Enemy Page 8

  Tyrolean rose smoothly. “Come, Princess. He’s right. A meal and a song will clear the head.”

  Aarinnaie scowled for a moment, and then, with speed that made Draken’s insides clench, her expression cleared. “Of course, Khel Szi. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Rarely up to any good when she looks like that, Bruche said.

  He tried to brush off his sense of warning, not that Bruche wasn’t privy to his innermost fears and joys. She’s rarely up to any good anyway.

  They shut the door behind them. Draken laid Sikyra down on his cot. She snuffled and whimpered but at last exhaustion won out. He straightened and rubbed his face and winced as his shoulder twinged deeply. He thought a moment and lifted his head. Truls lingered yet. “I’ve a duty for you if you’ll take it on. No point in hanging round watching me tend my daughter.”

  Truls drifted close enough to touch, if he’d had a body. Draken steeled himself against jumping out of his skin, lip curling at the scent of death emanating from the spirit. “You heard us. We need Osias. Find him and bring him here.”

  Truls held, wavering as a flame off a candle. His misty shape alternately cast grey light and shadows by some design Draken couldn’t fathom. Bruche moved inside him, altering his balance and his view. His stomach twisted

  “What? Is there a bloody magic word, a mystical command? Eh? Nothing to say now? I’ve little time and even less patience. Go.”

  Truls fell still. Cold and silence wove together, spread over Draken like tight armor against his clammy skin, constricting the depth of his breath and narrowing his attention to the specter before him. Truls’s visage changed to one of rotting death. He stared back from eyeless holes. Torn, tattered lips hung over disintegrating teeth.

  The back of Draken’s neck crawled. He was surprised to find he could lift his arm to rub it. His voice only shook a little. “Is that meant to intimidate me?”

  Bruche had gone very calm. As still within him as the others. Try little respect, perhaps?

  For an enemy who torments me?

  The ancients claimed the truth is the only torment.

  What truth? The only one I know is this man tried to kill me when he yet lived. He’s welcome to try again but the queue is long.

  You killed him, aye? With Akhen Khel, no less, and brought back Elena with his lifeblood.

  He’s not the only one who died on Seaborn’s blade. Too much blood since he’d been given Akhen Khel, too much death since he’d dragged himself, broken in spirit and body, upon the shores of Akrasia. And before. How many lives had he cut down? A thousand?

  And he is yet here, as if he is in your debt. As if he wants to help you.

  Draken’s eyes narrowed. Such debts often went both ways. He won’t even bloody tell me what he wants.

  He wants you to find Elena.

  Who bloody well may be dead! There’s naught to do with her bones!

  The Gods won’t tell you what they want. They know you’ll do the opposite. Perhaps he has learned from them.

  Draken grunted and eyed Truls, thinking. “A trade, then. Is that what you want? Am I to offer you something for your service?”

  Truls began to move again, more, mingling and reforming as waves on the ocean. The tension eased.

  As you traded with their lives. Clever, Draken.

  Draken swallowed hard. “I need you to bring the Mance here. Understood? Now. What will you take as payment?”

  Without a sound, the ghost Truls flitted away. Slowly normal noises came back over Draken: the creak of the building, a slight rattle of the shutter, Sikyra’s snuffling, constrained breathing.

  Well, that’s reassuring. Now he owed a ghost a damned favor.

  Despite the storied romance of sleeping with a bared blade, he had no wish to cut himself, so he laid Seaborn on the floor. He pulled his cloak over him and leaned back. Elena’s pendant slid up on his chest. He caught it, the white metal cold in his fist. He couldn’t bear to look at her image engraved into the pendant, but he could bear less to remove it.

  Settling on the cot proved difficult and required a deal of shifting to get comfortable on the narrow stretch of stiff fabric. It creaked and he didn’t want to wake the baby, so he stilled and let his muscles relax as much as possible. He tried to tell himself he had a cot at least, rather than cold floor or a hard bunk in a pitching ship, but his sore shoulder twitched, irritated. His mind twitched too, more so.

