Enemy Read online

  “Aye. Khisson will sit the Khel Szi throne while I’m gone.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find the Queen.”

  “But Ilumat has proof—”

  “Hang his bloody proof. If she’s dead, it’s by his hand. But she’s not.”

  “Because Truls says it?”

  “Aye. And because you don’t see her among the dead. Because Ilumat would have had a grand funeral and installed himself as King already if he had real proof. Because …” His voice graveled. “Because she can’t be.”

  Osias gripped Draken’s shoulder.

  “You said once you would serve me if need,” Draken said. “I’ve need, Osias.”

  “Aye, that I did.” Osias let him go but his tone lacked defeat. “Show me the coin and I’ll do as you bid.”

  He nodded and went back to the door to listen. No sounds. He frowned. He really didn’t like how quiet the Citadel was.

  Be easy. You know Akrasian ways of guarding. Remember walking the Bastion at night? No one on the loose but your sister that night.

  And she was on the loose again, this night. By now, surely someone has noticed I’m missing.

  You went two nights without anyone coming. Ilumat trusted you had no one to aid you.

  Two nights. He hadn’t realized. Ilumat doesn’t know about you and Truls.

  And he couldn’t do a damned thing about it if he did.

  He hadn’t been away long, but coming into his study felt like a minor invasion. Someone had shuffled through the scrolls and trinkets. Draken didn’t have time now to see if anything was missing; truth, he didn’t know the value of any of the items beyond ancestral sentimentality. The maps on the desk were scattered; the chairs were moved since he’d last been in the room. He stared a moment. This was where he’d run Brîn with his confidants. Ilumat and his traitorous lords had taken his place.

  He shoved his mind to matters of more importance: the coffers seemed undisturbed. He ran his hand first up to one hidden latch, then down to another, and then higher to the third. They clicked open quietly, well-oiled because of the vital contents within. There was barely enough space to walk between the back of the open shelves and the ones concealed behind them. His shoulder nudged a stack of thick leather bags designed for moving heavy coin. Baskets filled shelves, but mostly empty, depleted by war and dwindling taxes.

  It was something a common man might not think of—Draken certainly hadn’t as a career sailor and soldier—how war drains a country on two fronts. When people are at the front, they also aren’t earning and spending in the local economy. The Akrasian crown was in even worse shape than Brîn. Another Sohalia and the soldiers would have to fend for themselves, which meant unleashing massive amounts of hunting and robbery on their people. Draken wondered if Ilumat knew, then chided himself. Of course he didn’t. Even though he’d been raised up to run lands, Ilumat seemed possessed of a stubborn ignorance.

  At any rate, a bag of Rare was sufficient for his personal needs. For now. As for the rest, it would be here when he got his city back. Hopefully.

  He grabbed up a thick leather pouch and gestured Osias in. “Close the door behind you and hold this.”

  “Fair dark as a cavern,” Osias said.

  “I can see you. Don’t move.”

  He hefted a basket off a shelf and scooped coins out with his cupped hand, pouring them into the bag Osias held. The Mance seemed nonplussed, eyes wide; maybe the growing weight surprised him. “Can you carry it? We’ll find a pack—”

  Hush.

  Aye, he heard it. Soft boot sounds. So did Osias because he froze, then set the bag on the shelf. It clinked softly. The hidden doorway was cracked, just enough to break the alignment of the shelves. Someone paying close attention could find it from the outside. Draken gritted his teeth. They’d have to die, whoever they were, and quickly. He couldn’t afford to be caught, nor have them live to tell about the secret coffers. He wished for Aarinnaie about now. He also wished there were room for him to maneuver around Osias and go first, but there simply wasn’t. He lifted the sword from where he’d laid it on the shelf and whispered with barely any breath: “We’ll fight through. Ready your bow.”

  “Aye. Don’t look.”

  Draken frowned. Don’t look? Why? But the Mance just turned and put the bag on the shelf. “Cover your eyes, Draken.” He started to glow, a sort of tarnished silver. But it pierced Draken’s eyes like the sun. Soon he brightened. Draken could see the glowing through his eyelids and he felt a brash heat wash over him.

