Draken.
It was a moment before he could answer. “I know. I …” His voice broke off and he lifted a shaking hand to his face. “It’s not real. She was just imagery, magic. I don’t know. But I didn’t kill her. I can not have killed her.”
For what seemed a long while, his mind fell empty. And then, creeping in, selfish homesickness. For the first time in a long time he wished he could throw down the sword, return to his simpler life in Monoea, and know nothing of this. The world was so still he wondered if he might make it truth.
But no, black mist covered the flats of his sword. And Elena and Sikyra. Aarinnaie. Osias and Tyrolean and Halmar and everyone who had died in his name. He looked around himself, his jaw tight, and the crumbling stone walls faded to nothingness—or rather, into rustling woods, chill damp, and fading shouts of Monoeans searching for a fugitive who could end this war, if they only knew the truth. But there was no peace in truth, and now that he knew what the gods were about, there could be only war.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Truls met him outside of where the ruins had been, lingering at the edges of a thick batch of trees. The ghost-Mance waited silently, staring with his black eyes at Draken.
“I killed it.”
Truls did nothing.
“Her. I killed her. Zozia.” Draken gestured back toward the ruins … where they had been. He lifted a shuddering hand to his face. “You knew about her. You knew she was rebelling against the other gods.”
Another long stare.
“That’s why you’re here. Why you came to me …” He gasped, realization dawning. “That’s why you rebelled against them in the first place …” He cursed. “You’re rubbish at rebelling. As bad as they are.”
Truls made no reaction, just turned into the woods to glide between the trees. Draken wiped the black dust off his sword and sheathed it before following.
Truls led him along, and he watched the trees absently as he walked, thinking of as little as possible, staying quiet, only pausing when he found some of the little twine and wooden sigils travelers used to mark their way and message each other in the Moonling Woods. One of the moons carved its path through the night and after a while he realized Truls led him along the edge of the light. He couldn’t help but feel as if it were searching for him, whichever of the Seven it was.
Not Zozia, not anymore.
Truls moved faster as time got on. Snow broke the intermittent darkness, lacing the trees and limp leaves overhead, brightening patches of the woodland floor. Draken followed wearily, knowing he left a trail. But it couldn’t be helped. The air was cold, full of damp that seeped into the bones, and the mists shaped themselves like wisps of ghosts in his darksight. He couldn’t help but think of banes and steeled himself against them, though he worried for Aarinnaie after the episode by Eidola. He would blame Ilumat, but he was certain it had been Truls who had left her soiled with a darkness he couldn’t hope to eradicate with simple brotherly care and love. At the Citadel she had been full of wrath and drive. And now he had left her alone and was following the damn Mance through the woods … woods he wasn’t even supposed to be in, blast it.
He thought back over the evening, and it took on a sinister meaning. The guard who had attacked him had been an Akrasian. He’d been too busy fighting off the attack to process the incongruence of an Akrasian attacking him on the edges of a Monoean camp.
Truls kept on, peering back with his blank face at Draken as if to make sure he still followed. Snow-crusted undergrowth crunched beneath Draken’s boots. He tried to listen beyond it but tried not to worry too much about pursuers or some other unsavory sort hearing him. He’d gotten far from where they should possibly have ranged. Much further than he should have gotten, damn it.
Hold.
Draken stopped immediately at Bruche’s word, eyes narrowed. The moons had traversed the sky while he walked. They lingered directly overhead, lighting the scene around him too much for his comfort. Others could see better in the light and his vision was verging on worse, though it wasn’t light enough to tie on his mask. He squinted all around himself, Bruche resting cold in the muscles of his arms.
Crackling sounds, like thin horn-pane snapping, or frozen grasses and twigs. What? Had the ghost-Mance led him into a trap? Someone flitted between trees in his darksight. Truls gestured to him.
Draken eased Seaborn from its sheath. A glow lit the area around him. Now … now the sword chose to light. He was beginning to think the blade did have a sort of sentience. Better to make me a bloody target.
