Enemy Page 3

  “Studied them, have you?” Ilumat glanced at the Escort sitting closest to him.

  Draken replied evenly, “For all his faults, my father kept an extensive library, which I’ve made good use of.”

  “Hm. Never put Brînians down as scholars.” Ilumat’s gaze flicked down over Draken’s bare chest, to Elena’s pendant hanging bright against his dark, scarred skin. “But then, you’re not quite all Brînian, are you?”

  Draken’s lungs made an effort to squeeze all the air from his chest. He breathed carefully and took a sip of wine before answering, Bruche holding the cup steady. “If my love for Akrasia corrupts my blood, so be it.”

  Another exchange of glances among the Akrasians. They ate in awkward silence for a little. Draken let his mind settle before speaking again, though his shoulders ached with tension. At last came the final course of fruit compote with cream … a Monoean affectation he asked the cook to fix regularly. Aarinnaie had taken a liking to it but not many others had. Still, it reminded him of his wife. Of his old home … and less of Elena. A simple comfort amid so much turmoil.

  Ilumat didn’t taste the compote. “Now that we’re sufficiently fed and watered, may I speak frankly?”

  No title. The slow squeeze started in Draken’s chest again. “If you must.”

  “I did stop by the front, as I told you. But not just to see how things stood. I had need of servii, a deal of them. Three thousand.”

  Draken could barely get air behind the words in his shock. “You took three thousand servii from an active warfront?”

  Ilumat simply held his gaze. Next to Draken, Aarinnaie shifted slightly, one hand reaching for a blade that wasn’t there.

  The quiet ensued, forcing Draken to speak again.

  “I suppose you’ll tell me why at some point. Perhaps at my sword point.”

  Bruche moved forward within Draken. Hold, Bruche. His swordhand might do something Draken would regret.

  Ilumat reached for his wine and sipped.

  “I have need of them if I’m to take control of the Citadel and Brîn.”

  “You speak treason.” Draken’s voice shook with fury. He couldn’t be sure if it was only himself speaking, or Bruche as well. The swordhand hadn’t withdrawn. His pressure and chill made Draken lean forward slightly. A waft of death scent mingled with the oil smoke, making his stomach churn. Truls drifted near, watching.

  “Your presence here is treason. You’re a half-breed slave who isn’t fit to pour my wine. Worse, your charade brought the Monoeans here. Someone needs to take the situation in hand for you certainly haven’t.”

  He ignored the slur. Or was it a slur if it was truth? “The Ashen were going to invade whether I went to Monoea or not. No matter what you believe, I have the war as well in hand as possible.”

  The Akrasian drew himself up. “No longer. I should be King by rights. Regent at the least, until our Queen’s fate is determined.”

  Tyrolean shifted on his feet. Draken held, absorbing this audacious claim before speaking. Ilumat was only a cousin to Elena … not even a first cousin. “On what grounds?”

  “I’m Elena’s closest living relative.”

  “No. Princess Sikyra is,” Aarinnaie said.

  “Princess.” Ilumat managed to turn the word into an insult. “Bastard sundry. Not even the Brînians would have her. What makes you think the Akrasians will?”

  “It’s a point. The Akrasians are no model of respect of nobility, if you’re any indication.” Draken unfolded his long body, feeling much too big for the low cushions and table, and got to his feet. “Halmar. Take Ilumat and our other guests below.”

  Ilumat laughed even as his szi nêre approached. Perhaps he’s gone mad, Bruche suggested. Draken ignored him. The szi nêre grasped Ilumat’s arms. Only then did his attention seem to hone in on what was happening. His head snapped around to face Draken. “If I don’t appear outside the Citadel within a night, the troops are under orders to attack the city. If I’m found dead, they are ordered to raze the city to the ground.”

  “We’ve walls. Difficult to breach.” Not to mention that those troops belonged to him, answered to him as Night Lord and Regent.

  Ilumat laughed. “Unlike you, I’m trained to think things through. I’ve already got a sizable contingent inside the city, of course.”

  “You lie. There are no Akrasians here.” Her fingers fisted around handfuls of gown. Draken raised a hand to stop whatever she might say or do next.

