Enemy Page 14

  The other emitted a strangled sound between fleshy lips—in that moment Draken realized how young they were, how inexperienced they must have been to approach him. The others, now closing in at a run, might have sent these two untried servii to harass the big Brînian who dared appear near the Citadel after curfew. Maybe as a damned jest.

  Run, damn you. Bruche was trying to force him round, push his legs into movement. They’ve no bows. You can make it—

  I can’t leave her in there. You heard Truls. He snarled and wrested back control from Bruche.

  You can’t rescue her from inside the Citadel. Especially not alone.

  I won’t be alone. In that moment, with Bruche’s help, he thought he might have a chance at fighting his way inside the Citadel. Truls still circled him and the gaping guard, raising a definite chill beyond the damp mist slipping through every seam of his armor and clothes. He still had Tyrolean on the outside, and Geffen. He trusted Khisson, despite his animosity, wouldn’t betray their pact. It was a slim chance, but a chance just the same.

  He attacked, a hard slash at the servii closest to him that probably only knocked the wind out of him, and pushed forward into the fray. They had swords too, but maybe they’d been ordered not to kill anyone else because they beat him with the flats of theirs and knocked his out of the way with a blow that seemingly came out of nowhere and wrenched his good shoulder. He was holding it too tightly, his whole body too tightly. Seaborn clattered away, flaring and blinding him.

  “Wait!” One of them shouted, but the others were bringing him down. He struggled hard before submitting. They had him prone against the cobbles, a sharp rock digging into his cheek, someone’s weight heavy enough on his back to make him gasp for air.

  “Hie, stop. That’s the sword! The bloody magic sword!”

  Truth, the damned thing lay on the cobbles glowing, the traitor. Truls stood over it. Quiet now, having gotten his way.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” Hands hauled him to his feet. He struck out but they were on him in an instant, blows to the jaw to make his head spin, rough hands searching him for more weapons. They found the boot knives and the one at his wrist. But far worse than the blows and curses was seeing Seaborn in another’s hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  There was a brief argument over bindings, of which they had none. Draken rolled his eyes. Guards unprepared to take prisoners? Whose servii were these? Certainly not from his fortress at Khein. He’d once sneaked inside there during a siege and they’d had a blade to his throat before he’d swung both legs over the battlement. But he wanted into the Citadel and also had no wish to be punched further, so he let them sort it out without struggling.

  They grasped his arms and marched him down the lane and through the gates. He looked all around. The courtyard, usually peaceful and lush, was trampled by the many horses staked inside. His stables must be packed to overflowing. He gritted his teeth at the damage, and at the inclination to think of the Citadel as his.

  But it is, by rights. It’s your home.

  Not helping, Bruche. Sentimentality would only interfere with his making an opportunity out of this disaster he’d brought upon himself.

  The spirithand fell silent as he was marched past the steps and open doors leading to the Great Hall. Draken turned his head and peered into the torchlit round space. His breath caught and his steps faltered. Two dozen Akrasians milled about, but they parted to reveal Aarinnaie. It could only be her with unbound black curls and glimmering pale green robes draping her deceptively slim shoulders.

  “Move along.” A guard gave him a shove, but Draken growled and swung at him. The guard’s head snapped back. Draken’s fist stung. Another guard raised his voice, sharp words Draken was too busy pummeling the first guard to catch. Several guards rushed their way and dragged them apart. The guard backed away, hand clutching his face. Nose broken, if the stream of blood and sharp cry was any indication. Draken didn’t see what happened inside the Great Hall as he was forced to the ground, face down in the churned, wet gravel path, a heavy man sitting on his back. Another’s knees held down his legs. His stomach twisted from the slight tremble that ran through the ground as his bruises healed. The men on him made sharp noises of alarm as they registered the shaking ground. It wasn’t enough, though, to give Draken leverage to escape them. He wheezed, all the breath squeezed out of his lungs.

  “Is that a Brînian? Let him go!” Aarinnaie’s sharp tone.

  A deeper, more commanding voice answered. Draken couldn’t make out the words. He struggled, but he was down. It sounded like Ilumat—

  “What is the meaning of this? Who is this man?”

  Definitely Ilumat.