Perhaps … Bruche fell silent as Draken followed whoever it was. No point in hiding the blade. He was already given away and likely he’d need it before long. He moved closer, making noise but not caring.
An Akrasian with a long tail of black hair and two swords pointing up over his shoulders … The man spun, reaching to draw, but froze when he saw Draken.
“Tyrolean?”
“Draken.” A voice deep with relief.
“Where have you been?”
“I? You’re the one who got left in Brîn.”
“I came as soon as I could. Khisson told me your path. I wouldn’t have caught up with you but for your delay.”
Delay? “I ran into Monoeans. Rinwar and Galbrait.”
Tyrolean gripped his shoulder. “Thank the gods you escaped.”
Draken shook his head, confused. “I ran … but they didn’t catch me. Why did you think they did?”
Tyrolean studied him a moment. “I assumed, since you’ve been gone two nights.”
That was it. “Two … What? No.”
“What happened? Did you lose consciousness?”
“No. Galbrait was at an encampment, arguing with the priest Rinwar. And a … scout found me. I killed him and ran.” And then he’d met the goddess Zozia and maybe killed her but he couldn’t be certain without seeing her moon … or not.
Tyrolean gave him a look but didn’t press him. “Come. I’ll take you to the Princess.”
When they arrived at the little camp, the moons had dropped in the sky. She ran at him, fists up. “Where have you been?”
“Visiting enemies and gods.” He caught her fists before she could pound his chest with them and pushed them down gently. “The gods are at war. One solicited my aid.”
A grunt from Tyrolean. “You didn’t think to mention you’ve become a mercenary again? Bit of an advancement, eh?”
“Quite. With a pay raise. She offered me my daughter and the Queen. A lie, I’m certain of it.”
“What did you say?” Aarinnaie said.
“Er. I lost my temper. Rather.” They both stared at him, wide-eyed. He shifted on his feet and looked away. Tyrolean was very devout. “I might have killed her with Seaborn.”
“You killed a god? Which one?”
“I don’t know if I killed her. She disappeared. Or dissipated, rather.”
“She?”
“Zozia. But I can’t, really. I mean, she’s a bloody god—”
“The Wise One? You killed Zozia?” Tyrolean stared, then his gaze flicked upward. Looking for a tiny moon.
“I don’t know if I killed her, all right? I think she’s rebelling against Ma’Vanni at any rate.” He held Tyrolean’s gaze, then shifted it so that the fire didn’t flicker at the edges of his darksight. “And she didn’t sound like she was alone in the effort.”
“Who?”
“Korde might have come up in conversation.”
“And us without our Mance,” Aarinnaie said. “Osias would sort this.”
Draken grunted. He had Truls but didn’t like to bring him up. “Regardless, I’m not helping any god with anything.”
Tyrolean sat down on a fallen log they’d pulled by the fire. “I think we stay on the same path. Setia will protect your daughter. If anyone can possibly get her to Reschan and under Va Khlar’s care it’s her.”
“Because she’s Moonling and has the Abeyance.” She could travel quickly within the Abeyance, if she co
uld hold it long enough.
Tyrolean shook his head. “Because she is sundry and has been a slave, and there are no more resourceful creatures than sundry slaves.”
* * *
In Reschan, child beggars fair tried to climb their ponies, little fingers tugging at their saddles and boots while ragged, defeated adults coughed around alley fires. No Escorts or servii policed the crowded streets. Ice laced the air and stung his lungs. He thought of his daughter, chest rot worsening in the cold upper floor of an abandoned building, and his throat tightened. Where was she now? Among these people? Or worse.
They were a bedraggled and exhausted threesome standing at the gate of the utilitarian Baron’s castle in Reschan. It sprawled through the middle of the town, brown stone walls grimy at the edges with rubbish and windblown dirty snow. Short towers anchored the structure.
Draken didn’t dare announce who he was in case of Akrasian rebellion in the city, and he wore his mask. Aarinnaie assured him no one would believe it if he claimed to be Khel Szi anyway. The air was cold against the back of his neck with his locks shorn and he pulled his cloak hood up against it.
