Two servants set out drinks on a table. Pitchers of wine and herbs to garnish it nearby. A damp, warming wind blew in through the opened doors. The familiar scent of incense drifted toward him.
He strode to the dais, laid his sword on the table, and eased down into his throne. Another servant started to whisk the extra chair away but Draken stopped her.
“Khisson, sit with me and tell me how Brîn fares.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
With Newseason in full swing, leaves thickened about Draken’s balconies. Each night Draken and Setia peered through them to watch Osias cross the sky. His moon was close and nearly as large as Ma’Vanni. He often followed her closely as if clinging to the Mother’s skirts, and he bore a black line, curved like his bow. It was a bittersweet sight.
“Osias said he’ll see us again.”
“And so he does.” Setia gave him a small smile. “Every night.”
She disappeared into her chamber, the one that had been his daughter’s, just off his. She’d taken on the role of body servant, and a sort of chamberlain. He liked keeping her close.
In eight sevennight, he’d had no word, no sign that Osias would ever return to ground. Fortunately there were no word of banes either. The mists cleared from Eidola and while no one attempted the climb, there were no signs of the dead about either. Osias must have collected them all during the attack on Algir. Removing his fetter so long ago had unleashed tremendous power.
Tyrolean returned to Brîn and asked to officially court Aarinnaie. Draken resisted punching his shoulder hard and solemnly agreed. Aarinnaie pretended ambivalence but her frequent laughter was good to hear.
Draken passed his days helping locals sort their various issues, sometimes leaning his own back to the work. He kept his mind and body busy from early in the morning when he resumed training with Tyrolean to working on whatever problems came to hand—to the annoyance of aides he should have been delegating to.
The busiest days came right after he freed the slaves in Brîn. He had to gradually release word lest there be riots in the streets, but despite many pleas against it, he remained unmoved. Had Moonlings never been enslaved, perhaps Akrasia wouldn’t have been so ripe for invasion. He paid his own servants living wages despite the fussing of his coinmasters, and promised to house and feed them for as long as they would like positions with him. Many left the Citadel. The rest seemed to work hard. He had a hard time remembering all their names. None seemed to mind.
He did much and recalled little, dressed in clothes Setia chose for him, ate when food was laid, spoke when necessary, helped when he could. Inside, he felt stiff and quiet, as if he waded through deep water. Despite his darksight the world had lost its allure. Still, he pushed on.
* * *
He dragged himself out hunting. With a shortage of servants, the Citadel had no abundance of meat. It was a fair day, warm enough, and it felt good to be outside the city. But upon his return, the szi nêre opened the Citadel gates to reveal a flurry of activity in the courtyard within. He paused to stare before dismounting. Royal Escorts flanked the great doors alongside his own guards. Servii saw to horses by the stables. He groaned inwardly.
Perhaps it’s Elena.
Perhaps she sent someone here to take my throne away like last time.
He wished he weren’t wearing clothes stained with blood from butchering during the hunt. He made a quick decision. “I’m going in the back way to change. Tell them I’ll see them when I’m ready.” He strode off before any could reply. He might be arrested or deposed, but he wouldn’t submit to them filthy from a hunt.
He scrubbed quickly and let Setia help dress him. It was all Brînian attire: black loose trousers wrapped about his waist, armbands, a thin chain vest over his shoulders, bare feet with anklets clinking at his heels. So be it.
Someone knocked. He told Setia to get rid of whoever it was. Whoever it was protested, but Setia had developed some backbone. Or he was just noticing it.
“I should make you comhanar of my szi nêre, Setia.”
Setia shook her head. “I can barely lift a sword, Khel Szi.”
“And yet you protect me from my aides well enough. It’s like magic.” He rubbed her shoulder and went, his stomach twisting.
Cutwork lanterns lit the Great Hall, glinting on the bright tiles and shedding fresh glittering diamonds and circles across the space and over a group clustered in the middle. He walked toward the dais. All proper, this would be. They could damn well look up at him, if this last time.
Until a soft squeal and laugh tripped him up as surely as if someone had tossed a rope about his ankles. He turned. A small figure broke from the group and ran to him on chubby legs under a blue silken gown. She clutched the horse in one hand. “Fa!”
He was on his knees and Sikyra was in his arms before he took another breath. She clung to his neck. He turned his face to her hair, now in well-tended curls, and breathed her in. She smelled different: not the filth of the road, nor the spiced scents of Brîn.
She smelled sweetly floral, fresh.
Like Elena.
He bowed his head, eyes stinging.
“Fa,” she whispered. She grasped the chains of his vest and shook them, giggling.
“Aye.” His voice was too choked to go on. He knew he was making an undignified spectacle of himself in front of these Escorts, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Leave us,” Elena said.
He kept his eyes closed and listened to the boots dispersing. At last he set Sikyra back and stroked her soft cheek. “You’re running now. Well done.”
