Emissary Page 11

  “No, of course that’s not all of it. It’s part of a rebel plot against the King. They know who I am, Osias. They know I’m in the royal family, and they know I have magic. I think they want me to use it against the King.” His jaw tightened. “They threatened to kill Elena if I don’t come, and they showed me they could reach her.”

  Smoke veiled the Mance’s features. His face was set, unreadable. “It sounds as if the King doesn’t know who you are. What will he do if you come back?”

  “Kill me where I stand, most like.” Draken drank more and gestured with his cup. The very thought of striding into his cousin’s throne room made the wine sour in his gut.

  “Hmm. It makes a pretty dilemma,” Osias said thoughtfully. “The Monoean King must know Elena would make war on any who would attack your person. And if he doesn’t, he must be told straightaway.”

  Draken grunted. “She might send troops. Or she might abandon me if she finds out I’m sundry.”

  Osias gave one of his enigmatic smiles. “You believe your people put more stock in prejudice than your person? I do not think so. You have their faith. You’ve earned it.”

  Aye. That. Which could be at the root of Elena’s anger with him. But he let it go for the moment. “I appreciate the swords at my back, but we’ve also pressing local concerns.” He told Osias and Setia of the village Parne and about his visit from Escort Poregar. “It just doesn’t have the feel of Monoean attack. Any ideas?”

  Osias huffed on his pipe and stared past Draken, thinking. “I have never heard the like.”

  “Nor I.” Draken shook his head. All he’d witnessed at Parne was laid bare by his rough voice.

  “Has it occurred to you it might have been done in the Abeyance?”

  Draken shook his head. “Of course. But …”

  “But what?”

  Draken’s fingers curled into a fist. “Oklai and her war band came to me to ask to free the enslaved Moonlings.”

  “All of them?” Setia blinked.

  He nodded. “But it makes no sense. I think Oklai would have threatened to attack, aye, if I didn’t cooperate. And they would have made certain I knew it was them. Anonymous threats and action don’t help their cause. But she only threatened to expose my past and identity.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I can’t think of another way the killing could have happened thus. I’ve never heard of Moonlings on the offensive, though they can be vicious in need.”

  “Perhaps someone of another race enslaved a Moonling to work the Abeyance,” Osias said.

  “Or bribed one,” Setia added.

  Draken played with a table knife, his food untouched. He hadn’t thought of that. “Enough of them are slaves. There for the taking.”

  “Aye. Freedom and returning a spear would be an effective offer,” Osias agreed.

  “A spear … you mean that’s where their magic comes from?”

  Osias chuckled. “You sound surprised, even with Akhen Khel strapped to your back.”

  Draken scowled. “The gods enslaved me with that sword.”

  A tarnish seemed to creep over Osias’s skin and his eyes swirled a dangerous storm grey. He stared past them all into whatever wonders and horrors a Mance could see. “You still have the gods’ favor. See you keep it.”

  A chill crawled over Draken. He suppressed a shudder. “I admit I was hoping for more pragmatic advice. I’ve no idea what to do about the Moonlings, nor the killings. Elena is convinced the Moonlings will wait and the killings are Monoeans. She’s right in one thing; Monoea is the bigger threat. I don’t see how I can avoid going.”

  “And die there?”

  “Perhaps the gods’ favor will follow me.”

  “Perhaps. But I shall, for certain.”

  Draken shook his head. “Are you not required here at Eidola? And the souls inside you … You told me I couldn’t cross the ocean with Bruche … aren’t you the same?”

  “A problem easily solved.” Osias rolled up his sleeve, revealing the dull thick fetter around his forearm. “Akhen Khel broke a fetter once. It can do so again.”

  Setia’s nostrils flared as she drew a sharp breath.

  Draken shook his head. “Osias, no. I can’t repeat what Truls did. I won’t.” The old Mance King breaking his fetter had started a war with the gods that nearly destroyed Brîn.

  “I am not him.”

  “No, you’re many people. Who knows if one of those spirits inside of you doesn’t have ideas about the advantages of being unfettered?”