  Korde, was Osias going to catch flame? He’d burn all the scrolls to ash with him. At any rate, there was no hiding now. The glow permeated the crack between the shelves. Draken heard shuffling beyond, even as he ducked his head against the hot light. He gripped the unfamiliar hilt tightly in his hand, knowing the balance was wrong, knowing he couldn’t fight his best with it. Worse, he couldn’t back the Mance if he couldn’t bloody see.

  There was a muffled shout and scuffling. No sound of a door but there wouldn’t be; it had been kept sound and level over so many Sohalias. Then a sharp scream. Draken shifted forward, but he’d turned away from Osias and bumped into a shelf. Cursed. Another shout. The thwup of a bowstring. The echoless thud when an arrow pierces flesh and halts abruptly at bone. More screaming so the arrow didn’t do its job properly—

  “Come, Draken!”

  Night vision painted everything in greys. Osias was gone—must’ve pushed his way out of the narrow coffers. Draken raised his sword and took three, four quick steps. The screaming servii lay clutching the arrow in his chest. Draken bent and swiped at the man’s throat. The blade caught him above the collar of his hauberk. Four, no, six more poured into the room. Osias had a protected spot behind the desk and shot them as they came in. Oscherwood shafts could pierce boiled leather or even metal plate; these interior guards mostly wore mail. The next arrow knocked a lantern from a servii’s hands. Its bearer shouted in pain and the lantern crashed to the floor, sparks and oil splattering as it rolled.

  Draken cursed their shouts, which would draw more, and numbers, which felt overwhelming in the furniture-cluttered space. He ran at them from the side, dodging the haphazardly set chairs, leading with his swordarm. Osias was smart enough to let them gain some ground before killing the first two with arrows; doorways made for awkward sword fights. The third came in with a roar. She was good—very good—and bellowed as she went on the offensive. Draken wasted precious breaths parrying her strikes. The noise of the attackers and the dying would surely bring down the whole Citadel on them. He killed her at last. Luck, really; she risked leaving her ribs open to slash at his chest. Her blade caught his skin, blood hot and stinging as it hit the air. Bad move. His sword was at her low-line, beneath her ribs and coming up. She stumbled back, but he had his weight forward and stabbed deeper. She gaped at him, coughed. He yanked his blade back and she crumpled, spouting blood. In that moment he didn’t know if it were he or Bruche in control, or if they’d found some balance.

  The rest lay dead, bristling with white arrows.

  The room shook as the sting of healing overtook him. He had to grab the back of a chair to keep upright. While he was regaining his balance, two more servii rounded the corner into the door. Draken didn’t have the breath to curse. They came at Draken, young and nimble. Gods, this is bloody hopeless. He’d kill these two, and then what? More servii were on their way with this racket. There were hundreds of them in the Citadel. So much blood and hatred. If he died, it would all end—

  His body fell cold as the grave. Bruche backed him away, putting him behind the chairs and the dead servii, gaining time and improved position.

  The two servii split without a word, one climbing over the dead and the other cutting across the room toward Draken’s goal, the desk. Osias shot an arrow in him. He paused, swaying back from the impact of an oscher bolt through mail, and kept coming. Blood spilled from the wound. He didn’t appear to notice he was supposed to be de
ad or on his way to it. The other was shoving past chairs to get to Draken.

  “Osias, a little help here …”

  Osias’s Voice thundered, shaking scrolls in their cubbies. Draken couldn’t catch the words—was too busy watching the one closing on him, watching Bruche plan his defense from some shrinking place deep inside.

  Both servii stopped. At once their limbs jerked askew, bodies twisting and thrusting in a macabre farce of a dance. Even Bruche stared. It went on several breaths, long enough for Draken to notice his hand tiring from gripping his sword. Osias’s Voice raised in pitch. His beautiful face strained, all hard angles.

