It was Truls, staring at him through empty, dead eyes, expression blank, body mostly formless. He slipped back, lifted a hand to gesture him on.
“You touched me?”
Again Truls made the gesture to move, ignoring him.
He seems to be gaining strength.
Aye. Perhaps. Draken didn’t question further, being heartily sick of dealing with a ghost who gave him few answers. They didn’t go far before Truls stopped and pointed, and when Draken saw why, his pulse quickened.
Firelight nipped at his eyes. He averted his gaze a moment and looked again, trying to force his gaze to adjust. His eyes only spilled tears for his trouble. He had to get closer and pointed to it and pantomimed taking a step.Truls bowed his head, but didn’t indicate he would follow.
Wise one, that. Bruche had his misgivings.
Draken grunted and started moving through the woods, walking as softly as he could but wishing for Aarinnaie’s skilled silence. Voices reached him, a sharp tone as if someone were reprimanding another. He stared hard into the dark trees, lifting a hand to shade his eyes against the bright spots of fire. Only a few of them. The smoke smelled old and damp, not fresh. His nose wrinkled and he blinked. The fires were close, unblocked but for the trees in front of him, perhaps thirty paces ahead.
Smoke scent filled his lungs as he drew nearer. The largest tent, swagged and tasseled, took up much of a clearing against the river. No Akrasian would have such an ornate thing on campaign. Monoeans, then. Important ones.
Draken crept closer, trusting the dark hid him from the encampment better than it hid the encampment from him, trying to count tents. Ten surrounding the commander’s tent. Or royal tent. His fingers toyed with the loose tag of leather on his sword. A chance for him to rip out a taproot of the invasion, perhaps.
The rising pitch of an obstinate voice broke into his musings. “—prince any longer—”
“How dare you? You think some covenant with Korde gives you leave to disrespect my blood? My birthright?” Draken’s breath caught. His cousin Galbrait, Crown Prince to Monoea.
A short, caustic laugh. “Where is your crown now, Prince? Or shall I call you ‘king’, though the gods see no kings among us.”
Draken’s nostrils flared. He knew that voice as well. The priest Rinwar, the one who had rallied the nobles of Monoea to take Akrasia by position of his old family, older money, and ancient faith. But why were they here?
“That is not true. My family has held the Monoean throne for centuries. If not by the grace of the gods, then who?”
“You ruled by the grace of our swords. But no more. Look around yourself. Step outside your spoiled mind and see. See who these men follow. See who the gods rely upon. Certainly not an upstart princeling with nothing to his name.”
Breaths passed. Draken wondered if he actually heard the Prince’s panting through the tent walls or if he imagined it. He knew his cousin well enough to know how he’d look: color high, jaw set, nostrils flared, chin up; the very painting of indignation, like a good prince was taught. Like a king employed right before levering some decree that took titles and heads.
Bruche rumbled his disapproval. I know what you’re thinking.
Don’t fight me. If I can kill Galbrait, it’s a strike at the knees of this invasion. No matter the hard talk, they need him.
Galbrait knew it, too. His voice dropped into cold tones. “I am well versed in our kingdom’s politics and social structure, Rinwar. You need a royal to sit the throne. I know you don’t want me, and it’s just as well since I’ve no desire to be your puppet. When you have my cousin, I will be free of this all, aye? But until then, I am Crown Prince.”
Draken edged closer, jaw tight. Here, tonight, he could shatter this invasion. All he needed was to spill the blood in that tent.
“Not so fast, pirate.” The words slurred but there wasn’t anything soft about the steel edge pressed against his throat. Draken lifted his chin, tilting his head away from the sword. Whoever it was spoke passable Brînian, but no one from Brîn used the term pirate—not in a derogatory way, at any rate.