  He turned his head to look at Sikyra. She was a princess, born of royal blood, destined to rule after her mother. She should never want for anything while she learned to serve her people. No child should, no matter how lowborn. Even slaveborn of an abusive father, he’d had a warm place to lay his head at night. In return Draken had given his child a life on the run, her only shelter a dank, cold room. Elena would be appalled.

  You didn’t give it to her. Ilumat did that.

  I didn’t protect her.

  Perhaps not as you wish. But I will protect you …

  Movement jolted Draken out of his sleep. His cold hand dropped to the side of the cot and closed around Seaborn’s hilt. The sword whipped up to rest against the pale throat of someone leaning over him.

  Bloody Seven, Bruche! Draken blinked, took back control of his hand, and lowered the blade.

  Your eyes were closed. I couldn’t see who it was.

  “Osias.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand and pushed himself to a sit.

  “Khel Szi. Are you well?” Osias gaze intently at him with clear grey eyes. No swirling spirits peered through.

  “Well enough. Truls brought you my message.”

  A faint smile. “He brought me here. How did you manage to secure his cooperation?”

  “I asked nicely. Where is Setia?”

  “Guarding below.”

  Draken shook his head. There was no need. The building was ramshackle, deserted. Not even curious youths or desperate poor came to investigate. Perhaps Truls’s presence frightened them away. “What news? Aarinnaie claims there are Monoeans in the streets, that the city belongs to them now.”

  Osias frowned and eased down onto the cot next to Sikyra. She whimpered softly but Osias’s warm hand on her back and a soft murmur made her settle. “She is ill. I will see to a healer.”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  He met Draken’s eyes. “The Citadel has fallen to Akrasia. Brîn will be given to Monoea in a ceremony set for two nights from now. A trade for Akrasia’s independence.”

  “My head on a pike would be a special attraction, I assume.” The rough words were meant to stave off burgeoning fear but he had a hard time getting air behind his voice. Draken hadn’t realized until just now how hope had burned inside him. His shoulders slumped.

  “Not all the Brînians favored you as your father’s bastard son. This you know. But I think you have loyals left here. The Akrasians have not been easy on the Brînians, and the Monoeans here …”

  Sharply: “What of them?”

  “They are demanding changes. Every head covered as if going to temple. Any female warriors stripped of their rank and weapons. They claim women are suited only to motherhood, as Ma’Vanni is our mother. Bloodlords must swear their loyalty to the Ashen within a sevennight. All the temple icons are gone. Destroyed. I fear the very temples are next.”

  Draken stared. “Why would they desecrate the temples?”

  “They claim the Seven are to be worshipped at night, under the moons. They use the old rites—”

  “Those were outlawed by King Ysseff before I was born. Magic and blood and sacrifice.” Truth, he’d done fragments of the old rites as a Monoean. Cutting his palm and letting the blood drip into the sea as a symbolic sacrifice. Roadside altars dabbed in blood. Even oxblood on his forehead here in Brîn and Akrasia. But the old rites … holding to those took killing people. Many people.

  A shrug belied Osias’s wrinkled brow. “I have no confirmation of sacrifice, but rumors … I do not think it beyond possib
ility.”

  Draken stared at his sleeping daughter. His defenseless, sundry, royal daughter who very well might have inherited magic from her father or her mother. “I have to get Sikyra out of the city. She is my only concern now.”

  “You could take Brîn back if you rally enough people,” Osias said. “You must admit you have a way of gathering them to you.”

  Draken shook his head and rose to sheathe his sword. He paced as he talked. “Even a thousand citizens, two thousand, aren’t enough to take back the city if the Ashen are determined to have her. My real soldiers are at the front fighting.”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps they have surrendered,” Osias said.

  “Brînians surrender? No. But it doesn’t matter. It might take the whole of Frost to bring them back, if they even would come to me. We’d need a secret place to gather in force or the Akrasians will pick them off group by group. The only answer is mercenaries, if there are any who avoided the war effort. There might be fighters in those villages downcoast, perhaps, but Khein is probably no longer an option—Why are you smiling?”

  You’re already planning it out.

  Osias nodded his agreement with Bruche and looked down at Sikyra. His hair slid forward over his shoulders. “You’re right about one thing. Such a fight is no place for the Princess.”

