Enemy Read online

  Draken was too shocked to feel relief.

  “Be easy, Draken.”

  Draken swallowed, found he couldn’t breathe very well. Bruche relaxed his hold so he could speak in a husk of his voice. “Osias.”

  The Mance glowed faintly from the powerful necromancy he’d worked to dispatch the bane. He looked at Truls, who retreated.

  “You’re making a bad habit”—Draken had to stop to breathe—“of rescuing me from dungeons.”

  Osias lifted his chin a little and his lips took on a wry twist. “Tyrolean sought my help.”

  “Tyrolean? How … ?”

  “I gave him my pipe. Twine the smoke and it summons me.”

  What in bloody Seven did that mean? Twine the … Ah. His pipe had two bowls. He smoked two different leaves. “Where is he?”

  “I came alone.” Not an answer, but perhaps as much as Osias knew. Definitely as much as he would say.

  “And Sikyra?”

  “Safe in Eidola.”

  “She needs you there, damn you. You’re supposed to be protecting her.”

  “She is protected. But she needs her father. Come.”

  “No. We have to get to Aarinnaie.” He scowled. “You’re a damned lantern. Can you snuff the light? I can’t see.”

  It eased, though slowly. Osias rubbed the back of his hand on his chin. Not a gesture Draken had seen from him. “Aarinnaie Szirin is here?”

  “Ilumat married her.”

  It was a rare thing to surprise a Mance. His glow had faded enough Draken could look directly at him. His eye color shifted rapidly. Various spirits, taking their turn to stare at the upstart Khel Szi, no doubt.

  “She’s more hostage than wife, of course.” He came forward, grunted as a twinge in his knee caught him up. Bruche fled to fill it, easing the pain with cold. Someday he wished he could have a warm wrap and bath again. Someday he wished he could have a damned normal life. He was getting too old for this nonsense. He silently, gruffly, thanked the old spirit for his help. “I need my sister. And coin. And my sword,” he added in a growl. “I’m not leaving without those three things.”

  He felt handicapped without his blade and he’d need coin to buy better loyalty. With Bruche’s help he pushed past Osias to look down the corridor. All dark and empty, but Osias’s slight glow still hindered his vision.

  “Draken …”

  “I don’t have time to argue. I don’t care about me. Aarin needs to get out.” He bent to catch the old tomb blade up in in his hand—better than nothing—and led the way down the corridor. He had to glance back to see if Osias was following, the Mance was so silent.

  Draken knew the way well enough but moved slowly. He realized the dungeon was so black, and his vision so seamless, that he had no idea if it was day or night outside. The top of the steps was barred by a door. He was trying to remember if there was a guard stationed there in his time, or if the door was simply locked. Most of the time his dungeon had no residents. More likely there were guards now, since he was such an important prisoner. He paused at the bottom of the steps and kept his voice low. “How long have I been down here?”

  “It’s the second night, past half-bell.”

  He rubbed his hand over his face. How had so much time passed? “Guards up there?”

  “Dead.”

  Draken raised his brows. Excellent. “Right, then.” He started up the stairs, moving with more assurance. There’d almost certainly be fewer people in the corridors at night. While the Citadel never rested under a Khel Szi’s rule, the Bastion at Auwaer certainly did. Akrasians liked their sleep.

  He pressed his ear to the door, feeling Bruche lean in. No sound, but the thick wooden door would smother much of it. Just keep me in fighting shape, he told the swordhand irritably. He needed Bruche to concentrate on chilling his sore spots. The joints were stiff, but pain would hinder him more. He reached for the lever, cringed at the snick of the latch. The door was heavy, and it was a slow push, but it wasn’t locked from the outside. A crack of light pierced his vision. He ducked his head. Damn magical sight. The glow wasn’t all that bright, though, just a sconce on the wall holding a single thick candle. The corridor was lined with them, but only this one was lit. He frowned at that. Odd.

  They’ve no slaves to keep candles lit. They killed them all.

