Enemy Page 7

  Osias nodded. He hesitated like he might reach out and grip Draken’s hand but turned, silvery hair sliding over his shoulders like a cloak. Draken gave Setia a curious look but she was already walking out the door, close on Osias’s heels. They turned in the opposite direction than he’d expected, deeper into the private quarters. But Setia knew the Citadel at least as well as Aarinnaie did. She had some plan.

  Draken couldn’t help a fleeting glance at his rooms before he passed from them. Cut lanterns picked out bits of color in the tiles and murals. Incense still scented the air. Beyond, Sikyra’s cot was rumpled from her sleep. How many nights had he watched her there, listening to her soft breath … Not enough. Not nearly enough nights.

  He snatched up Kyra’s favorite toy, a carved wooden horse she liked to teethe. Her little fingers closed around it as he strode downstairs and through the Great Hall too quickly to take in details beyond a wet smoke smell from the torches outside and slaves and soldiers hurrying toward the gates.

  Someone screamed as a figure appeared at the top of the wall. It was sharp on top, shards of metal embedded into mortar and topped by a spiked rail. The figure dropped back down. Draken squinted, his eyes sharpening in the dark. A rope … the intruder had left a damned rope looped around the rail. They meant to tear the spikes off the wall.

  “Run. Cut the rope!” His hoarse cries were lost amid the shouts. Someone tried, to their credit, and fell screaming and bloody back to the ground.

  It was over in a matter of a few breaths. They must have had twenty men on it, or a brace of horses. The rail groaned and creaked and clattered over the side, leaving a clear space to climb over. The first two attempts were met with arrows, but the attackers just had the simple duty of throwing a thick blanket over the wall to shield hands and knees from the sharp blades embedded in mortar atop the wall. Another figure—taking quick shape as a shirtless Brînian painted for war—appeared at one end where the remaining rail twisted away over the wall. Then another. They had bows, as well. Soon the arrows raining onto the courtyard took on much more precision. And arrows found flesh, someone screamed, a defenseless slave—

  run run get her out take her

  “Nothing like stating the bloody obvious,” Draken muttered.

  His free hand dropped to grip his sword hilt and he started to turn, but Sikyra screamed in his ear, matching the injured slave’s pitch. Tyrolean dared grab his arm. “Come, my lord. This way.”

  Sikyra’s scream, more than the ghostly whispers or Tyrolean’s harried voice, jolted him into action. He let Tyrolean herd him into a run, no small trick with the baby bouncing in his arms. Her screams grew into full-on terrified squalling, but the shouts and clang of swords drowned her out. Gods, the attackers had achieved the wall enough to take swords to the Citadel residents. At the temple doors he turned. Brînians streamed over the wall despite szi nêre picking them off with arrow and blade. Flame flashed against swords, making him duck his head and turn toward the temple.

  A strong panic that he was doing the wrong thing rose up in Draken. He should defend the Citadel, defend his people. Akrasia had come to take Brîn, banishing all pretense of the principality’s partial independence. Not only that, powerful Brînians had allied with them—powerful enough to raise a slaughter. His city was imploding, and for what? Power? Coin? All during an invasion from a foreign country. It made no sense. None of it made any damned sense.

  Bruche soothed him, chilling his body and taking enough control to keep his legs moving despite his urge to go back, to draw his blade, to fight. He growled in frustration, but Sikyra had tight hold of one of his locks and her other hand dug into his neck and there was no way to take her but out. Down, and out. Escape was the only choice. Draken swore as Halmar shoved him ahead. His knee wanted to give way but Bruche forced it to bear his weight and kept him moving.

  “Go, go!” He wasn’t sure if Bruche or himself shouted.

  Arrows whistled by Draken; one skipped off his armored back, shoving him forward a step. He huddled Sikyra in front of his chest with both arms. All wiggly arms and legs and little body throwing itself into flustered cries, she was difficult to protect. Halmar rounded behind him, said something he didn’t catch.