“Fa-fa. Run.” She reached out for his eyes. He ducked away. She squealed a laugh and reached again.
He caught her hand and kissed it. “Aye, they’re fair strange. I know.” He stayed kneeling, looked up at Elena at last.
She stood, hands clasped before her, watching. Her face had some color from the sun, her curved, dark eyes fixed on him.
He bowed his head to her. “My Queen.”
“She asks for you every day. She misses you.” Her gaze shifted to Sikyra, and her expression with it. Not a smile, but softer. His shoulders relaxed a little.
“And I her. She looks quite well.”
And motherhood suits you, Bruche intoned.
Draken didn’t dare add that.
It’s a ruddy compliment. She can hardly take offence at it.
Draken cleared his throat and pushed to his feet, his knee slowing him down. Sikyra hugged his thigh before breaking away toward the dais with a cry of delight.
“She climbs. Everything. All the time,” Elena wouldn’t look at him again; only had eyes for their daughter.
Fair enough. His voice was rough. “Thank you for bringing her to see me.”
“It’s not the only reason I came.”
Draken started forward as Sikyra started to climb but felt a cool hand on his arm. He looked down. It was pale against his bicep. She didn’t remove it. “My old nursemaid assures me she must fall to learn.”
And crack her head open on the tile? But he held under her touch.
Elena drew a breath. Her hand slid from his skin, leaving a burning tingle, and she rubbed it on her thigh. “I need your help. Auwaer is … in disarray.”
“Whatever you wish of me, I will serve.”
“And she would like to see you more often, I think.”
His heart opened a little with hope that nearly made him sway. Damn. “Sikyra … she is still Sikyra?”
“Kyra for short.”
His lips tugged in an involuntary smile. “It’s what Aarinnaie calls her.” Another hesitation. So much had happened in a short time, and so much more before. Much between them; much unsaid. He took the easy road. “You’ve just missed her. She and Tyrolean married two days ago. They’re off on their wedding trip. Wouldn’t tell me where.”
“She never would tell you where she went off to.”
“And now she’s corrupted the Captain.”
“We can only h
ope.” She studied his eyes, as everyone did. But there was no evasion in her.
He opened his mouth. Shut it. Cleared his throat. “I’ll help with Auwaer. I’ll help any way you wish.”
“Is that the case? You will help me any way I ask?”
He bristled. “I swore that when you gave me the sword and pendant and I mean it now. I failed you. It doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying if you ask it of me.”
Now she flinched. “I am asking. Not just because you’re able to fight. Nor only for Sikyra. But because … I don’t know who else to trust.”
He studied her; really let himself examine her. Hers was a tormented mind, alone, frightened, desperate, embarrassed. He realized now how he’d avoided it, and avoided what he had to do to fix it.
“Your cousin lied to you as mine lied to me. At least yours is dead and out of your life.” A mild joke; Galbrait was doing his best as King.
The stain of a faint blush stained Elena’s cheeks. It might have been one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
“It’s all right—” His voice broke. “It’s all right to ask something for yourself, Elena.”
She tipped her face up to his. “I am.”
“I know.”
A thud tore their attention to the dais. Sikyra looked at them from where she’d tumbled to the floor, and the world stopped in that breathless gasp before a child releases a cry. They both rushed for her. She reached for Elena, muffled her tears in her mother’s neck.
Elena blinked, eyes shining, and shushed her. It wasn’t so bad. Sikyra settled in a few breaths. “I hate when she’s hurt.”
“Truth, cries are far better than silence.” Draken drew them both close, their scents, their tears, their soft warmth, and at last his heart released the dagger that had buried itself there so long ago.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jeremy Lassen, Jason Katzman, Cory Allyn, and the rest of Night Shade Books, I sure am glad I went to that Night Shade party at World Fantasy so many years ago. How fortunate I’ve been to have grown this series inside this young Skyhorse imprint. John Stanko, you outdid yourself on this cover, and William McAusland, your maps bring Akrasia and Sevenfel to life.
Sara Megibow, agent extraordinaire and all around wonderful person, I’m so lucky to have you in my corner.
Writer friends: you know who you are. Let’s have drinks soon.
Convention goers, readers, and SFF fans: you make working in our genre and industry a privilege.
Broncos crew and Stepford friends, I really do love you all despite my teasing.
All my extended family, especially Mom, love you!
Hannah and Delilah, you’re the best company for this lonely writer. Good dogs.
Grace, little did I know twelve years ago what an amazing person you’d be turning into when I finished writing Draken’s story.
Alex, when I started this series you had just started school and now you’re facing graduation and ready to launch what I just know will be an astounding life. This one’s for you.
Carlin, there isn’t anything I can say here that you don’t already know. Love you.
And to those enduring depression: you are the true inspiration for Draken. He perseveres like so many of you do every day. Please keep on. The world needs you.
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