Beyond the castle walls, the market did thin business, chary patrons moving between stalls tended by worn keepers. It contrasted greatly to his first visit here where the sun had beat hot upon his back and the market had been so crowded he and Tyrolean could scarcely move without treading on a lady’s skirts.
Tyrolean spoke to the guards. With his lined eyes and calm demeanor, he was the most respectable of the bunch. Draken shifted his weight, resettled his hands on his pony’s reins, and gritted his jaw against speaking.
You’re used to ordering your way through already, eh?
Fair truth, if he wanted to admit it. The guards were already casting him odd looks. And how he must appear: filthy, hair shorn and beard ragged, a rag around his eyes like a blind man. All of them looked disreputable. Their clothes were plain and they wore no armor, just swords slung over their cloaks. It had been serviceable enough stuff when given them by Khisson, but a sevennight in the woods had left them all tatty and stinking.
Whatever Tyrolean said got them in the door all right—some nonsense about bringing messages from Brîn—and inside the courtyard, swept clean and out of the wind at least. They dismounted and Draken looked around, though he didn’t expect Va Khlar to come meet him in the cold, not knowing who had come calling at his gates. Bruche relaxed for the first time in days, reassured by the strong castle walls around them. So Draken didn’t notice the drawn arrows until they were already pointed at them.
A captain stepped forward. He wore Escort greens but he was no fullblood Akrasian. His eyes weren’t lined, for one. Gadye braids sprouted from his head and even his chin, though he had no mask. Astute, clear eyes studied him. “Who are you, really?”
How did he pick you out as leader?
Maybe it’s the mask. He thought a moment and then sighed and removed the scrap of fabric from his face. The sun made him squint and his eyes water. “Khel Szi of Brîn.”
“You’re too light-skinned to be the Pirate Prince.”
If he’d been able to open his eyes more than a sliver he’d have rolled them. “Nonetheless, I am he.”
“Where’s the Queen’s pendant, then?”
“Stolen. I was captured in the coup at Brîn. Briefly.”
The sundry Gadye captain stared at him. “Rumor has it the Prince is dead in the coup at Brîn. I’ve been assured dozens of witnesses saw you die.”
Figures. “A convenient rumor for Lord Ilumat. Conveniently for me, I still live. Fetch Va Khlar and he’ll confirm who I am.”
“His lordship isn’t here.”
It was tough to pry Va Khlar from his beloved Reschan for any reason, even meeting with the Queen. “Where is he?”
The Captain curled his lip and gestured. “Move along. This way.”
Draken hadn’t been to the dungeons here before, though he’d put Reschan’s nobility in them once, using his newfound power as Night Lord. Aarinnaie snarled at a guard who tried to take her arm, but a soft word from Tyrolean stilled the tussle and they all moved along without protest. When Va Khlar thought to take a look at his new prisoners, they’d be freed. Of course, who knew how long his errand would take?
But they weren’t taken to the dungeon. The captain installed them instead on the top floor of a squat tower with slits for windows that allowed arrows to fly out and cold air to sweep in. His men shackled one wrist from each of them to the wall and left them, though they also left wine to hand.
Draken eased down to sit, his knee aching. Having his arm hanging from a shackle didn’t do much for his bad shoulder either.
“What’s happened that Va Khlar would imprison visitors? Even if we weren’t who we are, this makes no sense. We posed no threat.” Tyrolean ran his loose hand through his hair, sweeping it back from his forehead.
You shouldn’t have claimed your own name.
Perhaps not. But by the Seven I thought I’d be known. His men have been at Brîn with him.
“It’s difficult times,” Draken answered Tyrolean aloud. He struggled to pull his mask up over his eyes with one hand. Finally he turned so that he could use two. The room smelled of wet stone and a coming storm. He could well imagine lashing rain slipping in through the arrow-slits in the stone. After a sevennight of sleeping on the ground he wondered if he’d ever be warm again.
Sorry. That bit I can’t help you with.
“It’s too bad we don’t have Osias.”
