The wagon driver sank to his seat with a whimper.
“Do these men value your life, Ashen?” The warrior woman spoke in the clipped accent of a breathless Sept.
Draken strode closer. “I value it. For information.”
Behind him Tyrolean and Osias covered him with more bows. Aarinnaie stopped by the woman who held the man and stared down at him. Her fingers gripped her knife tightly.
“Hush, you,” she said to Draken.
Draken spoke in Monoean to the officer and his soldiers. “Dismount, the lot of you, unless you want to watch him bleed out.”
The Ashen soldiers blinked.
“You’re … him,” one said. “You’ve the magic.”
Draken didn’t deny it. “Off your horses.”
They did so. The Sept man in the wagon shifted, holding his arm.
The woman spoke loudly, as if trying to reclaim control of the situation. “Disarm, you lot.” The man under her blade opened his mouth to speak. No one moved.
“You heard her,” Draken said.
Weapons thumped to the ground and they all knelt, hands within view.
The officer gaped up at him. Draken took him in. Beard trimmed. Clothes clean. He cursed inwardly. Not too far from a camp, then. He might be of use for questioning. Someone also might come looking for him when he didn’t return straightaway.
The warrior slit his throat. He gagged and fell forward, blood spreading in a gruesome pool across the crumpled grass. Another arrow, this time a heart shot. A gasp and the officer was dead.
Draken gaped at the woman. Fury bit through his shock. One of the soldiers started toward his weapons, but Aarinnaie darted toward him. Two slashes and he was down. Gasping and moaning. Not dead, but soon.
“Aarin, enough.” Brînian this time.
She obeyed, nostrils flared.
The Sept woman ignored the three soldiers, who stared at their dead officer and the soldier Aarinnaie had cut down. She stared at Draken instead, shifted her gaze to take in Tyrolean and Osias. Her eyes narrowed. She turned her head toward Aarinnaie. “Who are you?”
A quick frown furrowed Aarinnaie’s brow. No one talked to her. She was a ghost, and liked it that way. Except when she didn’t.
“Travelers,” Draken said. “Headed for Septonshir.”
“And rescuers, where none are needed.” The woman whistled, high pitched ending in two low notes. The grass all around rustled and a dozen women rose from it, running fleet toward them, bows in hand, tightening a noose-like circle around them.
Draken felt his mouth twitch. He raised his chin. “I see that,” he said dryly. He scowled at Truls, who had surely realized the Sept had more warriors with them. “Thanks very much, Truls. I’ll be certain to return the favor.”
The warrior woman gave him a veiled look, maybe considering the condition of his right mind. She finally settled for: “Do not speak unless I bid you.” She lifted her chin to Aarinnaie. “Can you not control him? The others are silent.”
Didn’t she know a Mance when she saw him? An Akrasian warrior? Draken gritted his jaw. Aarinnaie was breathing hard. She filled her lungs. Exhaled. Looked at Draken. “No. He’s got a mind of his own. Enough for a dozen men, actually. Are we prisoners then?”
Again the appraising look, over each of them. A few of the women who had appeared were busy killing the last three Monoeans.
A slight smile crossed the warrior’s pale lips. “Guests.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After the grunts of the dying Ashen faded off, faint cries pierced the air upland, sounding like distant children screaming as if whipped. More Monoeans attacking? “What is that?”
Their captors ignored Draken, just bound his wrists. He shrugged free of them and demanded again, “Who is being hurt?”
“Fool man.” The warrior woman swung aboard her horse. “Get on that horse. You are delaying us.”
Draken was given a real horse—one of the Monoeans’— but was hardly able to enjoy it with his hands tied to the saddle. Tyrolean endured his binding quietly. Osias was allowed to remain untied due to his status, but was treated brusquely as the other men.