  Truls glided forward, mouth open. No sound emitted; either he spoke in some death pitch beyond Draken’s ken or it was a frustrated effort. It didn’t matter. Whatever he did, or failed to do, twin sounds built in both chests of the servii, deep, guttural, screams bursting forth from their mouths and dying as abruptly. Both twitched violently and fell to the tile floor, soundless, motionless lumps of flesh.

  Truls looked at Draken.

  Draken looked at Osias. Blinked. Sniffed smoke. The fallen lantern had singed some lower scrolls.

  “It took two of us,” Osias said, wonder in his voice. “I’ve never …” For the first time, Draken saw his friend at an utter loss.

  korde is come

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Draken opened his mouth but couldn’t decide which words to string together. He needed to know what questions to ask first. “What just happened?”

  Osias started moving, shifting smoothly between bodies to remove his arrows. “Korde is here. Why do you look at me like that? I warned you earlier.”

  Draken gaped at him, then shut his mouth. “But you’re hidden from him.”

  “Aye, as long as I don’t work magic.”

  he is here he is here here

  Osias talked over Truls’s whispers, saying maybe more than Draken had ever heard him say in one go. “We have no time. I’ll do as you bid and take the coin out. I’ll hide it as quickly as possible. Think of a place and I’ll go. You’re right, we must separate. Korde will likely follow me—”

  “Likely?” Fair nerve-racking, this gods-on-the-chase business.

  And annoying when we’ve business elsewise.

  “—As soon as I lose him, I’ll return to Sikyra. I will move her. You must find Aarinnaie and bring her out. We can meet in Reschan.” Osias started for the door, picking his way over bodies, pausing to remove arrows.

  “I can’t leave Brîn if I’m to take back the city.”

  “If Korde does not find me, nor achieve what he desires, he will be angry. Proximity to his wrath must be avoided.”

  “Osias?” The Mance kept moving. “Osias!”

  The Mance looked up from working an arrow out from the ribcage and torn mail on a prone servii. “What. Happened.” Draken pointed at the servii who had danced to their deaths.

  “They were banes … of a sort. More powerful because they were controlled by Korde himself. I barely stopped them. Only with Truls’s help …” Osias’s pale brows fell, making worry lines Draken had never seen before. “I’ll lead Korde away from you and try to lose him in the city.”

  “You act like he’s a man.”

  “He is limited in this form.”

  “Form?” Frustration bubbled up in Draken like steam from the ground. This was untangling thornwood from rockweed. “What form? Earlier I thought I saw … a man. With horns—”

  A brisk nod. “Khellian.”

  “I thought I was dreaming. The pain—”

  “Draken, we don’t have time for this.”

  “If some god comes after me I’d like to know what he’s capable of.”

  Truls was watching them. By now Draken thought he’d warn them if someone were coming right away.

  Osias released a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, but showed his impatience just the same. He lifted the heavy bag of coin. “They sense magic. Each have their own sort and are drawn to it. Korde’s is mine; death magic. Agrian is healing magic and can find a Gadye without trouble. And—”

  “And Khellian can find his namesake. That’s what you’re circling round?”

  “Aye, Khel Szi.” Emphasis on the name.

  Draken’s skin crawled. “You never thought to mention they can come down here to walk among us? It seems rather an important fact.”

  “They only come under great duress, though I have met Korde in Eidola.”

  “You’ve met him—?” As if for tea.

  “They’ve come for some reason. Reasons that surely have more to do with more than you and me. Something bigger is afoot, my friend.”

  “Like the war, possibly?” He couldn’t help the sarcasm.

  “Perhaps even bigger. Something to draw their attention. Perhaps they feel threatened. Or that you are.” He picked up the bag. “Where shall I leave this?”

  Draken thought about it. “The last room, the one in the abandoned building by the back gates.”

  “Aye, I remember.”

  “Put it up in the chimney, over the flue.” He cleared his throat. “And kiss my daughter for me.”

  The Mance nodded. His mouth tightened. “Take care and be well, my friend. I’ll see you soon.” He went through the doorway, glamour filtering him away from Draken’s view.

  Truls stared at Draken. Bruche shifted uneasily, knowing what came next.

  He’ll be in my quarters. I’m certain of it.