  Sikyra whimpered as her breath wheezed in her chest. She shifted her little body as if trying to escape her blankets. Her lips pursed but her lined eyes didn’t open.

  Draken’s fingers lifted to his rough jaw. She had learned to kiss him, and more recently, to rub his face for bristles before she did.

  Clever, that, Bruche said softly.

  One of her little hands clutched the carved horse. He could fair feel what her fingers felt like when they gripped his, the weight of her body against his. He flexed his hands to erase the ghostly sensation as his stomach fell.

  He cleared his throat. His voice was low, harsh against his tight throat. “I’d like to send her with you and Setia. Can you find somewhere to keep her safe?”

  Osias gave a brisk nod. “She can stay in the gatehouse at Eidola. There’s plenty of room and Setia and the Mance will dote on her. It only need be a short while. No Akrasian would dare come there, and we could defend her well there against any Ashen who might.”

  Draken wasn’t happy with the idea of his baby daughter so close to the banes. Evil spirits could make quick work of an innocent child. But he had to trust the gates, and the Mance. They protected everyone from the banes, not just his daughter. And truth, their presence also might hold the Ashen from attacking Eidola. “Will your brothers take you back to stay for a while?”

  “To protect the child, aye. They will.”

  Draken’s eyes narrowed. Something in his tone … It had been Osias’s idea, after all, to take her. “So you intend to use my daughter as currency to buy your way back into Eidola.”

  “Truth, it is a solution that suits us all.”

  Bruche shifted inside Draken, either mimicking Draken’s apprehension or expressing his own. Sometimes it was tough to determine the difference. He couldn’t help but backstep. “She’s a child. A baby. She needs her father.”

  “She is a princess and she needs her city. Her people. Without Brîn she has no chance at ruling Akrasia.”

  “Brînian prejudice is barely eclipsed by Akrasian. And Brîn means little to most Akrasians.”

  “Until Tradeseason. Then every Akrasian knows the value of Brîn and her port.”

  Draken rubbed his forehead and said bitterly, “Ilumat is a fool.”

  “He may have another plan in store for the Ashen. We cannot know.”

  “Whatever his plans are, they won’t help Sikyra. She never had much chance anyway.”

  “Draken. Do you think the gods brought you together with Elena to no end? In your daughter, all three countries could be united permanently. As well, if Sikyra rules well from even one of the thrones, it makes hatred of sundry a very uncomfortable luxury. Ilumat knows all this. He will hunt you, Draken. Right now you are his biggest threat. After he kills you, he will come for Sikyra. Why give him the opportunity to take you both at once? Even were Sikyra an adult and capable of helping you fight, you are safer apart. As well, the whole of both yours and Elena’s people are safer with Sikyra alive.”

  “She is my daughter, not some sort of savior fated by the gods.”

  “No. If one exists, it would be you.”

  Draken snorted, irritated. “You’re assuming the gods have some good will toward us. It’s a reach, Osias.”

  “To assume else is folly. The gods have no reason to harm us. We are of them, are we not? Even you cannot deny it.” Bruche remained quiet. Draken had the sense he agreed with the Mance. But he also would not war with Draken over whatever decision he made.

  “What of the szi nêre? Halmar … ?” Aarinnaie had not said.

  Osias, usually calm, gripped his knees a moment before digging out his twin-bowled pipe and started to fill it. His voice was flat, factual, without sympathy or remorse.

  “Their heads rot on the Citadel walls. As well they desecrated the crypts. The bones of your ancestors burn in the tower bowl at Seakeep. The Brightstar armorers are even dead, their families as well, all publicly executed for helping you. Here is the truth, Draken. Ilumat seized the Citadel and you barely escaped. Do not give him another chance at you and the Princess.”

  Draken turned his face toward the sea, though there were walls blocking his view. Truls wavered until nausea burned in Draken’s stomach and threatened to free itself. He closed his eyes against the sensation. It couldn’t shut out Sikyra’s raspy breathing.

  “She is very ill,” he said.

  “She is strong. I will see her cared for, Draken. Setia knows the old ways to physic Brînians from when she was a slave, and if she can’t manage it, I will see a proper healer is brought.” A hesitation. “Do you trust me?”