  Osias arched an eyebrow. “I would know.”

  Draken sighed. He couldn’t argue with that. When Draken had joined souls with Bruche, there were few secrets between them.

  Osias laid his arm on the table. “You need me and things are in hand here. Setia will also need more of my magic to do as she must. I can’t give her more without being loose of my fetter.”

  “You mean you want her to work the Abeyance.”

  “It aided you once,” Setia said.

  “In a war an unfettered Mance started,” he retorted.

  “Do you trust me?” Osias asked.

  “Funny, I was just asking myself that question on the way up.”

  “Do you?”

  Draken let air fill his lungs. He wanted to refuse but the words wouldn’t come.

  He started to shake his head but somehow it turned to a nod. And truth, he was desperate for his friend’s help. His hand reached back to draw his sword. It shone faintly in the stony light. “Damn you. What will your brothers do?”

  “They won’t harm me, if that’s what you’re asking. I am still Mance. I am still one of them. You’re breaking my bond to the land, and my will to Korde’s. That is all.”

  Breaking the dead god’s dominion over Osias. That was all, with every threat of retribution lying in wait for him. But then, Draken had never let that sort of threat stop him before. Would it anger the gods? Let it. Draken might as well not be the only angry one.

  The fetter looked dead, colorless against the silvery hue of Osias’ skin. Setia rose from her bench and backed away.

  He raised Seaborn over his head and met Osias’ stormy eyes. “You’re certain about this?”

  “Do it.”

  Draken gritted his teeth, released a stinging breath, and put all his weight behind the blow. The fetter was god-made and even though Seaborn was a remarkable sword, he doubted the strike would cut it.

  The sword struck, ringing hard through his arms and chest with an unholy, deafening clang. Shuddering agony rippled up his arms to his shoulders and made Draken fall to his knees. Even so, even gasping in pain, his gaze locked on the fetter.

  For a moment nothing. The blow had struck him deaf. The air closed around him like wet sand.

  And then the fetter shattered into a fine, icy mist, the sort that gets into the bones and aches for days.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Osias fell back, shaken and pale. Setia rushed to his side with a low, animal cry. The spare Mance who had served them strode in, eyes narrowed and turbulent. “Your Majesty—” Draken backed a step, his hands shaking.

  “No longer,” Osias said. His voice shuddered. “Convene our brothers and select another.”

  The Mance stared, then lifted his stormy gaze to Draken. His eyes and whole skin burnished dark, obscuring his handsome features and turning him into something feral and ugly—something otherborn. His breath still heavy in his chest, Draken shifted his attention to the sword. Not a notch on it. What else could the bloody thing do? He had a bad feeling he would find out. “You cannot harm him. He is under my protection.”

  “He is in no danger from his own kind, Khel Szi. But Korde may not be so forgiving.” Draken narrowed his eyes at the Mance. They looked quite alike, all the Mance. And yet, something in the way this one moved … “What is your name? Have we met?”

  “Jaim, Khel Szi.” He didn’t bow his head. “We met in the Moonling woods the night you arrived in Akrasia.”

&nbs
p; Draken stared. “You were with Reaven … Truls. You were the one I fought.” The first night of his exile, Draken had captured Truls when he’d been disguised as Lord Marshal Reavan. The other officer with him had attacked Draken and died in the fight. The body had disappeared, and it wasn’t long after that he’d learned that Mance couldn’t really die. Mortal blows just swept them back to Eidola.

  A blast of thunder interrupted him. They all looked up, but Setia shied. The thunder sounded like a great hammer pounding the mountain, trembling through the stone house. It went on for a long time—long enough Draken became certain it wasn’t thunder at all. When silence fell again, no one seemed too eager to fill it. Draken didn’t ask if Brîn and Eidola would remain allies under the new regime. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He had enough to deal with at the moment.

  #

  Storm clouds crowded the edges of the sky, obscuring the horizon. By the time they finished the descent off Eidola, the wind had switched direction and held a wet chill. Draken’s szi nêre, waiting at the bottom of the mountain as instructed, were too well-trained to show surprise that the Mance King had chosen to attend Draken. They inclined their heads to him and murmured words of respect, not realizing that his sleeve concealed only bare skin.

