Emissary Read online

CHAPTER SEVEN

  Draken sat in the captain’s cabin as they sailed back, elbows on his knees, watching Tyrolean think. The familiar feel of the boat cresting over the gentle waves did little to soothe him. He told Tyrolean of the attack on Quunin, and that Yramantha had asked Draken to come to Monoea.

  “She seemed overly interested in my magic.” His fingers toyed with the loose wrapping on Seaborn’s hilt. “They’re rebelling against Aissyth. They think the kings have kept the people from the gods’ magic.”

  Tyrolean gave him a sharp look, lined eyes narrowed. “At the moment, I’m more concerned with this Brînian attack on Quunin.”

  Draken waved a hand, hoping he appeared impatient rather than anxious. “Come Ty, there’s not so much to ponder. It was obviously a rogue pirate crew paid by some Monoean rebel lord to attack Quunin. Rile things up, launch a rebellion.”

  “Your Highness, there is nothing simple about ‘a rebel lord.’ The last one started a war with the gods.”

  “Truls was a King and a Mance. And a rotted fool.” Draken rose to pace restlessly around the tight confines of the cabin. He didn’t want to think about Truls, but Tyrolean had a point. The Mance King had gone to great lengths to secure control of Draken’s magic and turn it against the gods. How far would the Monoeans go? Or were they even after the same thing? Frustrating not to know.

  He had his own quarters under the aftcastle, but this cabin was closer to the deck. Easier to keep an eye on things. He thought the Monoeans wouldn’t harass them after offering terms. Obviously they thought him of some importance … and he was ruddy godsworn, no matter how he protested it. But he hadn’t exactly agreed to their terms so he certainly wasn’t about to turn his back on the Monoeans entirely. He knew his former countrymen too well.

  Draken’s bare back chilled from the salty wind blowing into the room. He latched the shutters. “King Aissyth maintains an advisory council. Old families, powerful Landed, they’re called. Like our High Houses. But the High Houses would never dare come after the Queen.”

  Tyrolean grunted. “Don’t be so certain. Rebellions usually center on power.”

  Things clicked into place. “And religion is most useful in securing power.”

  “It’s been a valuable enough tool for you, Your Highness.”

  Maybe that was a joke? Or had Tyrolean taken insult? Draken scrubbed his hand over the back of his stiff neck. Before he could offer amends, Tyrolean went on.

  “Do you understand the significance of their using a Brînian ship to attack?” No. Not a joke then. “The entire Brînian fleet, trade ships and all, answers to the Khel Szi and the Night Lord. To you. Whoever did this meant to implicate you.”

  “But I didn’t order it!”

  “Proving innocence has always been a harder road than proving guilt. I assume that’s the same in Monoea.”

  Tyrolean had a way of unpeeling layers of subterfuge to get at the truth. Dangerous habit, that. Draken quit playing with the loose leather and drew his sword. He sighed at his dull, wavering reflection in the flat of the blade. No ethereal light banished the gloomy chill of the cabin.

  Godsworn, indeed. Perhaps the Seven meant for him to die this morning and are having another go. Times like this he missed Bruche’s commiseration on such thoughts. “No Prince is without enemies, and it wouldn’t take much to light a fire under mine.”

  “An enemy here at home, you mean?”

  “Aye.” Reluctance tinged his voice. It wasn’t really what he was thinking.

  “No one disputes your claim to the throne. You are the legitimate heir, your father’s son. He admitted as much in front of dozens of witnesses on that ship.”

  The ship where he’d been tortured into accepting the magic from the gods. It rested at the bottom of Blood Bay, sunk during Truls’ battle and the holy storm that had resulted. Perhaps they were passing over the ship just now.

  Draken shrugged off a chill. “Aye. Perhaps that’s the problem. My father was not a good man.”

  Tyrolean gentled his tone. “You’ve always viewed your magic as a curse, Draken, but it’s a gift. I wish you could see that. Doubtless the gods do.”

  “And this might a way for the gods to prove how deserving I am, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Precisely.”