  Draken’s jaw tightened just as the door tugged and swung free of his grip. A servii stared at him, obviously expecting her compatriot who had been taken by the bane. But she recovered enough to rush him as she drew her blade. A mistake, even Draken knew, and one borne of a lack of training. One hand caught her arm, stopping the sword at about halfway exiting its sheath. His other caught her throat. It was the only vulnerable part of her armored form on such short notice. She stiffened, lined eyes round as he yanked her closer by the arm into his tight grip. Her lips parted. She made gagging noises.

  “Are you going to make me kill you?”

  Her head twitched no. He growled and released her throat. She gasped for breath and made a sound—not a scream but a gasping cry loud enough to filter down the dark hallway to ears beyond. He growled and slammed the grip of his bloody knife into her temple. He pulled back to do it again but Bruche stayed his hand. She fell limp, the sword yanking from its sheath as she crumpled. Bruche neatly caught the blade before it could clatter to the floor and handed it to Osias so Draken could haul her the couple of steps to the landing inside the door.

  We should kill her, he told Bruche.

  Don’t you recognize her? She’s one of yours, from Khein. Bruche thrust a memory at him, servii hauling him over the wall at Khein when he climbed it to help them during an Ashen siege.

  Draken didn’t answer. He’d been wrong, talking to Geffen the way he had. He was no longer Prince or Night Lord. Those days had passed.

  The corridor stayed quiet as he strode across to snuff the candle. Darkness closed around them, but instead of dulling Draken’s senses, it heightened them. His vision cleared. As expected, the Akrasians seemed to be sleeping. They could rely on their guards at the wall, the thick line of servii waiting to taunt the Brînians who dared step too close. He looked up and down the hall. Tiled. Dark. Familiar, but not. A shell of itself, of his memory, which was what? A sevennight ago? Two? He couldn’t recall and fought down momentary panic. Bruche rumbled in his chest. Focus on the thing at hand. Find the Szirin and escape.

  How?

  One stride at a time. She’ll be in Elena’s quarters, don’t you think?

  “I hope leaving that guard there doesn’t bite us in the arse.”

  Osias didn’t answer. Draken led the way fair quick to the Queen’s chambers. It was past his own and around a corner; the best in the palace. He hadn’t been in there, or even gone so far down the corridor, since he’d returned to the Citadel. But as soon as he approached the doors he knew she wasn’t there.

  No guards. Then where?

  Draken grunted, thinking. All was quiet. Too quiet.

  “Perhaps she has gained Ilumat’s trust,” Osias said softly. He held out the servii’s sword.

  Draken gave him a look to hide that he’d nearly forgotten the Mance was with him and took the blade. Truls lingered nearby, useless as usual. “Or she’s chained.”

  He pushed through the carved doors, sword first. A servii lifted her sleepy head from the bench in the antechamber. This time Draken took no chances. He lunged out with his stolen sword, which felt different—longer. Lighter. But it did the job. Blood jutted from the servii’s neck. Draken stepped back—not that more blood on him would make a fair difference in his current state of unclean. Before her hand could lift to the wound, she slipped to the floor in a gasping, writhing mess.

  Osias stepped forward, eyes stormy as the spirits pushed forward. The lines of his face took on a hard, ugly edge. Draken turned away. They couldn’t afford another scream alerting anyone else to predators in their midst. A guard meant someone was here. Someone important. Like a princess.

  Light pierced t
he interior louvered doors. Draken blinked and shoved through quickly, meaning to surprise any guards on the other side. The room was chilly, the only light shed from a guttering fire. No guards, but there was a soft form on the bed who lifted her dark head.

  “Aarin.”

  She sat all the way up, clinking. Draken cursed under his breath as he strode toward the bed.

  “Drae, behind you!”

  He spun, sword and knife brandished, but the burly guard dropped in front of him with a thud Draken felt through his bare feet. No injury, no blood. He must’ve come from the far side of the wardrobe. Osias stood in the doorway. He lowered his hand and nodded to Aarinnaie. “Szirin.”

