Enemy Read online

  With all that, he’d never received or given pain without knowing the end game. It made it difficult to linger in the grim place. Anger and frustration kept intruding as Akrasian guards dragged Draken outside and bound him to a sturdy frame, his arms bound high over his head, his shirt hanging in tatters from his waistband. Torch posts stuck up from the bloodstained gravel in a haphazard circle as if he were the offering in some ancient death rite to Korde. The flames burned his eyes against the black of night. They started with fists, the brute who’d dragged him out and bore the brunt of his struggles taking the most turns. The blows made him swing back as far as the ropes on his ankles allowed, and while Bruche chilled him to numb the immediate sting, the spirit couldn’t silence the thud of fist on flesh, the crack of his ribs, the grind of bone on bone as his bad shoulder threatened to dislocate. A shudder ran through the structure as his ribs knit.

  He hung his head, eyes closed against the torchlight. There wasn’t much to do but wait it out; no questions were asked and aside from a few rough chuckles and coughs the Akrasians went about their business of beating him senseless. Bruche’s cold couldn’t numb his nausea either, and it wasn’t much helped by Truls wavering nearby or the balcony off Draken’s chambers hanging overhead like a portent. Ilumat wouldn’t have been able to resist taking them for his own and Draken’s mind couldn’t resist flitting to the horrors within.

  When Draken lifted his head he saw a man watching from the shadows under the balcony. Clean. Long, light hair tied back. Sundry? But he had a sword strapped to his hip, and his broad shoulders and barrel chest promised strength and maybe some skill. Maybe a trusted slave guard then, someone raised up from illegal fighting pits. It could happen. Konnon, whose dappled head rotted on the Citadel wall, had been a sundry bed slave raised to the ranks of szi nêre.

  I wish they’d cut you. Your healing would bring the frame down.

  For all the good that would do him. Draken snorted. His assailant took it as an insult or sarcasm and hit him quick, thrice in the ribs and once on the jaw. It made his head snap back. His chest heaved as the courtyard and trees and sky wavered. The ground wobbled under his toes and the structure holding him up creaked. The men around him spoke in sharp tones. He tasted blood.

  When he could lift his head again the man with the sword was closer. Just inside the circle of torchlight. It made him a deal more difficult to see. Draken lowered his gaze to the sword. The man rested his hand on the hilt as he spoke softly to one of the others. Draken’s brows drew in. That scabbard … scraped and stained and battered …

  Do you see it?

  It can’t be. Ilumat would never let Seaborn out of his sight.

  Was that man at the wedding? He’d only had eyes for Aarinnaie. I think he was at the gates, behind the invasion. It was fuzzy, as if he’d more felt the man than seen him. Or felt the man watching. Who knew what the sight magic even was?

  I don’t know. You—

  A fist slammed into his gut. Draken dragged his knees up, but the drag on his shoulders was unbearable. He let his feet drop again. Bruche encased him in cold and things started to fade.

  Stay with me, Draken.

  Why?

  Bruche didn’t have a good answer to that. Draken wished they’d hit him again. A few more sharp blows to the head would make everything go to nicely quiet.

  The voices of the Akrasians pitched in alarm as the gravel shifted and rocked. A sharp chinking, tick tick tick, threatened to drag Draken back to full consciousness. He closed his eyes and swallowed. His throat was very dry. Water sloshed in a lopsided rhythm, not that of the sea but it put him in mind of water lapping the side of a ship. The shock of a cold splash twisted the sea and reality in his mind, but only for a breath. Draken sputtered and swung his head, shivering violently. Water spiked with chunks of ice drenched his head and chest. It ran down his skin in itchy rivulets.

  Draken dragged his head up, blinking against the torchlight and the water.

  “What’s wrong with you?” A voice out of the light, a shadow that could talk.

  Draken shook his head. Nothing. He forgot to speak. He licked the water from his lips. Salty sea water.

  Bruche settled in his shoulders and chest. No, blood.

  Someone plucked a torch from a post and jabbed it closer to get a good look at Draken. Draken winced and squeezed his eyes shut.

  Rough fingers wiped across Draken’s lips. “Seven take me, it’s true. He heals himself.”

  “I told you.” Another voice answered. “I saw it at Auwaer. Brought the whole Palisade down.”

