Enemy Page 13

  “Sword?” Draken whispered.

  Tyrolean gestured with his chin. It rested on the table in its battered scabbard.

  Geffen had freed herself from her corner while they were gone, had managed to break the leash binding her to the heavy stand filled with logs, and scooted to the middle of the room. She lay on her side and watched them, muffled by the gag stuffed in her mouth and tied behind her head. Her arms were still secured and tied to her ankles. No chance of her getting out. Draken thought of her dying like that, should he have not returned. Worse than claw marks inside a cistern.

  “Unbind her.” He coughed. Blood droplets splattered his sleeve. It cleared his voice somewhat. He looked up at Khisson, then at Tyrolean. “Aarinnaie?”

  Both shook their heads.

  “When you’re able we’ll go to meet my men. I had some few with a vantage to see the Szirin’s position.” Khisson moved to untie Geffen, his big hands gentle.

  As soon as she was able, she shook free of her ropes and rose, backing away from the bloodlord. Her fingers worked at the gag in her mouth and yanked it free. “Does this mean I can go?”

  “No. You’ve seen me alive.” There might be an advantage in her somewhere if Draken could make his mind capture the possibilities.

  Khisson stared at her. Bruche chuckled low. And no wonder. She moves like a fighter and could probably give him fair challenge.

  Aye, he’s traditional bloodlord all right. Though female Brînian warriors weren’t unheard of, traditionally women were regarded as useful for things other than fighting. But then, Khisson hadn’t spent much time with Aarinnaie, and Draken would lay coin he’d not met enough Escorts to give the females among them enough credit for skill and training.

  He looked at Khisson. “You took a fair risk. They could have captured me, and I wouldn’t have been able to fight it.”

  “I saved you,” Khisson growled. “The crowd had blood in mind and no mistake. Giving them what they wanted was a good distraction.”

  “How did you get my body out of there?”

  “Oddest thing. Ground leapt like the very gods had us in a spice shaker. People seemed to lose interest in you after that.”

  Tyrolean helped Draken off with his chainmail—it took a deal of effort not to cry out as the weight tugged on his shoulder and neck—and dropped it onto the floor in a clanking heap at Geffen’s feet. “There’s water in the bucket. Rags there. Clean that.”

  She blinked at him. His tone brooked no disagreement, but she didn’t hide her scowl as she dragged the mail to the water buckets.

  Not up to the usual standard. Needs discipline, aye?

  She’d been tied up for the better part of the day. Draken was willing to give her some leeway. He turned his attention to Khisson. “Had I woken in my own dungeon I might not be so conciliatory.”

  “The rumors proved true, but it took you fair long to recover.”

  “You cut a life vein. All the blood drained out of my head.” Truth, he still felt woozy. He pulled Elena’s pendant from round his neck. The chain was also crusted with blood.

  Tyrolean took it and laid it next to the sword. “The people thought the shaking was the gods’ displeasure.”

  “The people might be right, what with my being still alive.” That brought up an interesting thought when twisted back on itself. Regardless, it could be damned useful if the people thought the gods were displeased with Draken dying. Later, after the usefulness of being thought dead had run out. He stripped off his gambeson, stiff from its soaking, and tossed it on the floor near the fireplace. It wasn’t suitable for anything but burning. Then he stilled as the world spun slowly around him. His stomach twisted.

  “Horses spooked,” Tyrolean said. “The crowd panicked. Perhaps it gave the Princess a chance at escape.”

  Draken bent over, arm on his knee, and rubbed his hand over his face. Tyrolean carried over a bucket and set it at his feet. He splashed himself and scrubbed with the rag, splattering water everywhere and not caring. It diluted the dried blood and ran in rusty rivulets down his skin.

  “I should go,” Khisson said. “There are clothes for you since I ruined yours. I’ll see you soon, Khel Szi.”

  Draken nodded. He didn’t speak against until well after Khisson left. Scrubbing himself clean took a while. “How long was I out?”

  “Long enough.” Tyrolean sat on the cot opposite. “Your Highness …”

  “I assume you have something to tell me I don’t want to hear.”