The blade nicked him. Draken leaned away and twisted. After a flash of pain, the ground rumbled under his feet. More than a nick, then. His assailant stepped back, lined eyes narrowed on him, ignoring the ground moving. Draken drew and swung. His blade thudded against a leather bracer as he brought his arm up awkwardly. Bruche held back with the wordless sentiment that he might be useful alive, but Draken’s blood roared hot in his veins. Akrasians had taken Brîn, had murdered everyone in the Citadel. He recovered, backed a step, and went for him again. But the Akrasian was better prepared and blocked him with his sword.
It shattered as Seaborn’s edge met it. The noise scratched through Draken like fingernails on slate. The Akrasian launched himself at Draken, eyes wild, fingers scrabbling for his throat, blade, grunting loud enough to warn his compatriots in the camp. Draken swung and cut off his arm above the elbow, then drew back to stab him through. The Akrasian gaped at him as blood poured out of him. Draken turned and ran, not waiting to watch him hit the ground.
Voices raised behind him as the camp roused to action. Soon the woods rang with shouts. Draken ran blindly, gripping his sword, ready to fight to the last, knowing only that he was steering away from Aarinnaie.
Moonlight filtered through the treetops, flashing into his eyes, surely lighting his path and turning his back into a target. The trees were too far apart for good cover, and the voices continued, keeping on him and never falling away enough to let him slow. His lungs and thighs started to burn.
By the Seven, Galbrait was a good tracker, trained in the Norvern Wilds of Monoea. Of course there was no way for regular Akrasians or Monoeans to know who they chased through the Moonling woods. They were unlikely to recognize him if caught.
But his cousin would know him. His legs pumped harder.
An arrow struck a tree with a thrum that ran all though him. Another whooshed past him into the underbrush. The Monoeans followed by foot, a dozen at least if the number of their sharp calls ringing through the night were any indication. They’d have reinforcements and he had only himself. And Bruche, who could keep him running some fair longer but not forever. He kept running, squinting against moonbeams shooting through the trees like flaming arrows into his eyes.
He picked out the stones of a wall ahead, though it made no sense. There weren’t so many buildings along the river, some few farms and the village Khein with his great fortress, of course, but he was much too far yet from that. Most family buildings were made from overabundant wood rather than heavier and more difficult stone. He ran toward it. Maybe there was somewhere to hide.
Two high walls of a ruin formed a corridor between them. The river trickled between snow and ice behind it. Black as pitch inside, even for him. The ground sloped downward as he darted under the crumbling arched gateway. Underfoot, the soil felt springy, loamy. Fools all, they’d follow him here. It was too obvious. But he still heard voices so he kept on.
He had to slow as his eyes adjusted, straining against the black air, and when he’d gone two dozen steps, his hands out in front of him, he slowed and pressed his back against a stone. It was soft and fuzzy, startling him. Then he realized: His eyes cooled and his vision cleared, confirming his suspicion. Green moss grew liberally over the stone, and the tree canopy overhead blocked the moonglow almost completely. The cold damp of the riverside woods seemed to warm within the walls. No wind nor sound penetrated. He drew a breath, trying to calm his heart, still thudding from the chase. Ahead a four-legged stand with angled legs blocked the path. Beyond, the corridor formed by the stone walls went further than seemed right or even possible, having stumbled upon it in the woods. A rotting, lopsided sign dangled from the stand. Strands of moss hung from the corners and fuzzed the wood. He peered at the script carved into the wood but didn’t recognize it.
Looks old, Bruche intoned. Moonling or the ancients.
Ancients?
&nbs
p; Gadye.
He knew Bruche believed Gadye were the first settlers, but the Moonlings most certainly did not. But it made sense; the area outside Reschan, along the river, certainly was home to many Gadye. If this was some sort of Gadye stronghold, he wanted to keep on friendly terms with them. He didn’t argue the point further, unsure if some magic at work could penetrate his and Bruche’s private discussions. The Gadye had powerful sight magic of their own.
Voices startled him from behind, though he was half expecting them. Shouting, and a muffled answer from further away. Behind, faint moonlight lit the arched opening. He saw no one, but the voices tore through his calm. Darkness was safer. He edged by the sign and moved deeper into the tunnel, wishing for a bow.