  “The Ashen said it was bad magic, old Moonling stuff.”

  The Ashen? Why would these two ever hear something they said? Were they the enemy or not? Bruche said, Perhaps not, with Ilumat’s “alliance.”

  Anger spiked, colder than the air nipping at his wet skin. It dragged him unwillingly back to full consciousness. “Fools all. You going to chat all night or beat on me more? Whichever, bloody well get on with it.”

  They obliged, beating him nearly senseless. By the time they cut him down, he was passive and hurting enough that he gave them no trouble. Even Bruche couldn’t stop the pain knifing up his bad knee from his thigh or making his shoulder seize. He cried out when his arm came down. Blood ran down his chin from his broken nose. They grabbed his bound wrists and dragged him around to the servants’ hall. It was blessedly dark and quiet. Someone walked by, slowing to stare, maybe. Draken hauled his head up to look, curious if it was the other man, the one with Seaborn. No. Not him. A woman. She was Akrasian and vaguely familiar. Her skin was so pale she appeared to glow. Or was she really glowing? Draken blinked but he was too bleary-eyed to work it out. Truls wavered behind her, drifting back toward the corridor downstairs. As if he were leading them.

  The dungeons. At least he could see in the dark.

  They dragged him down the steps, his feet bumping along behind, toes scraping on the stone steps. He couldn’t fight them at all. His arms were numb with cold and weak from holding himself up. Bruche couldn’t entirely conceal the further strain in his bad shoulder. Even the gods had never managed to heal it.

  The row of cells were dusty and empty of life as the crypts, rotting reeds rustling underfoot. They had to hold him up as one of them struggled with the lock. It turned with a clang that sounded as if something broke inside and the door swung forward with an unearthly squeal of metal on stone. They shoved him inside. He fell on his face when his arms couldn’t get up in time to catch him. Agony bolted through his broken nose again. A sneezing and coughing fit overtook him, making it impossible to breathe.

  When it ceased and he could lift his head, he was alone. Not much to see when his eyes adjusted to the pitch: a hole in the floor emanating the reek of waste, a wooden door strapped with rusted bands, petrified reeds under his body. His vision in the dark only carried as far as the stone walls and solid wood and metal door of his cell. The place stank of dust and sweat. Or maybe it was him. He shoved himself over onto his back. It took some doing. Beams crossed the low ceiling, strung with webs, glimmering in his night-sight.

  “I’m wishing now I’d taken care to make the dungeon more inhabitable.” Another coughing fit broke through a weak burst of maniacal laughter.

  Draken. Keep yourself together.

  Together. As if he were the sum of parts. But truth, it made some sense. Maybe he was no more than the dirty, sundry blood swirling in his veins. Or perhaps actions made the man. If so, he was anointed with the blood of violence. And what of Bruche? He seemed more ghost than man. They had been together long enough they needed few words. Their memories blended so well he could hardly tell the difference between their different women, the sensation of blade slicing flesh and sinew, echoes of voices and laughter and cries of fear and pain. Draken had even died once as Bruche had, blood spilling down his chest in a hot rush, stumbling to his knees without a thought, blackness closing in—

  He woke with a start.

  Truls lingered in a
corner, lower than usual and quite still, as if sitting on a ghost-bench.

  Draken raised a shaking hand to rub his face. “What do you want?”

  the gods come kill them

  “Bloody Seven.” Not that again.

  He rolled over with a groan, lay panting on his side for a while, letting the pain infiltrate. Acceptance was the first step to getting back on his feet. Upstairs somewhere were his wraps, the soaking salts, potions, and heat salves. But all the slaves who had cared for him were dead. He closed his eyes.

  More time passed, a fog of blackness cut with shards of the odd grey of his night vision when he opened his eyes. He only heard his own breath, shallow and labored, and a trickle of water somewhere that made him desperate for a drink. Bruche was quiet, watchful. Truls waited.

  “It doesn’t matter if a god has come. I can do nothing from here,” he said as if continuing a conversation. Perhaps he had been in his dreams.

  If a god has come, perhaps he is here to help. You bear Khellian’s name, his sword.

  Truls shook his head, pale in the corner. It made his face blur. Draken swallowed, coughed in his parched throat. He should have licked the water they’d thrown at him from his skin. It occurred he might be left here to die, a dried husk. Too fitting. Too like his esteemed ancestors.