Draken fought and earned sharp jabs to the temple and gut for his trouble. The woman knew how to use a bow for more than shooting. The bruising made him feel woozy for a bit, but quick enough his magic took hold and eased the pain. The horses skittered across the shuddering ground but the strangers didn’t know to attribute it to him. The bindings were tight, cutting off the circulation to his hands. But the worst of it was their taking his mask. Or, well, yanking it down so the woman could get a good look at him. Draken’s eyes were forced closed by the sun, which seemed to burn straight through to the back of his skull. She grunted. With some effort, Draken lifted his head to meet her gaze. She nodded, seeming to take it as submission or some damn thing.
Bruche chuckled.
Their ponies were tied in a line and led behind the rest, ears pinned at Bumpus, who of course kept trying to shove ahead.
For her part, Aarinnaie rode ahead with their captors, chin up, ignoring Draken and the others. Truth, Draken hadn’t realized she had it in her to be diplomatic enough to fit in, though the opportunity to snub him probably made it easy. The first real lake appeared soon after they started, smallish from what Draken could glean from quick glances. They skirted it and headed for another, crossing a low bridge of fine stonework over a tributary that joined it to the previous. A stone roadway continued between the two. Draken’s maps had always shown Septonshir with symbolic seven lakes, smaller than the sizable mountain lake Skymarke nestled against the Agrian range. Draken saw now it was a region of mostly waterlogged ground with paths built up to traverse it. Despite the cold, flocks of white birds swooped and screamed over the ice, seeking patches of uncovered water. Here were the cries of the beaten children. No wonder she’d called him a fool.
Trees and shrubs started crowding the banks of lakes, channels, and ponds, high enough to block much view. They crossed a few shallow rivers, following an increasingly obvious trail, until they reached a lake big enough to appear on Draken’s maps. It was vaguely round but for a curved slash of land on the far side where a village rested. Trees skirted the village and lined the shores. They and their horses were hustled onto barges crewed by four burly, silent men each who hauled them on a sledge across the ice.
Damp seeped into his bones the deeper they got into Septonshir, aching in his old injuries. At least his hands weren’t tied behind his back; that always wreaked havoc on his shoulder. When the group walked off the barges to rein up before a long, low-slung, log building, one of his guards untied his hands. Draken swung down. His knee gave way as he hit the ground, and he had to grapple for the saddle with his numb hands. He cursed and tried to concentrate on their surroundings, shooting squinty glances all around. Two men were atop the longhouse, patching the reed roof. He saw no one that looked particularly like guards beyond the party who had brought them here.
Aarinnaie strode to him to help him up, her strong, small hands tugging on his bicep. “Are you all right, Khel Szi?”
He sighed when the guards turned their heads at his name. He hadn’t yet decided whether it was a good idea to announce who he was. He gave her a frown to which she didn’t respond and the guards led them inside the door of the longhouse. The warmth inside was stuffy but welcome, and it was even better to be out of the daylight. Clean-swept, hard-packed dirt made up the floor, beaten into near stone by generations of feet.
The walls had been plastered neatly, little peaks looking like the lakes must on a windy day. Log pillars as big around as Draken supported the structure and braced the roof overhead. Men and women sat on mats honing weapons, repairing and creating household items, and tending the three round hearth fires spaced at intervals along the center of the long room. Typical winter work for a clan who’d stored enough food come Frost. Curtains divided off a few spaces, maybe for sleeping or private pursuits, but most were drawn back.
> The woman who seemed to be the leader of the raiding company led them toward the central hearth, flanked by an aged man and woman hunched in fine, large chairs carved over with animals and fish. The woman turned to stand before the fire, hands clasped over her leather armor and metal-plated kilt. In this light Draken could finally get a good look at her. Grey threaded through her hair, which was braided and looped short on either side of her head. A worn hilt stuck from the scabbard at her side. She studied Draken openly as he nudged ahead of his sister to take the lead. Her pale face was stiff and her shoulders looked tight as a drawn bow. The older couple studied him in turn but soon shifted their attention to the others.