  Draken grunted. “Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  #

  The day stretched into evening as the crew rowed the Bane back to its mooring, the first of the moons glistening on the waves and in the darkening sky. Little Zozia brightened the far horizon, flickering from over the sea as Khellian edged past her. A small ferry carried Tyrolean, Draken, and his szi nêre ashore from the anchored Bane as darkness fell, two brawny sailors rowing hard against the river current swirling into the bay. The river and sea combined, sluicing though the gate via underwater locks, which split the river in two directions before the water hit the mouth. The massive, rusted contraption let a barge captain easily choose the Bay or a smaller drogher driver choose the caves without fighting the massive drag at the mouth of the river.

  To avoid the river, the sailors took a small gate and narrow tunnel cut into the bayside cliff to reach the boat caves. For a time quiet encased them, but for the condensation dripping from the tunnel walls and the oars slicing the water. The shadowy, torchlit boatcave opened up before them. Flowing from the rivergate, water chimed constantly against the ancient, petrified docks, black from ages of exposure to grimy water. A train of six passenger droghers slid through the gates as he climbed from his boat. He heard a string of surprised Akrasian containing his title, but no one tried to attract his attention or pay respects.

  Draken nodded to barefoot dock slaves slinging heavy, wet ropes and seeing to passengers and boat repairs. He fairly felt Halmar’s disapproving frown from behind him, but he would see the slaves freed one day and in the meantime the least he could do was treat them as people, not wares.

  Halmar stepped past him to lead the way up the damp, twisting stairwell from the boatcave to the clifftop. It opened up outside Seakeep onto a large, flat stone platform designed for receiving ceremonies. Pillars surrounded it, supporting an arbor overhead. Brînian banners luffed and flapped in the breeze. The platform provided a grand view of Blood Bay and the waters of River Eros spilling into the sea at the cliff’s feet, though full darkness had fallen so he more heard than saw the barges and droghers cluttering the river. Faint shouts carried up from the steep cavern protecting the Eros. Seakeep looked as stark and solid as usual, the black maw of its broken gates the only indication soldiers had fought and died there. Draken gave the Bay only a cursory glance, noting the Monoean ships were still anchored. Halmar and three szi nêre clinked softly behind him, his constant shadows.

  Sky waited for him, tail swishing, and she nickered as he patted her neck and mounted. He felt a pang of regret at losing Tempest in the battle. The royal breeder had already started the journey to the grasslands to search out his replacement.

  Draken crossed the expansive field at a canter, eager to get back. Twenty-five of Elena’s Royal Escorts met Draken at the Brîn city gates, standing in two lines, ordered by rank. Their horsemarshal, a woman whose name escaped him, dipped her chin to him. “Your Highness, the city is … uneasy. Her Majesty thought it best we escort you.”

  He blew a breath between his lips, hissing his distaste for the need. But he could hear the pervasive shout of the throngs of people topped by a distant chant. “The Queen remains at the Citadel?”

  “Aye, Your Highness, awaiting news.”

  His message had frightened her enough to keep refuge at his palace then, as he’d hoped. He added dryly, “I take it news of Parne has filled the ears of Brîn.”

  She inclined her head. “Just so, Your Highness. And your errand this night.”

  Khellian’s stones. No wonder they were thronging the streets. They must be frightened witless. He had to speak with Elena straightaway. “Lead on then. But blades away. I will not have bloodshed this ni
ght.”

  His szi nêre drew in close, and the Akrasian guards surrounded them all. Swords were kept loose in scabbards, backs tensed, dark faces hardened.

  Stern, alert city guards opened the gates, bowing their heads to him as he passed. Archers lined the wall and a fresh shift of guards waited inside the guard house, sharpening weapons, tending armor, making a meal. Comhanar Vannis had seen to security. Inside, storied buildings loomed, all soulful, faded colors softened by the sea air and moonlight. In contrast, railings cast jagged moonshadows around balconies and rooftop terraces. The buildings reminded him of aged men and women, worn by a life of work, tattered around the edges but still prepared to get up and do it again the next sunrise.

  Or maybe that was just how he felt. It had been a long day and all he wanted was his Queen and his bed.

  The short inner wall held back the crowd, loud but peaceful, thronging the streets like it was an endseason feastnight. When they were stuck the third time for several heart-racing breaths, shouting crowds pressing from all sides, Tyrolean gave him a sharp look.