  Konnon shouted, “Run, Khel Szi! We will hold—”

  The roar of Akrasian soldiers meeting Brînian resistance reverberated through the courtyard, smothering his words. A flare of torchlight reflected off the white stone temple walls, bringing black arrows into sharp relief. Draken stumbled over the threshold, eyes closed against the reflective white brightness inside. Hardly like daylight but his eyes got more sensitive by the breath.

  The priest stumbled back as if he’d been trying to hold the door shut with his thin arms and pudgy body. An arrow skittered off Tyrolean’s bicep, drawing a yelp of pain.

  The temple was too bright inside, reeking of oily torch smoke, fair blinding Draken when he dared open his eyes. He stumbled and slowed. Sikyra hiccupped terrified sobs, rubbing her face against his chest. He squinted, trying to see. His eyes adjusted a little as Tyrolean shoved him back a step and slammed the door.

  “We’re in,” Tyrolean said. “The szi nêre have the door.”

  The priest wrung his hands. Smooth hands that had touched neither sword nor bow. He would die here in his precious temple. “What should I do?”

  “Pray.” Tyrolean was curt, his breath short as he bent by the wall near the door and started lifting a flat metal-strapped beam of wood off the floor.

  A sharp, distant slam made the door shudder slightly. Sikyra wailed louder. He stroked her sweaty curls. “Hush now, sweet.” His hand trembled against her head and he tried to keep his voice low and steady. “Fools all, what are those explosions? Not a ram.”

  Muscles straining, Tyrolean moved to set the bar in the brackets across the engraved metal doors. Blood seeped from his fishscale and dripped onto the white floor. Draken shoved his squirming daughter into the priest’s arms and helped him with the beam, wondering vaguely why there was such a huge bar to lay across the temple doors and why he’d never noticed it before.

  Bruche didn’t know either. After my time.

  Muscles straining, they slid it into its brackets.

  “Fire oil,” Tyrolean said once it was set.

  Fire oil. Ninya had lied to his face. The firemasters had betrayed him. The Citadel was mostly tile, stone, and metal. But the many trees … if they went up it’d be simple enough to smoke out the residents. Thank the gods the air was thick with damp mist.

  “We must go, my lord,” Tyrolean said.

  Draken nodded and reached for Sikyra. The priest gave her up with a grateful look. She drew a breath, released a final, piercing cry, then snuffled. One hand held the horse to her mouth so she could run her gums on its back. The other tightened around one of Draken’s locks. It pulled sharply again, but he didn’t try to tug it free. Whatever kept her calm.

  Draken bowed his head, kissed Sikyra’s soft hair. The szi nêre … Gods. The courtyard was a trap. They couldn’t survive. Why hadn’t they followed him into the temple? At least Halmar, who had protected his father before him.

  They will happily die to save you. Move.

  All around, icons of the Seven rested still and quiet in their shadowed niches, paint garish and celebratory. The tomb door was locked and barred again, as if it had never been open—no. Not quite. Grey bone dust scuffed the white floor.

  “The key,” Draken said.

  The priest hurried to a table with pots and boxes, opened one, and hurried back to press it into Tyrolean’s hand. The Captain cursed when it didn’t slip easily inside the great lock.

  “Lock us in,” he told the priest, and nodded to Tyrolean, who handed the priest the key. His dark, spotty hand trembled. “They’ll kill me.”

  “No they won’t. They’re faithful.” Brusqueness concealed the lie, Draken hoped. They needed the priest to protect them as long as he could.

  Tyrolean stole a torch from a bracket over t
he god of life and harvest, Agrian in his green and gold robes. They stepped into the tomb and walked down the slope, now familiar, back past the more recently dead. Tyrolean’s head swiveled even as he strode quickly. Shadows leapt over the dead, including Truls, shifting between them but constantly glancing back at Draken, his face trailing and blurring as he moved.

  The priest slammed the door behind them. It suffocated the last of the sounds of the battle. The tumblers clicked and clanged into place. He hoped the old man found a good place to hide the damned key. Maybe he’ll swallow it.

  Did you see the size of it?

  Draken’s lip curled. He’s a priest. He’s used to swallowing big, distasteful things.