  “Where was that magic before?” Draken asked.

  “It’s not something I can often use. It draws the wrong sort of attention.”

  “It’s about time,” Aarinnaie said irritably. She lifted her arm. An iron chain led from the wedding bracelet to the bedpost.

  Draken cursed as he examined the chain. “Are you all right?”

  “Not as bad off as you, I think.”

  A grunt. “I’m recovered, as you well know.”

  She sniffled, but not crying. Just a runny nose from the cold. “I don’t suppose you brought the key?”

  “I don’t suppose you know where it is?”

  She shook her head.

  “We have to do this the old fashioned way, then.” The chain wasn’t so thick and heavy, but too short for her to get further from the bed than the chamber pot set next to it. Draken nudged it under the bed with his foot; it stank. More anger. “How long have you been chained here?”

  Her expression closed. “Since a little after the wedding. He let me move around this morning.”

  Draken dared to give her a close look. A bruise darkened her cheek. “He hit you?”

  “I killed a guard and tried to escape. He wasn’t pleased.” A shrug, but a tad stiff, affected. “Get this thing off me.”

  He studied the chain. It wasn’t nearly as thick as the wedding band, nor the metal anything like the quality. He held it stiff from the bedpost and sawed at it with the sword, leaving gouges.

  “That’ll take all night,” she said.

  “And the sword is my only weapon, save this.” He pulled the bloody knife from his waistband and dropped it on the bed.

  Osias came close to watch over Draken’s shoulder. He held a candle, which made Draken squint. “I can help, I think.”

  “How?”

  Osias gave Aarinnaie a thin smile. “Easier to show. Step back, Khel Szi. I don’t think you’ll want to watch too closely.”

  Draken obeyed, but too curious to not look. Osias took the chain and held it between himself and the candle, barely a handspan apart. The candle carried on flickering, as Draken had seen a thousand other candles do. But the room brightened. He turned to squint at the fire. No, still barely catching the log. Aarinnaie gasped. He turned back but only caught a glimpse before he had to slap his hand over his eyes: Osias, glowing. It was a clean, white light, like the Seven drifting across clear skies on a hot night.

  A metallic smell emitted from the Mance and Draken could feel the heat growing. The chain clinked and Aarinnaie made a noise: a whimper, then sharper. The chain clinked louder, as if it had fallen. The heat faded and Draken peeked between his eyelids. The glow had faded. He cautiously lowered his hand. “Let me guess. Another trick that draws too much attention.”

  “Rather, aye.” Osias dipped his chin and blew out the candle.

  Aarinnaie scrambled off the other side of the bed toward the wardrobe and flung it open. She wore a nightgown, billowing, white, sheer. Most unlike her. Draken realized with a start it looked familiar. Elena’s.

  She came up with a tunic and leggings that were too long, but pulled them on just the same, turning her back to change her shirt. Draken couldn’t help but look her over for bruising, but saw only a large mark over her kidney, which, truth, could have been from when she was captured or even before. “Too big but they’ll do.” She pulled slippers from the bottom of the wardrobe and snatched up the knife. “Let’s go kill Ilumat.”

  “I’ll be happy just to get us all out unharmed.”

  She stared at him. “Craven? You?”

  He marshaled his temper. “No one wants him dead more than me—”

  “He’s my kill.”

  What had Ilumat done to her … besides the obvious. Gods, what if he’d gotten her with child? The heavy bracelet hung from her narrow wrist, dragged down by the shackle behind it and a couple of links of iron chain. They’d clink and bang into her hand and otherwise cause a nuisance. He came forward, tore a piece of sheeting off the bed, and wrapped it around her arm to tie down the loose metal.

  His voice gentled. “Agreed. But there’s no way to get to Ilumat without going through a wagonload of guards. That’s not going to happen tonight.”

  She didn’t respond, didn’t look at him. Her jaw jutted out.

  Oh I don’t like that expression at all.

  I just have to get her out of here as quickly as possible. “I need my sword and to collect some coin. Do you know where Seaborn is?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it since that night.” Her wedding night.