  Beyond Halmar, Draken didn’t know his men that well. He watched their reaction to the Mance carefully, but none recoiled from him as if they found him repulsively ugly. Solid men, then, with no menacing darkness in their souls. He nodded, satisfied, and turned to Setia. “Care to ride with me?”

  She gave him a strained smile. Halmar helped her up onto Draken’s mare, then allowed Osias to ride behind him. Setia slipped her arms around Draken’s waist and pressed her cheek to his back. She was warm against his stiff spine.

  He said little else on the way back, though he was unable to shake the worry that Korde, greediest and least forgiving of the gods, would demand blood payment for Draken removing the fetter. Despite Osias’s reassurances, he couldn’t help feel he’d stolen a loyal servant from Korde. Thunderheads churned over the sea, crackling with lightning. Setia’s arms tightened around his middle.

  “It’s just a storm, Setia. It’s monsoon, aye?” Bit early for it, actually.

  “Aye, Khel Szi.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  He lowered his voice. “You think it has something to do with the fetter?”

  “You’ve stolen Osias from Korde. An offense he is not likely to forget.”

  He glanced up at the churning sky. “What will he do?”

  “Try to kill you. Someday, I think Korde will try to kill you.”

  #

  It was full on evening when they rode into the city and the first drops of rain stung their cheeks. Few people paused to dip their chins to their Khel Szi. The hour had grown late and most were hurrying to beat the storm home.

  At the Citadel, the Akrasian Lord Ilumat met them, pushing ahead of Thom, who obviously had something urgent to share with Draken if his tapping a scroll against his other palm meant anything. He was a high lord, landed military gentry, a distant cousin to Elena, and recently come of age.

  Draken extended his hand to Ilumat. They exchanged grips.

  “Your Highness. I came as soon as I heard of the difficulties.”

  “Difficulties?”

  “The battle at Seakeep.”

  Ilumat’s lands nestled in the fertile foothills of the Agrian Range. “You must have ridden like Khellian’s horns were in your arse.”

  Illumat’s lip curled. “Indeed. Word spread quickly.”

  Draken sighed. “I’ve had a few bad days with more to come, so lets dispense with false courtesy. Why are you here, Ilumat?”

  “I’m seeing to the defenses of Akrasia.”

  He glanced at Tyrolean, who stood, impassive as a blank wall. Next to him, Thom’s scroll-tapping sped up. “Lord Marshal Oroli isn’t sufficient?”

  “I have a vested interest in seeing the Monoeans undone. They murdered my father and our men.”

  He suppressed a sigh. “That was a wartime execution.”

  “The war was fair ended. It was murder. They hunted him down like a dog.”

  Draken blinked. The Black Guard. Had he been the one …? He recalled a few Akrasians among the Brînians he’d hunted after the Decade War. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Men who forget their grievances tend to die from them.”

  “Something your father used to say?” Truth, it sounded like something Draken’s father would have said.

  “My dead father.” He glanced at Osias and his lip curled again.

  Draken would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching people closely for their reactions to the Mance. Setia met his eyes; she’d seen it too. All he needed on top of everything else was an unproved soldier-lord with a grudge.

  “Be easy, my lord,” Draken said. “You’ll have your chance at the Monoeans. Thom, you’ve been waiting to say something.”

  “The Queen would see you, Khel Szi. She is waiting in your rooms.”

  He marshaled his sudden surge of nerves, doing his best to keep it from his face. “Thom, see our guests to their quarters so they can wash off the road. Lord Ilumat, we’ll receive you when we’re able.”

  The young lord snapped a haughty salute, but Thom gave Osias and especially Setia an easy grin and led all three to their rooms.