  “Caught him lurking round the gates, Your Grace. Tried to talk to him and he killed Servii Bedar outright.”

  Draken snorted. “Your Grace.” Gods, he’s delusional and they’ve bought into it.

  He made noises about a regency, eh? What else would they call him?

  Ilumat’s voice paired with the sounds of boots ringing out on the brightly tiled floor of the Great Hall. “You’ve let some pirate bloodlord interrupt the ceremony? I ought to put you all in gaol. Get him out of here.”

  Draken twisted his head so that the gravel dug into his cheek, but a foot pressed against his head. He couldn’t see past Ilumat’s fine boots and the steps leading up to the Great Hall. Aarinnaie’s voice filtered out to him in echoes, intense protestations that didn’t quite sound herself. They were quickly overcome by male shouts booming round the great hall. He twisted more, struggling against the weight on his back. He heaved, ignoring the wrenching pain in his shoulder, shoved off the man on his back, and used his good leg to lever himself to his feet. Someone yanked the back at the neck of his armor with strangling speed, but his eyes met Ilumat’s.

  The Akrasian lord stilled. Draken took him in: no armor or weapons, dressed in finely woven robes the same pale green as Aarinnaie’s. “You’re supposed to be dead,” Ilumat said.

  “Not for lack of trying.” Draken was shoved down, hard. He grunted into the gravel. “You don’t sound so surprised.”

  “I’m surprised you’re stupid enough to lurk about the Citadel. But I’ve heard of your ability.” Of course he had. Draken cursed inwardly. “You fools. This is Draken vae Khellian.”

  There was some shuffling of boots, some confused, apologetic noises. Behind him, someone muttered that he’d damned well told them so. “Khel Szi or Your Highness. Either suits.”

  Ilumat sneered. “You’ve been stripped of all that. Did the official scroll fail to reach you?” He reached down to grasp the chain with Elena’s pendant and tugged so that it yanked Draken’s head forward. Draken gasped in pain.

  Of course it won’t break that easily. Ruddy fool.

  Ilumat pulled it over Draken’s head instead, still with that smile that spoke of worse forthcoming. Draken stared at the pendant in Ilumat’s hand. Told himself it didn’t matter. He was still his Queen’s chosen consort, the father of the Crown-Princess.

  “I’m glad you’re here. Aarinnaie has been a bit reticent. Surely she’ll cooperate now.”

  “Reticent.” Draken snorted, a mirthless smile tugging on his scarred lips. “With what?”

  “Our wedding.”

  His insides went cold, and it had nothing to do with Bruche. “She never will agree to that.”

  “Ah, but she has. It’s important Brîn is firmly bound to Akrasia, aye?”

  “And my throne is an important step for you taking Elena’s, aye?”

  “It’s essential if we’re to beat back this Monoean threat.” His eyes narrowed. “Of course, to you it may very well not be a threat. Brîn as of yet remains uninvaded.”

  “I’m no friend to the Ashen, not like you,” Draken growled. He almost spat what he knew, but he couldn’t betray Geffen. He might have need of her later.

  One can only hope.

  Draken’s mind reeled too much to react to Bruche�
��s quip, and he only caught half the conversation. Aarinnaie, bound to this traitor? He’d bed her immediately, get her pregnant as soon as possible. Aarinnaie could do anything from kill Ilumat to take her own life. He had to stop this. “Your children will be sundry.”

  “As yours is.”

  “Sikyra is daughter to the rightful Queen.”

  “Bring him.” Ilumat spun and strode back up the steps. A short cape edged in dark green ribbon fluttered from his shoulders. “Princess, your brother is here just in time. Shall we proceed?”

  Two servii held his arms and marched him up the steps. Draken didn’t fight them; they were taking him in the right direction now. Aarinnaie turned toward Ilumat, filmy robes matching his and concealing her slight form.

  “You lie—” A sharp intake of breath cut off the word. “Draken.”

  Aarinnaie started toward him and stumbled with a sharp clinking sound. An Escort caught her round the shoulders and Draken realized her ankles and wrists were shackled.

  “Those won’t be necessary any longer, I trust. Unbind her,” Ilumat said. “And lay that sword to Draken’s throat. If she refuses, or hesitates in her vows to me, I’ll take his head. Surely even your unholy healing cannot reattach it.”