A figure caught his eye far ahead. It appeared to dart around the corner at the end of the corridor. Damn. Someone got ahead of him? Or entered the ruins another way. This could swing wrong for him quickly. He slowed to listen. No footfalls. No voices from behind or ahead. Could it be most of the Monoeans had missed the structure? Or they were too nervous about coming inside?
Or is there some magic at work?
Draken scowled at the thought but the eerie quiet pressing on him made him suspicious. He edged past the sign and moved toward the corner. Turned the corner, sword first. Nothing but another long corridor, probably too dark for anyone else but him to see down. More moss. More thick leaves. The scent of earth, damp oozing from stone, a faint waft of rot, as from a grave. Another corner. He kept going, winding inward and then outward. The walking evened his breathing and he calmed some. One corner led to a niche and he backtracked, found another corner …
He stopped in the corridor. Looked the way he was headed. Turned his head and looked back. He tried to keep panic from edging in on him. That way led to Monoeans and Akrasians hunting him.
Be easy. You haven’t made so many turns that we can’t sort your way back out. And they don’t seem to follow you. It’s a good place to hide.
He turned and kept walking, kept turning. But even Bruche’s anxiety grew. It was wrong, odd. Too far to go, too long walking inside some ruins that consisted of a few walls on the outside.
He turned another corner and stopped. A woman, bent and tiny, leaned on a staff ten paces ahead. Despite her stature, her face was clear, unlined. Her eyes had no pupils or irises, but were all whites. But her head lifted and her attention fixed on him.
“Draken vae Khellian.” Her voice graveled through her throat.
His eyes narrowed and he lifted his sword. “Keep back.”
“What danger is an old woman to you?”
“Old perhaps, but no woman.” A Moonling? The right size but no dapples. A member of another godsforsaken race he hadn’t heard of?
No. She’s not from here … she’s— Bruche spoke slowly and the word choked off. Draken felt his presence writhe and shrink inside him, as if he were tearing away the muscles from the inside of his skin.
He couldn’t help grunting in pain. He stumbled to his knees but managed to grip his sword; only just. “Release him.”
The sensation cut off, leaving him gasping. He sat back on his heels and scowled. “Which god are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“I like to know who I kill.”
“You don’t know the names of all those you’ve killed. You don’t know a tenth of the names of those you’ve killed.”
Truth, tossed at him like a tangle of nettles, and it stung. He eased to his feet, keeping his sword forward. “What is this place?”
She looked around. “My home. To you, it appears as a ruin. To me, it appears as it was, as it always has been. Murals of great deeds on the walls.” She ran her finger over the crackling surface of the stone. Dust and plaster tumbled from it. “Warmth from fires. Laughter and the contentment that all is well.”
Draken snorted. Nothing had ever been “all well” as far as he knew. “I see—”
“I know what you see.” The voice sharpened to shrill and the pale face flushed.
Draken’s eyes narrowed. Blood ran under that papery skin. Things that bleed can be killed.
Most things. Not you.
He wasn’t so sure about that.
She swept the frail arm not holding the staff. The surroundings took on the pristine beauty she had described. Murals. Peaceful water sounds. The air warmed. Another sweep of her arm, including him in the gesture, and it all a ruin again, damp and still. “You’re a fool. We’ve given you everything. Championed you. And you fight us at every turn.”
Us? Ah, Eidola spare him. “Zozia. So it’s true. But surely the gods are loath to muddy their boots on mortal dirt.”
“You’ve proved difficult to find.”
He lifted his sword. Blood had dried on it from the servii he’d killed but it still flashed in the dark, an inner light thirsting for more. He held, staring at her. “Why would you look for me at all?”
“All seek you, do they not? But not all have given you what we have. Healing. Darksight.”
That’s what it was called, this sight magic. Apparently given to persuade him to come to the gods’ aid.
“A gift is no favor. Unasked for, they require no obligation.”
“By the rules of men, perhaps. You still carry Khellian’s sword, do you not?”