  Draken nodded grimly. “We’ll find it.”

  “Not the Great Hall. Ilumat would be too worried someone would take it.”

  “He wouldn’t keep it with him, would he? In his chamber?” Osias asked.

  Draken thought about it. “Not with the magic, no. At his heart, Ilumat is craven.”

  “The armory, then. We should check there.”

  Draken nodded, but before she could head for the door, he turned to Truls. “Make yourself useful. Is anyone lurking about in the hall?”

  Aarinnaie gave him a look. “Drae, you’re not still going on about—”

  “I assure you Truls is quite real and present, Szirin,” Osias said.

  Aarinnaie didn’t flinch or show anything but determination in her face, but she surely resented the ghost of the one who had trained her to be an assassin.

  Truls, expressionless, drifted through the closed doors. In a few breaths he returned. Draken narrowed his eyes. Did the doors move when he glided back through? Truls nodded to him, stretched a wavering arm to indicate it was clear to go. Draken strode through. At this point he figured he could trust Truls as far as this went. The ghost had plenty of opportunities to throw him over, but hadn’t. And he’d stuck close despite the gods apparently lurking nearby. Osias had stayed, as well.

  The thought of gods watching him made him nervous, but he shoved that back and strode on down the hall toward the armory. They skulked back the way they’d come through the private chamber; the corridor would skirt the Great Hall, which could be tricky with all the open doorways; then down toward his study, which served his other purpose of securing some coin. The route might even provide an escape route, if it proved unguarded or at least as sleepy as the rest of the Citadel appeared.

  Shallow grooves had worn into the tile floors down this older part of the Citadel. Odd how he hadn’t noticed it before. Steps and odd graduations followed the elevation of the ground. Bruche wordlessly shared a little history, maybe hoping to calm his nerves. At one time, the palace had consisted of only the Great Hall with one corridor skirting it and rooms to the outside. It had been a public place only, with living quarters located elsewhere on the grounds. Before the city had been walled, before Brîn was a small kingdom or principality. Wondering how they’d managed to build the huge structure carried Draken all the way to the minor, interior armory. He frowned. No guard even here, at the armory? He shook his head and reached for the door.

  Osias caught his arm, tipped his head toward Truls. The ghost slid forward and through the door. Draken heard his voice even before he reappeared:

  empty empty empty

  Inside, he stared in shock, pivoting slowly. The weapons were gone, with barely a scrap of metal to mark a forgotten rusted knife or a st
ack of arrows more suited to kindling.

  Explains the lack of guards.

  “Empty, indeed. Aarin, can you think of any other—” He pushed past Osias to look in the hallway. “Seven damn her, she’s gone.”

  Seven guesses where she isn’t, Bruche said. He didn’t bother hiding his admiration of the Szirin, even when she was being bloody foolish. Draken had no illusions that killing Ilumat would be his ghostly szi nêre’s first intention as well as his sister’s. Royal guards were protective sorts and Aarinnaie was just … vehement.

  You also know how foolish she is to try just now. He had to find her, and straightaway. Osias must have been listening in because he followed without comment. Draken gripped his sword, cursing Aarinnaie up one side and down the other. He never should have given her that old knife. I’ll kill her myself if the Akrasians don’t manage it. “Osias, I’ll take you to the coffers. You have to get a sizable sum out. If I don’t escape, keep it for Sikyra. It’s her birth right.”

  “I think you need my help worse than your baby daughter needs the coin at the moment, Khel Szi.”

  “Just do as I say. I have to go after Aarinnaie and I won’t risk you further.” He took him in his study, familiar and yet cold and empty. Truls shifted erratically, which wasn’t helping his own nerves much. He waved a hand at Truls. “Be still, ghoul. My own escape is for naught without this coin. I’ve bargained much to secure Khisson’s help. I need him to take back the city.”

  Osias stared at him, features unaccountably smooth. Draken decided to take that as a good omen.

  “Take back the city—?” Osias began.