  Ilumat laughed again, a sound Draken longed to erase with torture and blood. “If you go now you might just escape with your daughter’s life.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  One of the most important lessons a new father learns is never to wake his sleeping baby. Draken ignored that rule, striding to his daughter’s chamber adjoining his. He lifted her compact little body. Sikyra startled awake with a sharp cry and tucked her face against his neck, quivering and snuffling. Her fist curled around one of his locks, the other pressed to her mouth. Her body slave Lilna tsked. Bruche chuckled at the impertinence. But Lilna’s position was secure. Sikyra adored her. Draken ignored both slave and swordhand and concentrated on comforting his daughter.

  Tyrolean appeared in the doorway leading from Draken’s sleeping chamber. “Ilumat and his company are locked in cells below. They gave no fight. They seem assured they’ll be released before dawn.”

  Draken nodded and followed him out into the corridor, carrying Sikyra. “Anything in their rooms?”

  “Nothing of interest, my lord.”

  “What do you make of his threats?”

  “We’ve high walls and strong gates. Moreover, we’ve had no word from scouts that three thousand servii are marching this way. I don’t know how he’d hide their presence.” Tyrolean paused. “The notion he’s got loyals inside the city is more worrisome.”

  Draken’s arm tightened around his daughter. “And Sikyra is a prime target.”

  “You both are, Your Highness.”

  They walked to Draken’s private scrollroom, Halmar and Konnon hulking shadows striding behind. Konnon’s dapples from his Moonling parentage paled from tension. Truls drifted ahead as if he already knew Draken’s destination. Their path skirted the Great Hall, but open doorways showed fevered activity within: soldiers and szi nêre moving to tighten defenses of the Citadel and slaves organizing munitions and provisions. He was surprised again at the number of people it took to keep the Citadel fortified, and even more so at their loyalty to a man who was not raised among them. Tingles cascaded over Draken’s scalp as a passing guard dipped his chin to them and gave the baby a small smile. Ilumat was wrong. He and his daughter had the Brînians’ love.

  Osias sat in Draken’s favorite chair smoking his pipe. Setia stood near him.

  Draken laid his sword aside and sat heavily in a harder chair by the table strewn with maps. Sikyra slid down to hold herself up between his knees, gazing solemnly at the others. Like her mother, her smiles were rare as Newseason sun breaking from behind clouds.

  The walls had shelves divided into square cubbies, filled with scrolls and small treasures collected by Draken’s forebears. Practical red clay tiles covered the floor. The low chairs bore worn cushions and armrests blackened from generations of hands. Dust softened the corners; slaves were not often permitted to clean this space. From here, generations of Khel Szis had led Brîn. From here, Draken also led Akrasia and her current war.

  Aarinnaie paced relentlessly, her skirts shushing around her calves, only stopping when two more szi nêre appeared to report that a preliminary search revealed nothing out of the ordinary inside the city. Aarinnaie snorted. “If there are enemies inside the walls, I would know.”

  Scouts had been sent to explore the woods and both the seaside and mountainside gates were barred, leaving the wall guards a bit confused but on alert. Draken ordered the city Comhanar attend the front gate, though he hated yanking the older man from his bed.

  Setia poured Draken wine and pressed it int
o his hand, her small hand brushing his. He nodded his thanks as Tyrolean shut the door behind the runner. The Akrasian Captain’s jaw was tight, body contained and bristling with blades as if he expected to spring into battle at any moment.

  “I think you should consider leaving the Citadel, Your Highness. We cannot be certain of the extent of Ilumat’s threat before daybreak.” Tyrolean’s gaze slid to Aarinnaie as he spoke, silently including her in the escape plan. He was smart enough to not suggest it outright. Aarinnaie would only waste time arguing. “Take Princess Sikyra and hide.”

  At her name, the baby princess crawled to the Escort Captain and climbed her way to her feet by hanging onto his armor-clad leg.

  Osias spoke lowly as he ran his fingers along his strung, waxed bowstring. “Tyrolean may be right. Aarinnaie surely knows a good place to hide.”