  Draken frowned. Unholy … ? But Aarinnaie’s chains rattled. “No!”

  “Enough,” Ilumat said. “Where is the bloody priest?”

  “Just here, my lord.” The gentle Citadel temple priest with the tender hands hurried forward. He stared at Draken. His mouth opened to speak. Draken shook his head at him. If he called him Khel Szi, Ilumat might well kill him.

  “Your Grace,” Ilumat snarled.

  “This won’t help you achieve the throne, Ilumat,” Draken said.“I already am Regent of Akrasia, and I soon will be her King. It’s Brîn I’m bringing to heel.”

  Aarinnaie stared as they forced Draken to his knees and pulled his head back, fingers wound painfully tight in his short hair. One of the servii held Akhen Khel to his throat. Even on this cold, misty night, even compared to Bruche’s internal chill when he took over Draken’s body, there was nothing so cold as a sharp blade against the skin. Especially one he was certain could kill him. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t do it, Aarin.”

  She just stared at him, blue eyes wide.

  He struggled but the blade bit into his skin. Blood trickled in a hot stream down his throat. “Aarinnaie. Do not do this.”

  She gave him a pleading look. “I have to. You cannot die.”

  “He’ll kill me anyway.”

  She turned on Ilumat. “Will you?”

  “Truth, he’ll live if you marry me.” A thin smile. “He’ll be family after all.”

  “The bastard has no honor.” The hands yanked his head back further as he spoke. “Don’t believe him, Aar—” The blade tightened on his throat, cutting him off.

  “If she refuses me, then you are of no use and I kill you both.” Ilumat spread his hands. The long, wide sleeves draping his arms spread like wings. “As my wife I will cherish you, keep you from harm, give you independence as you earn my trust. Freedom or death, Princess. I can offer you either. You may choose.”

  “My death would be freedom from you, and marriage means certain death: yours. So it’s not really a choice, is it?” she said. Ilumat frowned, obviously not liking how she twisted his words. She didn’t see. Her gaze slid to Draken and locked there.

  His heart twisted, a squeezing pain. He shook his head. More blood trickled down his throat. No trembling under his knees, no sting of healing. Just blood. Draken swallowed in his dry throat.

  Truls drifted toward Draken, pushing his foul, broken face close to his. Beyond, though the misty shape, he could see Ilumat reach out and take Aarinnaie’s hand, her unresisting but stiff. He wanted to protest, to shout at the ghost and at Aarinnaie. But she showed unfailing logic. They were outnumbered. Ilumat held all the power. And Aarin knew what Seaborn would do to him.

  The Priest’s attention kept straying to Draken. Maybe he still had his loyalty, but what good was a soft-handed old Priest? His voice trembled as he spoke. “Do you have the gifts, my lord?”

  “Aye.” Ilumat bowed his head to the priest as was expected and gestured to servants. One by one they brought the Seven Gifts to honor the gods: a cage of live bird chicks for Ma’Vanni, the mother. A knife for Khellian, god of war. A rich, folded, woven blanket to show the comfort of Shaim’s peace. A bouquet of flowers, rich breads, and fruit to ask Agrias’s bounty upon their marriage. A couple of proxy advisors to ensure Zozia’s wisdom. Seven gold pieces to pay Aarinnaie’s tax to Korde. Aarinnaie bore this procession of gifts stony-faced, not so much as nodding at the priests. Her gaze kept flicking to Draken.

  Ilumat said the perfunctory words of commitment to Aarinnaie. She repeated them back woodenly, her gaze on Draken. He stared back, every swallow, every breath pressing the skin of his throat against the sharp edge of the blade there.

  Ilumat snapped the marriage bracelet onto his own arm first, an engraved cuff of moonwrought with a locking latch. It would have to be sawn off. He snapped a matching cuff onto Aarinnaie’s wrist. Draken closed his eyes, knowing the cold metal must feel like a shackle. They were married. Entirely proper and utterly heartless.

  The pressure of the blade eased against Draken’s neck. It was still there, though. Draken didn’t move, held quite still. It was still close enough to slit his throat with a twitch and Draken didn’t trust that Ilumat wouldn’t give the nod now that Aarinnaie was his. He squinted at his sister. Aarinnaie stared at nothing, her face toward the throne and tilted down. The cowl draping her curls was stark against the riot of colors filling the torchlit Great Hall.