  “Either you give the order to draw, or I must, Your Highness.” He shouted to be heard over the din. “We must get through, even if it means cutting our way.”

  The Escorts shoved on, shouting in broken Brînian at the people to move aside for the Prince. They moved a few more paces. Sky snorted, tossing her mane and rolling her eyes. She nudged Tyrolean’s bay gelding with her haunches; he pinned his black-tipped ears. The crowd swelled and pressed them to a standstill again.

  One of the Escorts glanced at Draken and shouted, “We should go back!”

  Draken twisted in his saddle. They weren’t far from the gates but a mass of Brînians had filled in the space. What in Khellian’s name did they want?

  The acrid scent of terror rose from the crowd and it pushed two men against one of the Escorts. He growled at them and kicked them away. From Draken’s other side, Halmar drew his blade a handspan and looked at Draken, his brows raised. A chant, dull but rising in pitch: “Khel Szi. Khel Szi. Khel Szi!” until woman’s scream broke it. The sea of heads dipped and rose as a fight broke out nearby. Men rushed into the fight, scrabbling and punching. The crowd tried to back away but couldn’t.

  Before he thought about it, Draken drew his sword and thrust it into the air. It caught the light of the risen moons—Zozia, the moonwrought jewel glimmering against the expanse of black sky, and glowering Khellian, rising quick as a snarl. Their light sparked along his blade and Akhen Khel reflected it back to the gods. The gods were speaking to the blade, and to him, and even if it wasn’t in so many words, the message thrummed through his arm into his clenched heart. And he knew, damn them. He knew. The Brînians were again at war.

  The crowd hushed at the holy light. Every face tipped upward and a few of the more pious managed to sink to their knees. The Escorts and his szi nêre stilled. Only Tyrolean seemed at ease, gazing with calm eyes at Draken.

  “People of Brîn. We have been twice attacked, this you know.”

  The crowd answered with an angry roar. The fierce light heated until it seared his palm through the leather wrap on his grip. He tightened his grip and straightened his shoulders, bearing the pain. The gods had once tried their worst and he had survived them. He would survive this too, damn them. Draken twisted his arm to reflect the gods’ light around at them. It caught on faces and in eyes. Heads bowed and bodies flinched.

  “Parne! Parne is dead. Destroyed!” someone shouted. A few tried to take up the chant of “Kill the Monoeans!” It couldn’t get much weight behind it though. Someone shouted something about murdered Akrasian High Lords. Draken waited, gritting his teeth against the burning sword in his hand. When they hushed, he went on. He felt as if he had to force his words past the urge to say something else, as if strong drink muddled his mind.

  “The Monoeans attacked, aye, but have agreed to diplomacy in future. They have suffered their own attack …” The symmetry of the assaults struck him. His voice faltered. What if the gods drove this conflict? And that was the last thought of his own. His throat swallowed, cleared. Words flowed from his tongue. He was helpless to stop them. A chill filled him, aching in his bones worse than Bruche ever had. “Do you see Akhen Khel? The gods have blessed us with their light and guidance. With their aid, I will solve this. Brîn and Akrasia will be safe again.”

  Sky snorted and tried to move forward since she was free of Draken’s hand on the reins. The sharp motion brought Draken back to the forefront of his own mind. He strained for control, sweat trickling down his back, reached for the reins, steadied her.

  “Go home. Feed your families. Trade your wares. Hold your children close. I …” He gritted his teeth but it was no use. He could not master his tongue. Other words burst forth. “I will bear these difficulties for you. I am your Khel Szi, sworn to protect you. I swear myself to you again this night.”

  His head bowed and his arm brought the flat of his sword to his brow, the gesture of loyal military service. He trembled, sick inside from trying to resist. The ethereal chill closed in tight, enclosing his heart in ice. It squeezed. He gasped in pain, but no one heard. No one noticed. A cheer reverberated against the buildings and for several breaths, it seemed the crowd would never part. He stared straight ahead, still gripping his sword, body locked in point on the gods’ light.