  “I have something to tell you I don’t want Khisson to hear. I went back to Korde Square.”

  Draken grunted, kept scrubbing. “You didn’t wait for my recovery?”

  “You were in the gods’ hands, not mine.”

  “There’s a comforting thought.”

  “However you feel about the gods, my presence certainly wouldn’t assure you’d awaken. I had only a short time to find out what happened to the Princess.”

  Why had it taken him so bloody long to regain consciousness? He’d had more grievous injuries than his throat slit—bad enough once to break apart a ship and another to bring down the magical Palisade around Auwaer. But he just gave Tyrolean a curt nod to continue.

  “She wasn’t there—as well, the entire procession had disbanded. But the crowd spoke of her, and you.”

  “Fools all, out with it. What did they say?”

  “She was taken away by Ilumat’s Escorts—alive. That’s as much as I could learn.”

  Silence.

  She is worth more alive.

  Draken grunted in response to Bruche. “If she’s alive we have to get her out of there.”

  “Not a good idea, Your Highness.”

  “I still must see for myself.” Draken gazed at Geffen, wondering what in Eidola he was going to do with her. She was scrubbing hard, glanced up. The scrubbing slowed. “If they kill her, they’ll display her body.”

  Bring her. She could be useful.

  In what way? She rubbed ineffectually at the chainmail. Water dripped everywhere, leaving a spreading brackish stain on the wood floor. It needed oiling or it would quickly rust.

  As a bribe? I don’t know. Just a feeling.

  Draken suppressed a groan, though he was getting the same feeling. “Geffen.”

  Her eyes darted between them, the whites bright halos around the dark irises.

  “Is there any possibility of your not betraying me at your earliest opportunity?”

  Her jaw tightened. “I’m following orders.”

  “Whose? Certainly not mine. Not the Captain’s. I’ve never seen such a poor job at cleaning armor.”

  “You don’t need this mail. Magic keeps you alive.” Her hands fisted around the rag, wringing pink water to drip onto the wood.

  “This you knew.”

  “Ilumat is right about you.”

  “Aye? He is, is he? And what does he say of me?”

  Her teeth gritted and her lips paled. She shook her head.

  “I am the Night Lord and Prince of Brîn. No upstart Akrasian lord is going to change that fact.”

  Geffen picked up the bucket and heaved it toward them. Cold water splashed across the floor and cot. Tyrolean had to duck. Geffen darted for the door. Draken shoved into motion, his hurts biting into him. Tyrolean was faster, blocking the door. Draken caught her and hauled her back. She fought and emitted a rough scream. He clapped his hand over her mouth.

  She bit him, hard. He jerked his hand away with a curse.

  Geffen spat blood. “Let me go!”

  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.” A tremor ran through the old building as the broken skin on his hand healed.

  “Do it.” She fought him more, and with skill, but he was stronger. “Do it! Coward!”

  “SIT.” He shoved her at the cot. The floor was wet, which made her slip awkwardly, but she got her hands beneath her. She spun to come at him again, but he stepped forward and pushed her down, his hands dwarfing her shoulders.

  “Kill m
e.”

  He stared down at her, breathing hard. He was sorely tempted. The strain on his shoulder made him curse with pain. “Tell me why I shouldn’t, Tyrolean.”

  “She is one of yours. Insubordinate at the moment, but she answers to you. Killing her without a trial is a betrayal of your lordship over her.”

  Draken’s lip curled. “Such responsibility is not my favorite gift from the gods. But you …” His eyes narrowed at Geffen. “Your sort are why I do not reject it altogether. You are confused, but you must not fight the lord the Queen assigned you.”

  “The Queen is dead.”

  The words made him weary. Or maybe it was this sharp burst of activity so soon after dying. He released her and stepped back, thinking he could hardly tell her the ghost-Mance who had been right about other things insisted Elena lived. “Aye, she may be, but her reign lives on through me. Through her daughter Sikyra. Ilumat has a foothold, but he will slip. I’ll be ready with Khellian’s blade when he does. I have no wish to kill you. I’ll return you to the Citadel if you wish it, no harm. But it will be a short and bloody stay.”