  Gods, she looks the perfect bride. Bile rose as he thought of what came next for her.

  Bruche had no quip, no quick answer. His was an anxious quiet. At last: I worry more what comes next for you.

  Fools all. Draken couldn’t conceal his apprehension or—admit it—fear. Ilumat might very well need me. A trade or some nonsense. The Monoeans might like very much to kill me themselves.

  Bruche rumbled in his chest like a cat trying to soothe itself by purring. Both of them were thinking torture was more likely than death. There was no use speaking of it. Draken found himself slipping into that space between fear and thought, a place he had dwelled when his father last tortured him, when the Monoeans had beaten and branded him in gaol, while he endured hazing as a new sailor, the place where silent screams had echoed when his slavemasters beat him as a child. He barely felt Seaborn press into his throat any more.

  Ilumat turned to Draken. His mustache was perfect, his clothes pristine. Draken wished for the mask to shield his eyes. He had to squint down at the Akrasian as he drew near. Ilumat’s fingers, pale and clean, closed over the hilt of Seaborn and took it from the guard holding Draken. The guard replaced the blade with his bulky arm. Few men were as big as Draken; this one must have been specially chosen for the job of handling him.

  “It appears we are now family, brother,” Ilumat said.

  Draken’s jaw tightened. Truth, in peacetime a cousin to the Queen would make an acceptable husband for Aarinnaie. He had wondered if raising Tyrolean officially back to First Captain would make him a suitable match, since the two seemed to get on. But that had been before Elena had disappeared, before Monoea had attacked, before even Sikyra was born. That time was lost forever and this match wasn’t good for Brîn or Aarinnaie.

  Gods willing, it would be even worse for Ilumat.

  Bruche tried to chill him as a warning not to speak, but Draken couldn’t help himself. “I only hope you live long enough to regret it. Aarinnaie is not someone to be trifled with.” A humorless laugh erupted from him. “You’ve really no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. First Brîn and now this.”

  Ilumat paled slightly, if possible. Maybe he had heard the rumors of his new assassin bride. Whatever it was, Draken was glad to plant a seed of doubt in him.

  “The gods do not fate wel
l wives who do not come to heel,” Ilumat said.

  Draken stilled. Ilumat’s last wife had died in childbirth … supposedly. “That hasn’t been Akrasia’s way for generations and you know it.”

  Ilumat twitched a hand at the guard holding Draken. “Take him away.”

  Aarinnaie made a strangled noise. It seemed to stop the guard. She moved toward Draken. Gods. She should be running away, not toward him.

  He met her gaze. “Aarin.”

  She stopped.

  He couldn’t reassure her, couldn’t tell her anything. His throat was tight. At least she was alive. That was all he had to hang onto.

  Her face hardened as her narrow fingers toyed with the bracelet locked around her arm.

  Ilumat strode to her and took her hand. It hung limp and defeated in his. He lifted it to his lips. “Come, wife.”

  His gentle tone made Draken’s skin crawl. Bruche shifted uneasily within him. He was sworn to protect the Brînian royals and standing here doing nothing made him feel as if he bore a stone in his gut.

  Aarinnaie didn’t respond, didn’t shift her gaze from Draken, until Ilumat tugged her along, a solicitous hand at her back as he guided her toward the private quarters. She walked without hesitation, her back stiff. A guard followed with a bright lantern, which stung Draken’s eyes and made them water. He squinted that way as best he could, twisting his head despite the bright lantern light as they dragged him away, tears streaming.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A grim maze dwelled between thought and pain. An old armsmaster had told Draken everyone had one. To find the path back to thought took training. Experience. Long bouts of agony.

  Draken was familiar enough with such pain. His earliest beatings had been punishments. Later, there’d been torture to get him to do something, like when his father hurt him until he took up Akhen Khel as a conduit to the gods. He’d had people try to beat information out of him, and he’d spent long nights in a Monoean gaol suffering at the hands of prisoners and guards alike when he refused to accept blame for his wife’s death. He’d also spent much more time learning to deliver pain, and did it often enough if it served some purpose.