  You’ve proved yourselves, he thought viciously. You own me. So give your slave a path, give me some aid, damn you …

  The icy grip shattered as if a mallet had struck a block of ice, shards of cold flooding from him, scouring his muscles and veins, draining back into the heat of the sword’s glow. The godslight shifted and narrowed from Seaborn into a hot, white line that cut through the crowd. Those who it touched shied away, creating a narrow passage wide enough for one horse. As Draken pushed forward, his guards following closely, it seemed a thousand hands touched him, sliding over his thighs and feet, tugging at the loose fabric of his trousers, reaching up to touch the ink on his arms, to rub across his metal armbands and bracelets. But rather than sapping his strength, it seemed to bolster him. By the time they reached the main road leading to the the Citadel his ache and trembles had ceased. He was able to sheathe his sword. His szi nêre were able to once again ride abreast with him. The people did not follow.

  “They’re doing as you said. They’re going home,” Konnan said, twisting in his saddle to look back.

  “Who are they to refuse the command of the gods?” Draken retorted.

  Konnan just stared at him, then blinked and looked away.

  “The command of the gods, eh? To the temple then, my Prince?” Tyrolean asked him in a low tone as they dismounted in the courtyard of the Citadel and handed their horses off to the grooms.

  “You saw what they did, Ty?”

  Tyrolean nodded. “And I saw you fight their favor.”

  Before Draken could fashion an inoffensive reply, Thom met him at the door to the Grand Hall. Two fresh szi nêre waited behind him, and Kai in case he wished to shed any clothes. He kept his cloak but shed his boots, as was custom. The hall was drafty from the breezes blowing in through the open eaves of the dome. “I need to see the Queen straightaway.”

  “She is with visitors, Khel Szi, in her lounge,” Hina answered.

  He frowned. “What visitors?”

  “Moonlings. The Lady Oklai and—Khel Szi? Is everything all right?”

  Draken was already striding away toward Elena’s apartments.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He heard Hina calling after him but it was all he could do not to run. As far as he knew Elena had never met Lady Oklai. What would possess her to receive the Moonling leader now? A slave made to intercept him at Elena’s door; it was customary to wash one’s feet before stepping into private quarters, but he pushed by and thrust the louvered door open.

  The place with thick with floral incense. Tiny figures surrounded a low, casual dining table, lounging on cushions. A few Moonling guards stood by, holding thei
r ubiquitous spears. Opposite the table, four royal Escorts waited behind their Queen, hands resting on sword hilts. Elena sat Brînian style, her legs crossed beneath the swell of her belly, a cup of something hot in her hand. It steamed up in the cool air of the room, the fog muting her features. The cup stilled on its route to her lips and her brows raised. A smile broke through her mask of diplomacy.

  “Your Highness,” she said.

  Fools all, Draken could actually believe she was glad to see him.

  “I came as soon as I heard we had guests.” He strode into the room, letting his big body impose on the space inhabited by smaller people. Halmar followed. Draken didn’t stop him. “I am sorry. I was unavoidably detained.”

  Elena sipped and put the cup down. “We were just chatting about your mission.”

  “I see. This is all very cozy, then.”

  “You are among friends. What did the Monoeans say?” Lady Oklai asked.

  Draken forced himself to take his time. He crossed to the bowl and washed his hands, let a slave dry them. There was a cushion next to Elena. He settled and ran his hand over her back. Oklai watched the gesture, a smile playing on her lips. It might be misconstrued as fond regard by someone who didn’t know better. The lantern light picked out each dapple on her forehead and cheeks. He didn’t want to lie and have to explain to Elena later.

  “They want me to come to Monoea. A diplomatic mission.”

  “Out of the question,” Elena said. “We’ll send someone else.”

  “Prince Draken has his charms and can be very persuasive,” Oklai said. “If my saying so doesn’t overstep.”

  Draken reached for his wine. Better to drink than to correct her. He preferred Khel Szi; the title and name was an effective diversion from his past. He had the distinct impression that Oklai used his given name to remind him of said past—and her knowledge of it.

  “Persuasive, aye,” Elena said. “But he has his duties here. And our child will come soon.”

  “I have heard the Monoean people are quite stubborn once they fixate on a notion,” Oklai said.