  A faint, internal groan. Of course. He couldn’t resist.

  Draken sent Truls ahead and when he didn’t return, he reckoned the way was clear. He paused at a corner where the wing to the Citadel business chambers met the rounded corridor that skirted the Great Hall to listen. No sounds. He held, wondering if Truls would return from scouting ahead. It’d be a handy thing to have a ghost scout, but so far Truls’s help was inconsistent at best. But would the ghost sense Korde if the god was really walking around in the flesh? He had no idea of the god’s abilities, nor Truls’s—who obviously had helped with taking out the banes. And who knew what mischief Aarinnaie was finding on the loose. His sister acting on a death grudge wasn’t a pretty thought.

  Perhaps Korde’s presence is why she is so determined to see Ilumat killed. Or Truls. He trained her.

  Draken gritted his jaw. You think his marrying her and raping her isn’t enough motivation?

  Despite trying for a nobler attitude, between killing several attacking guards, his rising anxiety over meeting up with a vengeful god in the flesh, and worrying over whatever his sister was getting up to, he was nurturing a healthy dose of hatred for the Akrasians who had taken over his palace. Where were the rest of the guards? Ilumat had brought three thousand troops to Brîn.

  What if they’re rebelling against him?

  By not guarding him? That’s a damn subtle rebellion. Almost too subtle to notice.

  Perhaps that’s the point … The spirit sounded speculative. Haven’t you heard of similar? Soldiers who respond to orders too late. Surely some realize how incompetent Ilumat is. Perhaps they’re trying to undermine him now.

  Draken could only wish there were something like that afoot. But for some reason the thought of that only raised his disquiet. If they rebelled against a high lord, with some—he had to admit it—claim to the throne, they’d surely never follow him or his daughter, two sundry bastards with naught but stolen names.

  He started to step around the corner but Truls rounded it, flitting at him so quickly he encased Draken in a quick fog of cold. they come they come

  Footsteps followed, boots ringing on the tile with authority, others following, and a clear female voice issuing terse orders. “No, I’ll inform Lord Ilumat when we’re sure he’s secure.”

  He only caught a few words as he backtracked down the corridor, but it was enough. They’d be coming to find the servii he’d killed, to see if their valuable prisoner had been caught. The commander wisely decided to delay informing their volatile Regent until she had good
news.

  He went through the first door he found—Thom’s chamberlain office. The latch caught and he winced at the noise, but he was able to shove on through and get it shut. He leaned against the door, searching the space for a way to bar himself in. No, of course a lock on Thom’s door would be a great insult to his Khel Szi.

  Good lad, Thom …

  Bootsteps and voices closed in, overcoming his twinge of grief. Were they slowing? He tried to breathe but his throat closed around it, even his heart seemed to pause—

  “Search every room. He’s here somewhere. I doubt he’d leave without trying to free the princess.”

  “She’s chained to her bed,” another voice answered. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Thank the gods for a small boon. Now if they grant me thorough servii—” Her tone was pointed but broke off. Boots quickened on the tile. Must’ve seen the damage and dead in the study.

  It’s a fair distraction, aye?

  No. They’re too close. But there were shuttered windows opposite the door, two of them. They would have to do, even with the likelihood of guards patrolling the grounds. He could climb the two-story private wing if he had to. He tried to think of the lay of the land just outside the office windows but couldn’t. He’d rarely been in here, really only walked by. Citadel staff came to the Khel Szi, not the other way around.

  Plain, battered work tables at a good height for standing, an old map tacked to the wall, chairs and stools standing sentry over a few scrolls knocked to the floor. The shelves looked mostly untouched. Akrasians had come through but apparently not found anything of value. As far as Draken’s immediate predicament, the best he could come up with was a chair under the latch. He jammed it under the handle as best he could without resorting to kicking the legs to wedge it tighter. More footsteps and voices outside told him he’d be heard, and that he didn’t have much time before the comprehensive search for him began in earnest. At best the chair would give him some warning if someone came through.

  He strode to the window, the floor cold against his bare feet, and listened for a moment. Looked at Truls. “Check if it’s clear.”