  Did he? “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “I know you are angry with me for not banishing Truls. But I think you’ll need him.”

  “You drew an arrow on him the first time you saw him. What changed your mind?”

  “I was hasty in my judgment, aye? He brought me to you.”

  Long, deep breaths passed. Several more shallow ones from Sikyra. “For some debt he has not yet named.”

  A grim smile. “Mance are ever thus, eh? The gods chose you, and so have I. I will protect Sikyra so you can protect the rest of us.”

  Draken looked at his hands. Rough, callused from sword and bow. Crossed with white scars from a hundred small hurts. Ship lines. Knives. The ugly criminal brands Osias had altered into Khellian’s horns. It had hurt, it all had been agonizing. But not like the pressure around his heart, the compression of terror that he’d never see his daughter again.

  Elena did it. Elena let her go and so must you.

  Draken winced inwardly. Elena had given him Sikyra, their unnamed infant daughter, and sent him running from the fires she’d made to destroy the Moonlings’ village, to take back their freedom from the Moonlings who held her hostage. She was strong. She had done what was right for their daughter and for their people. He nodded.

  Osias rose and picked up Sikyra. She relaxed against him with a sigh. Her chubby hand closed around Osias’s silver braid and she pressed her face against his neck. She never opened her eyes.

  “Come, Draken. Give your daughter a kiss.”

  Draken stared at her, trying to fix her face, the way her body curved against his, into his memory. If he touched her again he could not let her go. He shook his head once.

  Osias stood a moment more. “Gods willing, you will not be parted for long.”

  “Tell her—tell her I—” His throat closed over the words.

  “I will, my friend.” Osias came closer and gripped his shoulder. “Every day and every night until you reclaim her.”

  He pulled free of Osias and turned his back. Stared into the fire like he could convince
himself it was the light that stung his eyes.

  Soft bootfalls, the click of the latch, they were gone.

  Draken—

  Be silent.

  Bruche obeyed, withdrawing into an anxious knot deep inside.

  Draken gripped Elena’s pendant so tightly that her face left an impression in his palm. He closed his fingers over her image and its mirror in his skin, rolled his hand over so he didn’t have to look at her. His heart beat on in his chest as if oblivious to Draken’s wish to escape the agony of her absence.

  Alive or dead, someday he would atone to Sikyra for failing their peoples, for running when he should have fought, for putting her in danger and sending her away.

  Someday, but not this day. This day there was no atoning for the past and the dead who plagued him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aarinnaie spun on Draken. “How could you?”

  A few words into the argument and he already tired of it. “This is no place for a child. She is ill. We couldn’t keep on this way.”

  Aarinnaie stalked a path around the room. He reached over to his cot. In their haste, he hadn’t noticed Sikyra had dropped her toy horse. He ran his fingers over the smooth hardwood, the edges worn from her mouthing it. She slept with it always. His eyes burned.

  “I’m certain my Lord Mance will take good care of Princess Sikyra.” Tyrolean, ever the voice of reason. Today it grated. Draken rose.

  “Osias told me all the szi nêre are dead.” Halmar and the others. He’d left them to die, loyal to the end.

  Aarinnaie blinked. She started to reach for the shutter but her hand dropped to her side, disappearing under her cloak. “Aye. It’s truth. All the slaves. They slaughtered every soul in the Citadel.”

  “You knew. When were you going to tell me?”

  She bit her lip and held his gaze with a scowl. “What purpose would it serve, your knowing?”

  He bit back a sharp reply. Kept his voice flat. “Osias also suggested I might have pockets of loyalty left in Brîn.”

  Tyrolean stood with his arms crossed. Nothing marked him as a Royal Escort Captain. He wore no cloak despite the cold. Better to access the twin blades strapped to his back. The distinctive pointed hilts were wrapped in leather to blunt and disguise them. Even his armor was plain and worn, but serviceable. Draken had no idea where it had come from, if he had been wearing it all along or had exchanged his fine armor for this on one of his trips to find Osias. His black hair hung damp and loose about his face. He’d had a bath, then. He was one up on Draken.