And Truls stood behind them, grey against the firelight. The black holes in his face held Draken’s gaze as surely as if a thousand eyes stared out from his wavering form.
Perhaps they do. There is much we don’t know about the ghost.
One of their guards dumped a rough canvas bag in front of the old woman’s seat. It clanked with their confiscated weapons.
“Why do you come here, Khel Szi?” the younger woman asked.
Draken’s brows raised before he could stop them. “You hold the advantage over us, my lady. Perhaps an introduction before interrogation?”
“You come to us and from so far. I should think you know who we are.”
Draken had worked out toughness would go further than diplomacy with her. “I know little of the Sept beyond what limited experience I’ve got with the sundry slaves from here.”
The woman spat on the ground. “Rape-get or worse. Why are you here, man?” She spat the last word like an insult.
Before Draken could wonder what was worse, the old woman in the chair lifted her head. The loose skin under her chin trembled a bit on her thin neck but her eyes were quick and her voice clear. “Courtesy, Tirnine, is a sharper weapon than many.”
The warrior woman’s lip twitched. “Aye, Mother. I am Tirnine, and my mother is Jonine, Oxbow Clan Leader.” She tipped her head to indicate the old man. “Her consort Sulvan. We know who you all are.”
Without missing a beat, the old woman Jonine added: “But we don’t know why you are here.”
Draken tried to slow the interrogation by dipping his chin politely. “We mean no harm. We merely come seeking Queen Elena, and to provide warning, and aid if need.”
“Not here. Take your weapons and go.”
Bruche snorted. Gentle old ladies, my arse.
Just how cut off was Septonshir? “You do realize the party that attacked your travelers are part of a much larger army?”
“We are reclusive, not blind. As you are.”
Draken met the clear blue eyes—not dark like his and especially not the brown-black of Akrasians. Despite their facial features, they did have their own blood then. Still, it was odd to see such a pale face without the black lines encircling her eyes.
Osias stepped forward. “If I may, my lady? Khel Szi is not blind. His eyes are sensitive to daylight. You have heard no mention of the Queen by your scouts or visitors?”
“It is Frost, not Trade. We’ve few visitors this time of year, only Ashen and Akrasian raiders. If she is here—”
“Akrasian raiders?” Draken’s voice was sharp.
Her gaze slid to Tyrolean. “Them what like him.”
“What of the Moonlings?”
“Them what only interested in their mountains and the salt beyond. Not these lakes.”
It took Draken half a breath to work out what she meant by salt. “Septonshir lakes run to the sea, do they not?”
“Aye, but forests and stone hills wall us from the salt.”
“Mother, the world comes. We must embrace it—”
Jonine turned her steely gaze on her daughter. “It is our way to keep to ourselves.”
Draken broke in before they could continue what looked like a longstanding argument. “I care not if you keep from others. I care only for my Queen, who is reported to be here, in Septonshir. If not your clan, then another. I will search them all if I must. So have you heard such a thing?”
Jonine made no response.
Tirnine’s jaw tightened. “The prisoners spoke of the great lady seen by the Lilia clan. This you know. Would you lie outright to our Queen’s consort?”
Draken cleared his throat before the spat could go further. “Prisoners … I assume Monoeans?”
Silence for a beat. Jonine shifted closer to the edge of her seat, the consort Sulvan looked from one to the other, but Tirnine held her ground. “Akrasians. Searching for their Queen.”
Sounds like a promising lead.
“Where are they now?” Draken asked.
“Dead.”
“I hope you had a good reason to kill them.”
“Them what infected.”
Infection and illness was expected with the front lines dug into the snow this Frostseason and thousands of Monoeans bringing strange plagues to their foreign shores. Anyone leaving those lines would carry those illnesses. He’d yet to hear of a deadly plague, though.
“No. You mean they were infected with banes,” Osias said.
Tirnine nodded, and after a deep breath, Jonine dropped her chin in accord.