“If he’d stayed with us from the start, we wouldn’t be chained to a bloody wall, now would we?” But Draken’s words lacked bite. He was tired, exhausted to the bone after running from Monoeans and Akrasians during the day and avoiding the godslight at night.
“I don’t know.” Aarinnaie had remained standing, and was straining to look through one of the slits that counted for a window. Not that Draken thought there was anything to see. But her shoulders were tight and she paced as far as the short chain would allow, bouncing on the balls of her feet when could go no further. Tyrolean kept his feet, looking bare without his twin swords and the one on his hip. He alternated between watching Aarinnaie and the door.
She’s young and energetic. You just rest.
Draken ignored Bruche. “I doubt even that annoying captain downstairs wants to challenge us …”
“I wouldn’t be so certain. Something is off. I’ve spent time here and …”
Surely she isn’t still enamored with the old baron.
That upstart that attacked me at the Crossroads?
Aye, that’s the one.
As far as I know he’s still in a cell here somewhere.
Waste of good magic, if you ask me.
That was an accident.
No it wasn’t. You’d have never gotten out of there alive if I hadn’t—
“Don’t look at me like that!” Aarinnaie was staring at him.
Draken shook his head, mystified. His eyes had glazed as he’d talked to Bruche, reliving the memory of enacting Seaborn’s magic on the old Baron of Reschan. A man who had once fancied his sister. “I was just remembering … things.”
“Urian was a good man, just trying to protect me and Reschan. It’s not easy to be Baron of this filthy city.”
Certainly, he was a good man, Bruche said. Good men try to kill you all the time.
“I didn’t say anything about Urian.”
“You thought it!”
Draken lifted his free hand to rub his brow. “No. Bruche did. I’m more interested in what you have to say. Different how?”
She narrowed her eyes at him but apparently decided it was a serious question. “The way they tricked us to come in. Why let us in at all? I think that captain knew very well who you are when he first saw us. I wonder if he was under orders to capture us if possible. Or at least keep a wary eye.”
“Truth, they mentioned the coup,” Tyrolean said.
“There’s no reason word wouldn’t
reach here by now. It’s been nearly three sevennight.”
“Longer,” Aarinnaie said. She pushed her braids back from her face. “But I still don’t like it. Their guard is up, obviously, but they still let us in. I think they believed you are who you said.”
“It makes sense. They kept us together in something obviously not quite the regular dungeon,” Tyrolean said.
“Maybe they’re trying to keep us away from other prisoners,” Draken said.
“Definitely the rest of the castle.” Aarinnaie resumed trying to look out the slit but gave up with a sigh. “Urian kept a sizable court here and Va Khlar does too.”
Draken grunted. “All I recall of Urian’s court is a bunch of frips in silks tittering behind feather plumes. Va Khlar won’t have kept them, and the current crop will surely follow his loyalty to me.”
“Doesn’t seem like it, since they locked us in irons right off,” Aarinnaie said, tugging futilely at hers.
“Perhaps Va Khlar has suffered a coup too, then,” Tyrolean suggested.
Draken’s attention snapped to Tyrolean, though the words were delivered mildly. The Escort Captain went on. “There is no reason why the coup at Brîn wasn’t coordinated with others. They had some of your troops from Khein. They surely could have taken Reschan, maybe Auwaer, perhaps even Algir and Septonshir.”
Must be from the Ministry of Morale, that one.
“Thanks, Tyrolean. I can always count on you to make me feel fair better.”
Aarinnaie straightened, lifting her fingers to her lips to quiet them. Footsteps in the corridor, a short struggle with the bolt, and the door swung open.
“Va Khlar,” Draken said with relief.
The Reschanian trader-turned-Baron stood in the doorway, grim as ever. Grey light from the arrow slits revealed his scarred face, the one distorting his eyebrow and cheek, lending him a permanent scowl. He looked harder and leaner than the last Draken saw him. Not uncommon for war and Va Khlar always wore tension like a badge of honor. He held Seaborn in its battered scabbard in his hand.
“Your Highness. I’m honored to have you visit.” Va Khlar strode forward, keys rattling in his hand, to unlock Draken’s shackle.
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