  Setia drew a sharp breath. Draken thought he knew why. Aarinnaie had been abused by their father, and then taken in by Truls and trained to slink through the shadows as an assassin. She still moved through the city at will despite her status. It wasn’t a life, an ability, he’d wish on anyone, much less his sister. And Setia was fond of Aarinnaie. They shared a past from Setia’s slave days in the Citadel.

  “I know many such places.” Aarinnaie waved a hand and carried on pacing.

  Draken set aside his untouched wine with an audible clink of metal on wood, turned his squinting gaze away from the three-wick candle burning on the table at his elbow. “I can’t defend Brîn from one of your bolt-holes.”

  “Both princesses, at least, should be made safe,” Tyrolean said.

  Damn. Now he’s done it.

  That stopped Aarinnaie. “I can kill as well as you, Captain.”

  “Better than I, Princess.” Tyrolean’s face was wooden. “It doesn’t mean you should have to. It doesn’t mean you can’t be overcome.”

  Draken shifted in his chair, suppressing a grim smile. Seaborn lay dull as dirty bathwater on the table. He laid it across his knees. It was a plain single-hand sword, a little too short for his reach, without ornamentation or carving. Just a devilishly sharp blade, perfect balance, a sweat-stained leather grip. And magic that could trade one life for another.

  Aarinnaie’s head snapped up. “Khel Szi, I could—”

  He held up his hand. “No. Tyrolean is right. Murder is not the answer to every problem, Aarin.”

  “We have Ilumat captive. He’s an admitted traitor. It’s not murder. It’s an execution.”

  “The other lords may not believe he is a traitor to Akrasia,” Tyrolean said, his dark eyes shifting to her. “I don’t think he would have acted unless he had more backing. And there’s his threat that his death will set off a massacre.”

  “You think it’s valid?”

  “Three thousand troops. A bold claim. He couldn’t have taken them without cooperation from other lords and horsemarshals,” Tyrolean said. “For what purpose would he come here with groundless threats?”

  Draken leaned over and blew out the candle searing the edge of his vision, scattering fine droplets of wax over a creased map. “None.”

  Aarinnaie sniffed and resumed stalking the room. “Then Sikyra can never be Queen. It was a poor prospect at best. We defend Brîn and let Akrasia sort her own war with the Ashen. She is your heir at least.”

  Draken didn’t argue the improbability of smoothly placing a woman on the Brînian throne someday, much less breaking from Akrasia or defending themselves against Monoea. He just sighed. But Tyrolean’s lips whitened at her brusque tone. Sikyra tugged on his boot and he bent to pick her up. She watched her aunt and the others from her new vantage, eyes wide. They were deep brown with the Akrasian slight slant. Draken had started the tattooing process when she was an infant and eleven moonturns later they were thickly lined and lent her a wise, aged look. The custom was still foreign to him, but Akrasians wouldn’t accept her as Queen without it. Lined eyes or not, her Akrasian heritage was obvious. To him, so was her Monoean blood, but most Akrasians wouldn’t see past her hair and dark skin.

  His throat tightened. Aarinnaie was right. They weren’t likely to accept her at any rate. Sikyra’s father might be the highest lord in Akrasia, but she was born out of wedlock with sundry blood and had no mother-Queen to defend her right to succession. Nor was she likely to get the chance to rule with rebellion and invaders nipping at the heels of succession. He rubbed his hand over his face and removed it to find Truls drawing near, soulless eyes black against his ever-shifting form. A waft of rot filled Draken’s lungs.

  elena is alive seek her seek her

  His breath snagged in his chest. His fists closed around the sword on his knees. “Gods. Not now.”

  Draken. Bruche, with a note of alarm.

  Aarinnaie strode forward to seize his wrist. “You’ve cut yourself.”

  Osias took a step closer, grey eyes narrowed and swirling, looking not at Draken but past him. At Truls, no doubt.

  Draken looked down at his hand. It was wrapped tightly around Akhen Khel’s blade. He winced and uncurled his fingers to reveal a smear of blood on his sword blade.

  Everyone had fallen silent. They were waiting for the floor to rumble underfoot as he healed, for the scrolls to rustle in their shelves, for his father’s keepsakes to topple.

  Draken kept bleeding and the room stayed quiet.