Draken stared at the Oxbow women, then turned to look back at Osias. It struck him all at once. Gods, the Mance were all dead but for him. No one guarded Eidola. And could they have stood against Korde at any rate?
“Do you see now why we keep to ourselves?” Jonine said.
Draken shook his head. “That’s not how they shift from one person to another. They don’t rely on contact between people.”
Jonine sniffed and looked away. “They require only a dark heart,” Tyrolean said, drawing her attention again. “And a weak will.”
A chill climbed the back of Draken’s neck. Tyrolean didn’t know that Draken had been possessed by a bane, had nearly killed himself under the influence of one, and it had only been Osias’s quick action that had saved him, and Bruche’s resistance against later attacks.
“Dark-hearted, aye. Them what were. Writhing in chains like animals. One even bit me.”
“What did they say about the Queen?”
“Were looking for her. Thought she was with the Cove Clan but the Cove wouldn’t let them near.”
“Take us to Cove Clan lands and we’ll see to our own passage inside,” Tyrolean said.
Jonine barked a soft, rough laugh, her age slipping through. “Don’t let anyone near, them what live on the Cove.”
“We’ll trade for guidance there,” Draken said. “What do you need?”
Tirnine’s gaze flicked over him and for a moment he wondered—and Bruche hoped—if she was going to ask for a night together. “You have precious little what we want. We take care of our own.”
If you’d smile once in a while, you might get bedded more often.
Truth enough, he had little else now but the armor on his back, his sword, and a decent bow gifted to him by Va Khlar. The villagers looked well enough, few coughs and no crying cut through the bustle of winter work. He almost asked if anyone needed killing nearby but Osias pushed forward.
“You want to be secluded?” he said. “Left alone by invaders and others?”
“And the banes,” Jonine said, eyes narrowed to slits among the wrinkles.
Osias touched his fingertips to his forehead, flanking the black crescent moon marring his sharpened features. In the quiet light by the fire he had taken on a sinister air. None but Draken seemed to notice; they all watched him with wide eyes. All but Jonine, who held her posture of suspicion.
Not one to cross, Bruche said, and Draken agreed.
The Mance’s hair slid forward over his shoulders. Silvery, glowing, enticing—once Draken blinked away the idea of killing someone in trade for passage to the other clan.
“I can make it so,” Osias said.
* * *
The moons hid, one behind thick forest, the others behind the horizon, as Draken rode the barge back across the
water. Against the others’ protests, Draken insisted on taking this journey alone. Finally he convinced Aarinnaie there was danger letting her so near Akrasians because Ilumat would surely want his wife back. Once across and under the thick tangle of naked tree limbs, he let his eyes open wide with a sigh of relief. The trees were shifting black shadows against the brighter night and Draken’s darksight turned the lake into opaline pools. Woods gradually filled in to flank the path, and normal night sounds of prowling animals and the cold breeze creaking the trees. At least he tried to tell himself they were normal sounds.
Bruche’s hand kept straying to Seaborn’s hilt. Finally Draken allowed it to rest there, the spirit chilling his arm. For his part, he tried to consider if Elena were there, tried to prepare himself to say the words which would surely devastate her. He would have to admit his part in Sikyra’s loss.
Aye, ever the martyr. Blaming you will surely make her feel better. The swordhand snorted.
Knowing why may help, at the least. Sikyra’s death was his fault. This close to Elena, to telling her, he realized he’d spent far more time apart from her than in her presence, and he had no idea what she would do when so grief-stricken.
Bruche just settled in with quiet disapproval. It was an argument they’d had before.
They walked a long while on the path. It narrowed and Draken kept a sharp eye to their surroundings. Truls drifted along, weaving between trees. Or through them, Draken couldn’t see which. He made no gesture to Draken, or indicated the way. He followed now.
Something twitched in the woods to the offhand. Then another something. The unmistakable creak of a drawn bow. Four people emerged into his darksight from the shadows, hooded and armored.
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