  Inside the quiet of the tombs, Sikyra fell into a limp, traumatized sleep. Draken pulled up his cloak hood and wrapped the edges around her to keep her warm. Tyrolean led the way with surprising speed and determination. Draken hurried to catch up. It wasn’t until they were outside the armory that he asked, “Where are you going?”

  They could hear faint battle sounds filtering between buildings. The rain had stopped but thick fog blurred the streets and the people emerging from their homes. He saw no Akrasians; Tyrolean was leading him deeper into the city, away from the gates. Most adults were armed and managing distressed family groups. All ignored two more hooded and cloaked men cradling a baby. He was glad the Brînians were warriors. Any penchant for solving problems with violence would serve them well this night.

  “We’re going to one of your sister’s places. You’ll be safe there.” Tyrolean kept his voice low and avoided titles that might cause passersby to recognize them. He led them around the streets surrounding the Citadel, deeper into Brîn. Draken didn’t answer, lest he wake the baby and her cries draw enemy attention.

  * * *

  Three mornings later found Draken and Tyrolean ragged, cold, hungry, and the baby suffering head sickness. Her every cough cut right through Draken. They’d had little sleep the night before, taking turns holding her upright so she could breathe. Draken had passed the time wondering about his people, especially his szi nêre and the rest of the Citadel. Trapped in this dingy, drafty room, waiting for Aarinnaie to find them, it was easy to imagine the city overrun, Aarinnaie captured, or worse. Truls lingering in corners like mist inside a shadow did nothing for his mood. The daylight shining in through the cracks in the boarded windows stung his eyes. Despite that, he’d be damned if he would waste another day here. He needed a plan to take back his city, and quickly.

  Their little room, empty but for a mangled stack of furniture more suitable for burning than sitting on and a couple of narrow campaign cots and decent blankets, was located near the inland gates that led to the farming valley at the foot of the Eidola Mountains. He rose and laid Sikyra down, speaking softly. “We are safe here for now. We just need more food.” The goat milk was nearly gone and despite Draken’s distinct lack of appetite, they’d finished their last crust and cheese this morning.

  “And your sister,” Tyrolean said.

  He nodded. Tyrolean had gone to the fountain dutifully each dawn and dusk, though he dared not brave actual daylight. No sign of Osias and Setia yet. On the face of it, the Captain was the best to go. Draken was too easily recognized and Tyrolean blended in well with the Akrasian invaders. In civilian clothes with his usually sleek hair in greasy knots, he looked like a camp hanger-on, of which there were plenty. Ilumat had planned this for a long time now.

  she comes she comes

  Truls sped from the shadows toward the door, though his whispers didn’t seem to match that gaping mouth.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Tyrolean blinked his lined eyes once. “Ilumat might be using Osias for bait—”

  Draken raised his hand and turned, drawing his sword. Footfalls on the steps, a small snapping sound …

  Really just a couple of shifts in the old wood that might be feet or a nail loosening from wood shrinking from the cold. But still, Tyrolean moved forward on silent boots, easing blade from sheath. The floor creaked under him. He stopped. They held. No sound but Sikyra’s light, snuffling snore. Draken looked at Truls, lingering near the door.

  Tyrolean started to shake his head and moved to put his swords away. Draken hissed; Truls flitted through the door. Tyrolean strode forward to take off the hand or head of whoever dared invade their poor sanctuary. The door swung open and his sword slipped through. Aarinnaie jerked her head back, narrowly missing a new cleft in her chin.

  “Nice of you to notice me. I’ve been sitting out there listening since you woke up.” She came in, glanced at Tyrolean, who was putting his sword away with an odd expression twisting the clean lines of his face.

  Draken huffed a breath, swung the door closed. Truls was retreating. He eyed the ghost, wondering if he should have been listening to him all along. “No, you haven’t.”

  She turned to him, brows drawn. “It was a joke, Drae.”

  “Where in Eidola have you been?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “For three nights?” She was better than that, and this was her place.

  She grimaced. “Difficult moving around the city just now. Ilumat ordered martial law and servii and Escorts patrol everywhere. Not to mention the bloodlords setting up protection rackets.” She put her bag on the table, such as it was. Rickety and flanked with lopsided benches, it sagged by the unlit fireplace. “And the Monoeans …” She went to look at the baby, laid a hand on her back. Her breathing shuddered her little body. “Fools all, it’s cold in here. No wonder she’s sick.”