  Draken turned toward his private quarters, ignoring Ilumat’s imperious scowl. He sat on the bench in the alcove to remove his boots. A slave washed his feet for him while Kai undid the straps of his scabbard and quiver to clean the weapons and lay them aside. He stayed on the bench for a moment after they retreated. His hands trembled slightly. They should be laced with scratches from his climb. He clenched them into fists, drew a breath, and opened the slatted inner doors to his chambers.

  Elena waited on her feet, alone. He noted her hands were empty. Her dark gaze flicked over him, unreadable. Maybe disapproving. “Your majesty.” He dipped his chin.

  “What is this business with Osias? Is he just visiting?”

  She never missed much. She either had servants reporting to her in the Citadel or some magic he didn’t know. He shouldn’t sit while she stood, but truth, the ache in his bad knee radiated up his thigh, tightening the muscles up through his hip. He sank onto a carved, brightly painted bench with patterned cushions.

  “He insists on coming to Monoea with me,” Draken said.

  “Did you tell him I had refused that request?”

  Draken was too tired for that battle at the moment. “He insisted I cut his fetter anyway.” She was silent long enough he added: “I didn’t ask it of him, if that’s what you’re wondering. I just went to him for advice.”

  “Why would you agree to do such a thing?”

  Truth, he wasn’t quite certain now that it was done. “He said he couldn’t accompany me without it. I don’t believe myself in a position to refuse his help.” He looked up. “He thinks aiding me is important enough to give up his rule.”

  She turned to fix a drink. Her fingers tore the fragrant leaves. “It’s a simple diplomatic mission. Anyone can go.”

  “They want me, Elena.”

  She turned, cup in hand.

  He almost ducked.

  Instead she carried the cup to him. He looked at his rough fingers curled around the smooth metal and then up at her.

  “Draken. Do not worry overmuch. We will choose someone suitable to smooth King Aissyth’s ruffled feathers.”

  It was the many other ruffled Monoean feathers that worried him. “Were you briefed on the border attacks?”

  She took his hand. Her fingers were cool to the touch, and smooth. “Aye. Another reason why you’re needed here. You shall sort it all, no doubt.”

  In time to do a damned thing about any of it? That he doubted. His own impotence rode hard on his mind. The truth teetered on his lips. “I do hate the idea of leaving you just now.” He could give her that much, before he made it clear he had to go.

&
nbsp; He dared to lay a hand over the swelling of her belly. If he went to Monoea, he likely would never see the child within. If he stayed, neither of them would. His throat closed and his words came out tight, choked. “It’s been difficult. I want to care for you.” Another time, another conversation, he might make a joke about feeling responsible for her discomfort.

  “The gods shall see me through.”

  He slowly shook his head. The gods cared naught.

  She smiled tolerantly. She didn’t always accept his gruff resentment of the gods so well, but she seemed in a soft mood. Odd, that, after her tantrum earlier. “The gods brought you to me, didn’t they?”

  And took you from me a breath later. Only by denying their will did he still have her. Was it why Elena felt so much pain? Why their child was at risk? Gods be damned, if they were punishing his family for his bringing her back to life, then they could stuff their bloody magical sword up their arses. He already had one wife who had died in a war with them. Now he had to go against Elena’s wishes, return to Monoea to defend his people in the most ineffectual way possible, and likely die for the effort. Would that even be enough? How much more will you demand of me? My bloody afterlife?

  “Draken.” Elena sounded urgent. She tugged her hand free. His had tightened painfully around her fingers. He took it gently again and brought her palm to his lips. She smiled and stroked her soft fingers across his chin, rough with two days’ growth.

  “It’s not just the child,” he said. “We’ve spent more time apart than together since we met. I’d hoped to have some peace with you.”

  She sat next to him and pulled him close for a thorough kiss. “I am ever at peace in your presence, my Prince.”

  The tension in his shoulders gave way. He drew her close and held her, stroking his hand down her back, kissing her, speaking softly, and eventually taking her to bed. But he lay awake thinking as she slept in his arms: this business with the Monoeans, villages in opposite countries destroyed, the magicks involved, animals died and bled out, and their unborn child teetering on the rift between life and death even as Draken faced his own mortality from the other half of his blood.