  But Aarinnaie, she would live. Trapped like an animal, aye. Damaged, most likely. Clever, certainly. She could escape Ilumat someday. If they ever let her near so much as a table knife, she’d kill him. He hoped it wasn’t tonight. It was too soon. Ilumat knew exactly what he’d done. He bore no love for her and would keep his guards close. Take some time to gain his trust; better, if she could manage to woo him, something Draken feared she had a lot of experience doing, she would get her chance. He knew his sister. She would never rest until Ilumat was dead. His fingers clenched. He longed with all he was for his sword and the chance to thrust it through Ilumat’s throat.

  We’ve finally done it, then. Turned you into a proper swordhand.

  Draken’s breath husked. He swallowed again. Spoke because if the oppressive silence seeping from the very stone around him went on much longer he’d go mad with it. “She’d rather kill him herself.”

  Aye. But you are her brother, her prince.

  “There are no crowns in dungeons.”

  It’s far too soon to go maudlin on me.

  Draken sighed. He didn’t even know how much time had passed since they’d dumped him in here. Long enough his pants and the tatters of his shirt had dried, along with his mouth and throat. Long enough Aarinnaie’s marriage was likely consummated.

  You think she will not fight him? Bruche asked.

  “Does it matter? She will be raped just the same.”

  Is rape the worst thing that can happen to her?

  Draken started to retort but he snagged on the question. He didn’t have an answer. They both fell quiet for a while. Truls carried on staring at him. A faint stench rose from the pit in the corner. Draken hadn’t made much use of the dungeons. The last people to sit down here were Ilumat and his men. He should have killed Ilumat when he’d had the chance …

  A rustle made him twitch awake. He rubbed his face, listening. Boots scuffed the reeds in the corridor. He frowned. No clink of a key. Whoever it was couldn’t get into his cell, then. Or was it just barred? He wasn’t certain; he couldn’t remember. If it was, maybe he could jiggle it loose somehow.

  Maybe he’d imagined it but Bruche shook his head slowly, listening and sharing the wordless sentiment that the silence had changed. Draken couldn’t put his mind to just how; but he felt a familiar pressure in his head and joints, as if a storm were brewing. He sought the memories, but his failures flooded over him like an assault. Maybe they’d brought Aarinnaie here to flaunt her. Or maybe she’d served her use and Ilumat would keep her in the dungeon …

  The steps came closer. Stopped.

  Draken sat very still, staring at the outline of the door in the dark. No flicker of torchlight shone through the cracks, it was just that odd grey murk of his night vision. Or there were no cracks. The Citadel was well-made for such an old building, and it stood to reason that the solid foundation, which the dungeons rested between, kept doors from skewing on their hinges. For the first time it occurred to Draken to wonder if some magic kept the ruining damp at bay.

  The bar locking him in rubbed the outside of the door to his cell. Draken’s fingers tightened to fists. He’d had some rest now and Bruche was ever alert, his chill filling his muscles with strength. Damn them, they might take him and torture him again, but not without some pain on their end.

  The door scraped the floor as it opened. He hadn’t noticed that before either. He stared up at the servii as she came into focus. Slighter than some, Akrasian. Even in his condition, even without Bruche’s strength, he could take her.

  But for the short sword at her hip.

  She didn’t reach for it though. She stood there, eyes shifting like she didn’t know where to look. She couldn’t see in the dark, then. Draken wasn’t sure why he expected it. Bruche shifted within him. Truls had risen and drawn closer to the servii.

  They were all uneasy. Logic said it was because the enemy stood in the doorway of his cell. But that shouldn’t make his gut twist. He wasn’t afraid of torture, nor death. Instead, he craved it. Freedom from his mistakes and violence, this bloody war, responsibility for those who didn’t want him. The agony of loss. Fire and ice tangled in his veins. He didn’t want to care any longer. He didn’t want to heal himself anymore. He wanted the relief of blackness, and he couldn’t get it even in the Seven-damned dark of his own dungeon. His fists clenched, muscles straining.

  There was a way … if he could get his hands on that blade.

  Draken!

  He exhaled hard. I can’t do this any longer, Bruche. I’m just sitting here waiting to die and you and I both know how bad it could go if the Ashen control my magic.