  “What about the Monoeans?” Tyrolean’s sharp tone made Sikyra twitch.

  She turned to look at them both. Sighed. “Part of my delay was due to trying to suss out the truth. I needn’t have bothered. The rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?” Draken shook his head. He hadn’t heard anything locked up in here.

  “Ilumat allied with the Ashen. I have a bad feeling Brîn belongs to them now.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Draken itched to rush to the defense of his people, but Aarinnaie informed him that curfews, crowd controls, and mobs for food, lodging, and weapons all stood in his way. Apparently the invading soldiers were housing themselves wherever they liked. Aarinnaie and Tyrolean went out separately to get the lay of the land. Neither had had luck in finding Osias and Setia.

  Keeping Sikyra safe was a top priority, but sitting back for a sevennight rankled worse than fleeing the Citadel.

  “You can’t go,” Aarinnaie told him. “Your face is on coins. Ilumat is buying friendship and loyalty.”

  Draken passed the afternoon watching the light shining through the cracks in the shuttered windows slowly fade. Constant explosions, near and far, broke the city sounds filtering up from the street. The fire oil Ninya had lied about. But it didn’t make sense. She’d been a slave once, and they didn’t trust easily. What would she want with Ilumat? Why would she ever trust the Akrasians or Monoeans …

  Realization scraped through his mind. He ground his teeth. He’d been so bloody dense. “Seven curse them. They used slaves.”

  “What?” Aarinnaie shook her head and exchanged glances with Tyrolean.

  He mustered some patience to explain. “I kept wondering how the bloodlords managed to gather enough people to take the city. They must have used their slaves to attack the Citadel. Maybe promised them freedom in exchange. Now that I think about it, I wonder if the Moonlings were involved.”

  Aarinnaie gave him a quizzical look.

  “Remember when Lady Oklai asked me to free the Moonling slaves? Right before I went to Monoea. She threatened all manner of disruption … well, implied the threat, anyway. I wonder that this is their doing.”

  “Except the Moonling slaves were interned into camps on the Grassland, remember?”

  He nodded. It was a point. Still … “Oklai and her people are free. At least they were the last time I saw them.”

  “If they’re still alive after Elena burned Skyhaven,”
she said.

  Draken didn’t answer. Not a time he liked to think back on, much less the consequences. Elena had likely died in the fire. Certainly many Moonlings had. But then Truls insisted she was alive, and he’d been right about the attack, right about the danger to himself and Sikyra. A very dangerous hope flickered in his chest.

  Tyrolean nodded slowly and spoke as if he hadn’t paid attention to all their talk of Moonlings. “Aye. Slaves make the perfect scapegoat. If Ilumat and the bloodlords lost, or were caught out, they could blame rebelling slaves. No one would believe their masters put them up to it even if they accused them.”

  Draken cursed. The slaves were to have been his to free. Affront and shame twisted in him.

  No use in worrying over it now.

  Draken cleared his throat. “It’s time to check the fountain for Osias again. After, go have a proper meal, the two of you.”

  Tyrolean frowned but said nothing.

  Aarinnaie shook her head. “Why? We can just bring food here as usual.”

  “I’d like to know what tales are earning the tellers coin. With or without Osias, I need to make a decision about where to take Sikyra. I can’t hide any longer. This storm isn’t going to blow over.”

  Not to mention they were all worn by Sikyra’s constant fussing. Tyrolean had managed to find some kowroot to steep, which helped her a little, and they’d started burning a fire because the mists and fog hid the smoke. But they knew he was right. They had to get her out of here.

  Aarinnaie checked her weapons, as she did incessantly when about to venture out. “We can’t even meet up with one Mance, and you think we’re going to sneak you out of the city? Both gates are guarded, and no one passes.”

  Properly expressing his annoyance would wake Sikyra. “Bring goat milk, fruit, and bread for Kyra, and mind it’s all fresh.”