  She huffed up at him, nostrils flared. Blood—his blood—stained her pale bottom lip. Her tongue came out to wipe it off and her nose wrinkled. “Threats from sundry bastards don’t frighten me.”

  Sundry bastard … He fell very still. She glared at him but some of the stiffness fell away from her.

  “I am both. It is truth.”

  Maybe it was his low voice against the stillness of the room. Or the chill of dwelling ghosts easing from the shadows. She dropped her gaze.

  Tyrolean sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

  She dared to search his face. He stared back, jaw set. She blinked first. “Ilumat said the Queen didn’t know the truth of you.”

  Ilumat? How in Khellian’s name had he found out? His eyes narrowed. “Just who are you, Geffen?”

  Geffen held her ground. “Did the Queen know you’re sundry?”

  “No. But I never did her …” Harm, he’d been about to say. But for Seaborn plunging into her chest by his own hand, the sickening reek of blood spilling over her armor and gown, the sensation of his blade catching on bone. The feel of her alive and soft and warm in his arms. He stumbled back to sit on a bench. “Any children between us would be mixed race. She knew that well enough and she still chose me.”

  He hated the defeat in his voice but there it was, just the same. This was a losing battle. Twice he’d lost a woman he’d loved. Thrice, if he counted Sikyra.

  Geffen’s jaw was set. More grey threaded her hair than it had when they’d first met. War tended to age soldiers beyond all reason. She said resentfully, “Even sundry, you’re a better soldier, a better man, than Ilumat or any of the other puffed-up lords who—”

  “Who died on the edges of Ashen swords in Seakeep. Ilumat is all that’s left.”

  She bowed her head in thought. At last she rose and saluted him. “I don’t like you or what you’ve done. But no one else can bring Akrasia out of this war intact. So I will pledge to you, still.”

  Draken stared, then inclined his head in return, and winced at the catch in his neck. “Good. I’m taking you back now. I need you with Ilumat in case fortune joins our paths again. I would know his ambitions and his allies.”

  “My lord—” Tyrolean began, but Draken gave a sharp shake of his head.

  “No. It’s not up to you, Captain. Gather everything. We won’t come back to this place.”

  There was very little, a small pack of food, his knives and sword, spare bits of armor. His pouch with precious few coins and Sikyra’s toy horse. Geffen watched as he tucked everything carefully away and dressed in the fresh clothes brought from Khisson. Geffen didn’t offer to help and he didn’t ask.

  Things had calmed out on the street and an icy night was falling over the city. Geffen walked alongside them, silent. He took note of her stance, the way she moved. Chin up, lined eyes taking it all in. Graceful, arms at her sides in loose fists as if poised to fight. Solid capability harnessed every step, and she wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. He was sorry to lose her.

  She’ll be more effective on the inside, closer to Ilumat.

  Unless he works out she’s loyal to me.

  Aye, but no point in mourning lost arrows. You always seem to find more.

  Draken’s armor rubbed without the gambeson despite having put on his thickest shirt, which was wool and itchy on the skin. He resisted scratching and kept a cautious eye alongside the others. Faint light glowed in most windows, shuttered against the damp air, the sort that soon would turn to icy rain. There was a marked lack of people.

  They walked quietly, Tyrolean offering no protest even when the dome of the Citadel came within clear view. Something in his tone must have stopped him from questioning, and it was just as well. Draken had made another decision he wouldn’t like.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They entered a torch-lit lane leading to the main gates of the Citadel. Mist glossed the bright dome, which captured errant moonlight filtered by the clouds. Draken said, “Stay here with her. I’ll go look at the gate for Aarinnaie and be back.”

  “My lord, I beg of you. Let me go. Or let us learn her fate from the taletellers. You’re of no use to her or Brîn dead.”

  “I have no army, Tyrolean, no fortress at Khein, no Citadel or szi nêre, not even a collection of pirates on a ship to call mine any longer. I don’t know if Elena is dead or alive or if Sikyra is safe. But I still have a sister, here within Brîn. If Aarinnaie is on that wall, I need to see for myself. I owe her that much. Besides, Khisson killed me, remember? No one notices the dead.”