  Aarinnaie pulled a scarf from about her neck. She pressed it to his hand. With the other she gently straightened one of his earrings.

  To his surprise, his voice sounded ordinary, almost offhand. “I want the city locked down and all patrols to report. Give Comhanar Vannis the orders yourself. Tyrolean, keep to Sikyra. She needs to go back to bed. Osias, please stay.”

  Truls’s whispers grew, hissing from behind him, a chill breath on the back of his neck. Don’t like that much, do you, you bastard? My doing things my way.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Tyrolean said. Sikyra whimpered as he carried her out, bottom lip jutting as she reached a chubby hand over his shoulder for Draken.

  Aarinnaie gave Draken a piercing look and went reluctantly. Setia glanced at Osias. Something wordless passed between them. She shut the door behind Aarinnaie, but remained with them.

  Draken drew a breath and rubbed his temple with his fingertips. A headache had bloomed behind his eyes.

  “How long since you couldn’t heal yourself?” Setia asked.

  “Since Rinwar stabbed me with Seaborn, and only that blade. So far.” He probed the jagged scar on his chest, let his hand fall.

  “But it did not kill you,” Setia said. Her voice held a note of wonder. She’d always been a bit reverent around Draken. He felt awkward about it since she worked magic that far surpassed his.

  “That time. Now, I’m not so sure.” That healing had brought down the seemingly infallible Palisade around Auwaer, the wall of repellent magic that had protected Akrasia’s capital city for generations. Right now his vulnerability to wounds from his own sword wasn’t his primary concern. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Truls talks to me endlessly, Osias. Every day and through the nights. I can’t sleep—I—”

  Bruche rumbled in his chest, soothing him like a purr. Easy, friend. You need to think of securing your city. Worry about Elena another day.

  If only he could. Elena’s absence was a physical ache. Truls had no reason to help him, no reason to do anything but torture him. They were enemies and had been since the Mance had orchestrated his wife’s murder that led not only to Draken’s exile to Akrasia but a narrowly avoided civil war. Truls had answered to the gods then, and still did. He was still an enemy, and probably lying. He closed his fist around the pendant hanging from his neck bearing Elena’s likeness. His voice came rough: “What if she’s really dead?”

  A storm overtook Osias’s irises. He blinked and they calmed, back to the sea-fog grey. For the first time Draken had the insight the swirling might be the many spirits inside Osias. Maybe they fought Osias to escape, or for control. Or
simply to see.

  “The gods have no reason to torture you so, not if they want your will as their own,” Setia said.

  Tightness ached across Draken’s shoulders. “It’s never made any sense, any of it.”

  “Just because you do not know their intent does not mean their choosing you isn’t sound.”

  “I used their magic to bring Elena back to life against their wishes. I used it to destroy a ship and kill hundreds of men.” He used it to destroy a city wall that had very nearly resulted in the deaths of thousands.

  He whipped out his dagger and sliced his palm. The stone floor groaned and scrolls shuffled as the stinging cut closed and healed itself. He scowled, all reason for his bitterness disproved. “I have died a hundred deaths for them. They can fight their own damned wars. I’ve got my own.”

  “Perhaps the gods share your war against these Ashen who blaspheme them.” Osias closed his hand over Draken’s, silvery pale against his rough, dark skin. Callused from bearing a sword he didn’t want. Knuckles misshapen from breaking over faces. “Perhaps you are yet their champion. And perhaps Truls seeks redemption by helping you. It might explain why he has come.”

  Draken shot a glare at the ghost. “Is that it, Truls? You’re here for redemption? You won’t find it in me.”

  no no no seek her seek her go from this place now they come

  Draken took his hand away from Osias’s and rose. His knee locked painfully and he had to lean on the desk for momentary support. He cursed. Osias was wrong. He had to be. Every instinct told him he’d missed something important, especially as Truls closed in, his face morphing to a ghastly misted vision of rank death. His stomach turned over, making his skin clammy and his breath speed up. He spat a mouthful of saliva, hoping bile didn’t follow. “Don’t you smell him? Death and rot and—”

  Osias stood very still, watching him. He knew Truls was here, but the dead didn’t torture necromancers.

  go they come they come they want the child go they want the child go they will take her