He still held it between them. “I fight with it when I wish. Kill who I wish. You certainly didn’t give it to me.” Still, a chill crawled through him. He was certain he’d seen Khellian there at the wall.
“Ah, the killing. Fond of it, aren’t you? You even used our grace to that end, so that you may kill and kill and kill—”
“The healing.” Draken shrugged, feigning nonchalance. In his bones he still felt the ship cracking beneath him, the great sweep of ocean up through the hull and deck. “What of it?”
“Agrian gave it to you. He is no god of death.”
“What does Agrian want with me?” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Wait. Scratch that. Who gave me the darksight?”
“Korde.” The word was a snarl.
“You sound angry with him.”
“Not him.”
“Angry with me, then.” What else was new? He grunted. “I’ve already proved I won’t serve you all in the way you wish and—”
“Not all. Me, simply.”
“I don’t serve any of you.”
“Why not?” Zozia sounded truly curious.
“Your battles are not mine.”
“Aren’t they? You’ve enemies upon your beloved shores now.”
“They’re my countrymen, all. In your quest to find a man to take your side you’ve found one of all sides.” He edged closer. “Not only yours, that is.”
Her face darkened, changed to something as turbulent and hard and ugly as any furious Mance.
Bruche rose in Draken. He darted forward in tandem with his swordhand and swung.
The blade swept through empty air. He spun to find the goddess behind him, still bent, her weight on her staff. She shook her head. Her staff whipped out and caught Draken on the side of his knee, his bad knee, of course, because where else would a god strike their errant pageboy? He stumbled with an emasculating yelp that died against dry stone and empty air. In a blink Zozia was gone.
He growled in frustration.
Bruche’s sentiment: Good fortune that’s all the further it went.
Draken didn’t know if he meant the fight or his cry of pain, but Zozia was the wisest god. She had to be. She was smallest, the one most shadowed by the others. She meant to do something by pulling him here; he had no illusions he had stumbled upon this fortress ruin by accident. She took advantage of the chase, of his killing that servii runner in proximity to dozens of Monoeans …
He blinked and climbed to his feet, wincing on his way up. “I’m a ruddy fool.”
“Perhaps not as foolish as you thought.”
He turned slowly. The goddess leaned on her staff, head bowed. He cursed inwardly.
“Why didn’t yo
u kill me when you were at my back? Why talk at all?”
“We do not want you dead.”
The healing. The godsdamned healing that shook foundations and took down war galleons. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
Ask her what she does want.
Draken didn’t answer his swordhand, but limped closer to the goddess. “Why did you start this war?”
“The magic is splintered. The races hide the fragments. We must make the world whole again.”
Draken stared at her. Looked around at the ruins. “To make your world whole again, you mean.” He didn’t bother to lift his sword. She didn’t bother to keep distance between them as he came closer. “I’m not your plaything. I’m certainly not your champion.”
“Who do you fight for, then? I can give you more than war, Draken. You want peace. That is the truth. Wisdom is the path to both. Khellian has no peace, not even Mother—”
“There is no peace in truth.” Only hatred and pain.
“What about in family? Your wife. Your daughter. Your Queen.”
Draken cursed the hope flaring in his heart. “You lie. You don’t know where they are.”
“Ah, but Korde does.” She smiled at Draken’s wordless stare. “Your true master, before Khellian stole you from—”
Korde? Korde might well have murdered his daughter by releasing the banes. He growled, pure reaction. Magic surged through him, moonlight piercing his dayblinded eyes and carving a path through his veins to his heart. It stumbled to a pause and magic burst forth into his limbs. He thrust the sword up and drove it home. It slid through Zozia as if she were no more than heavy, damp air. The momentum dragged him closer to her. Her mouth opened in a silent shriek that echoed in his mind. But she flickered like a flame around his blade and fluttered away into the air like black mist. He panted, watching the mist fall where she had been. He slumped, exhaustion clawing at him from the surge of magic running through his veins.
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