  Tyrolean held a long moment before giving him a minuscule nod and took Geffen’s arm. “We’ll release you when we get back.”

  She went meekly with him back into the shadows. Draken wondered if she’d scream or otherwise try to draw attention.

  I hope not. I rather like her.

  “You like anything on two legs,” Draken muttered.

  The lane was quiet and he’d surely be noticed, but if he kept to the shadows with his hood up perhaps no servii would give him trouble. The wall still bore their ghastly trophies. Surely the stench would drive Ilumat to remove them, but as it reached his lungs, he wondered how gruesomely cruel the lord meant to be.

  Friends. Lieges. Szi nêre and chamberlains and secretaries and slaves. Every face was known to him. He studied each until his heart twisted into a hard knot and his throat quit threatening to expunge rising bile. Truls, absent for the walk through the city, flitted forward to peer into the faces of the Akrasian servii guarding the gates. Lined eyes darted. Their greens looked too bright against the stone walls. Draken’s thumb worried the loose flap of leather on his hilt.

  He’d seen what he’d meant to see, though, which was a distinct lack of Aarinnaie’s body on display. It was less than reassuring. He knew one place she wasn’t. That left many horrible places she could be. He started to turn but two servii strode his way, calling out to him. No bows in their hands, though surely there were some atop the small tower flanking the gates. Still, they had no reason to shoot him in the back for simply appearing and leaving, and soon he’d be out of range for an arrow to pierce his armor. He strode away quickly; he knew Brîn better than any Escort and could find a place to hide.

  “Hie! You!” Boots thudding softly against the cobbles. Chainmail jingled behind him. “Stop!”

  He started to run, forcing his bad knee to bear his jarring weight, though this sort of thing could quickly lead to debilitating agony. He cursed the gods under his breath for giving him the magic to cure himself of new wounds while ignoring the old. His lungs seemed in good working order, though. But his knee locked and pain stabbed up his thigh. Another step, Bruche rushed to numb it with cold, but he stumbled and landed on the knee. He spat a curse: “Atu Khellian trese!”

  In bloody Moneoan. He groaned and struggled to his feet.

  Pretend not to know Arkasian,
Bruche suggested.

  “Who are you? Why are you lurking round the Citadel after curfew?”

  As fortune would have it he’d been chased down by servii who could speak passable Brînish. So much for that.

  “I didn’t know there is a curfew. I just returned to Brîn tonight and heard tale the Akrasians had taken the Citadel. I wanted to see for myself.”

  Behind the servii, Truls flitted toward the Citadel.

  Two sets of lined eyes narrowed. “Brîn has been locked down since we took it. No one has entered or left the city without the Regent’s permission.”

  First rule of lying: death is in the details.

  The one who hadn’t been speaking drew his sword and said in Akrasian, “And breaking curfew is against the Regent’s law. Disarm.”

  He could fight them off. He could kill them easily … or Bruche could. But maybe they knew something of Aarin. “Is the Szirin inside?”

  “What would a ruddy pirate like you care about the Princess?”

  He was willing to wager this servii wouldn’t know a real pirate if one slapped him on the backside with a broadsword. “I’m no pirate,” he growled, drawing his own blade. “Insult me again and I’ll show you your own insides.”

  Truls rushed toward him.

  go let them take you go inside the citadel citadel go inside

  Draken growled his agreement at the chattering ghost, but the servii took it as belligerence.

  “You’re going to challenge me? I’ve trained to the sword since I was barely toddling off my mother’s skirts. Disarm before I do something you regret, pirate.”

  More servii headed their way, a half dozen if the torchlight didn’t cast lying shadows against the mist. Heat rushed hard through Draken, fury that made Seaborn flare. He squinted, eyes stinging. It gave the servii a chance at attack. Bruche barely blocked the attack.

  Khellian’s stones. You have a damned deathwish. Bruche chilled Draken further until his whole body was under his firm control and cut down the servii with the sword. It happened so quickly Draken barely had time to blink.