  How would they do that? You wouldn’t allow it, even should they capture you.

  He swallowed. He couldn’t say his daughter’s name.

  Bruche replied fiercely just the same. That isn’t going to happen.

  Gods, it was only a matter of time. Why was she just bloody standing there? He scrambled to his feet, using the wall at his back as leverage. His sore body caught him up with stabs of pain in the shoulders and his knee. “Come on, then.”

  The servii opened her mouth into a gaping grin. No flash of teeth. No tongue filling the bottom. His eyes flicked to her hands, narrowed. His vision sharpened as he stared. It picked out colors from the grey.

  Her hands were crimson to the wrist. One of them held a small, bloody blade. He took a step forward. She lifted it up, held it on the palm of her hand, out to him. An offering of peace, despite the blood. He took another step.

  Draken, no. Bruche filled him, held him still.

  Draken could fight off his control, had done before under extreme need. It had surprised Osias that he could. It hadn’t surprised Draken because he hadn’t known to be surprised.

  do not go to her

  The clearest thing Truls had said. An order, and fully formed.

  “What are you?” he growled before realizing what he was saying. Bruche …

  The servii opened up her mouth with no tongue and no teeth. Screamed, ending in a scratchy, gawping squawk. No intelligence behind the sound. It disintegrated into a faint gagging whimper.

  Still, the scream shuddered in Draken’s bones. Real enough. And familiar.

  A damned bane.

  Silence clotted the air. How had one of the evil spirits gotten into the Citadel to possess this servii? His vision faded but for the bloody knife on the bloody hand. It was a gift, something to use to find relief. Draken pried himself from Bruche’s control. It was like unfolding himself from a tight box. He burst forth from it with a grunt. The box still compressed his chest, though. No air in there. Soon it wouldn’t matter.

  His fingers closed around the blade. It
bit into his fingers, pain a focus point. The smooth wooden handle was Oscher wood. Rare enough for Brîn. Oscher wood meant for a king: pale, pliant but strong. No, not just a king. A dead king. The blade was fresh and sharp as if just drawn from the fire and anvil and grinding stone. One of his ancestors had clutched this blade with the oscher wood handle in his still, rotting finger bones in the dark for generations …

  Bruche sounded stricken. How can you know that?

  He knew because he had seen it before in their escape through the tombs. Cold froze Draken’s arm on its climb through the air toward his throat. His muscles strained, locked in ethereal battle. All of Bruche, all his strength, was in that arm.

  Draken still had his other arm. He reached. Gasped the last of his air. Without Bruche’s cold, he felt every strand of his shoulder muscles tear further. Bone ground on bone. He grunted. His bad arm fell and he opened his mouth in an involuntary cry, silent with no air behind it. Bruche leapt down his other arm and shook the blade loose of his fingers. It clattered to the rustling reeds and stone.

  Draken’s growl broke the silence. The bane in the doorway moved forward, grasped his arm, and pulled him down to pick up the blade. Her face creased with feral hunger. Draken stared at her, unresisting, as his fingers touched the knife. Bruche kicked in, straining back against the bane’s otherworldly strength. She tightened her grip. A groan escaped Draken as his bones twisted from the inside out. A sudden thought struck him: if they broke his arm the healing could damage the cell enough for him to escape. Or it could collapse and kill him. At the moment he thought the latter preferable. Truls hovered behind the bane, useless, his edges shifting and reforming. Draken thought he detected fear on his misty face.

  A white light cut the shadows spilling into the cell from the doorway. Draken had to duck his head against the sting in his eyes. The echoes of a Voice reverberated inside his chest, tearing pain inside. He gasped. Gods. Someone was trying to rip Bruche away. The swordhand dug in to Draken’s insides with the claws of his soul. The bane froze, her fingers crushing Draken’s wrist. He winced, tried to shake her off, but they loosened as quick. She fell forward, limp against him but still moving, pawing at him. He stumbled back under her weight. The light swirled quicker through the cell, ruffling over his bare skin as if he’d come through a fine web. It wavered through Truls, tearing away the beautiful, concerned features of life to reveal his gruesome, rotted skull. The bane crumpled to the floor without sound. Two pale arrows stuck from her back. Truls’s face came back.