Air that let him know, when he chose, if a person was telling the truth. It had seen him rise quickly in the ranks of the Imperial judiciary from the moment he'd left the Academe di Sages.

  He hardly needed his father's title to elevate him still further.

  Though she had been fond of Emile de Roche, who had been quick to smile and more like Charl than his own serious son. She should ask how he died. But that would only provide an opening for her father to continue talking about Lucien.

  "I will remember," she said tightly. "Though I don't imagine our paths will cross often."

  Not at all if she had anything to say about it.

  Henri studied her a moment, wearing what she had once thought of as his maistre look. The one he wore when he was debating whether to use something as a teaching moment. Seeing it was both delightful—she fancied any expression that crossed his face would be delightful for quite some time simply because it had been so long since she had seen any of them—and a little alarming. She'd forgotten how imposing he could be when he was being Maistre of the Academe and not her father.

  Was he about to deliver a lecture?

  However, if he had contemplated doing so, he thought better of it. A smile replaced the serious expression, and he reached out and touched her cheek. "It is good to have you home, daughter."

  She leaned into the caress a moment, then pulled back, scared she might cry once more. She didn't want to emerge from the carriage red-eyed and tearstained.

  "Are we going to the Academe?"

  Henri cocked his head. "No, I thought you'd be eager to be home. I've left Madame Simsa in charge for a few days. The Academe can do without me for a time while we all get...reacquainted." He squeezed her hand tighter. "Your mother can't wait to see you. She wanted to come to the docks, but we didn't want to overwhelm you."

  Chloe's heart squeezed. When Imogene du Laq—the Duquesse of Saint Pierre now, but also Chloe's best friend—had told her back in Kingswell that her mother was still alive, it had been one of the happiest moments of her life. Ana Matin's health had never been good, and she had only just begun to show signs of recovery from the white-lung fever that had weakened her for several years when Chloe had fled Illvya. She'd always been worried her mother would die and she would never know.

  "And she is truly well again?"

  Her father squeezed her hand. "She is far better than when you left. She will never be as strong as some, but having you home with us again will only make her stronger still."

  She hoped he was right. But there was no way to know for sure, so she just held his hand and watched Lumia passing by through the carriage windows with greedy eyes.

  It took a long time to fall asleep. The reunion with her family had left Chloe both joyous and overwhelmed, and she'd passed into that state where she was almost too tired to sleep. Or too afraid, perhaps, half convinced that she'd wake again in Anglion, having dreamed the whole journey home. Having dreamed her father's embrace and the tears her mother had tried and failed to hold back.

  But eventually she succumbed to exhaustion, and when she woke, she knew instantly where she was. Her room. In her parents’ house. It wasn't much changed. The colors of the curtains and the bedcovers were different, but the furniture was the same.

  The carved redwood bed and the dressing table and armoire were precisely as she remembered, down to the chip in the dressing table where she'd once dropped a teapot and the faint lemon smell of the furniture polish.

  When she'd left here to marry Charl, her sister, Yvette, had taken the room. But she, too, was married now and gone from the house.

  Whereas Chloe was widowed and had returned after so long away.

  Home.

  The thought still made her grin, but there was a curl of anxiety beneath the joy. She had to begin again. Find her way. Face the past.

  Deal with the mess.

  She didn't even have a clear idea where she stood legally. The emperor had declared her free of any culpability in relation to Charl, so she had nothing to worry about there. But Charl had been found guilty. Where did that leave her? The emperor hadn’t declared his property forfeit. As his wife, by rights, some of his estate should have come to her. Not that it had been large. They had lived in a small townhouse owned by his father, and she imagined the family would have long since reclaimed it.

  Had they returned any of her belongings? Returned them here? Her parents hadn't mentioned it yet, but she'd left clothes and books and other small things behind. She'd taken what jewelry she could when she fled—nothing that had belonged to the de Montesse family, not wanting to have theft added to any claims that might fall against her—but the pieces Charl had bought her and that she'd already owned when they'd wed. Along with the small reserve of coins Charl kept in a lockbox in his study. It had been enough for her passage to Anglion and to keep her safe during those first months of trying to establish herself anew.

  She had returned home with a far healthier balance of funds, having sold her business in Anglion, but not many possessions. Carin, who bought the store, was planning to live above it, as Chloe had, and had paid extra for the furniture. So Chloe had left it and most of her other household items, bringing with her only a few favored vases and pictures and the mirror from her dressing table, which had been one of the first things she'd bought for herself in Kingswell.

  Other than that, she returned with clothes, cash, her medicine chest, and notes from her years of working in her store—potions and remedies and such she'd learned or developed—and a few supplies that would be scarce in Illvya. At least until the emperor and the new queen restarted a more regular trade system between the two countries.

  So her new life—or new old life—came with only a simple beginning in terms of belongings. Albeit with a somewhat more complicated one in terms of just about everything else.

  At least she didn't have to worry about finding a place to live and immediate employment. She rather thought the opposite might be true, that her parents might just try to keep her as close to them as they could for as long as possible.


  For now, she was happy to stay. To soak up the pleasure of being reunited without rushing to determine what her future might hold.

  Time enough to worry about that in the days to come.

  Today, she could just let herself be Chloe.

  She smiled and stretched her arms above her head. The sounds of the house stirring below were familiar, as was the smell of bacon and fresh bread and the strong Elenian coffee her mother favored over the tea that was more popular in Lumia. She'd missed coffee like fire for her first few months in Anglion. No one drank it there. It wasn't grown on the island, nor was it one of the few rare imports exchanged with the empire.

  Maybe she would have lost the taste for it. Or maybe not. The smell was making her mouth water.

  So. She was home. Breakfast was waiting.

  Time to begin.

  Two days later, she was starting to think that simply beginning was not so simple when a note arrived from Imogene. Her mother handed it to her with a carefully neutral expression and took a seat on the sofa beside her. The small parlor was filled with sunshine and festooned with yellow flowers that made it feel like spring, but the sudden tension in the air added a chill.

  Chloe opened the letter, scanning the contents with eager eyes.

  "And what does the duquesse have to say?" her mother inquired. She didn't sound enthusiastic.