EMISSARY
EMISSARY
BOOK TWO OF THE SEVEN EYES
BETSY DORNBUSCH
NIGHT SHADE BOOKS
AN IMPRINT OF START PUBLISHING
NEW YORK
Copyright © 2015 by Betsy Dornbusch
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Cover art by John Stanko
Interior layout and design by Amy Popovich
Print ISBN: 978-1-59780-579-7
Printed in the United States of America
For Grace
It is honorable to kill in the light, not from the shadows.
—Akrasian Proverb
CHAPTER ONE
Morning dawned early and violently in the Brînian Citadel. No one, slave nor noble, could sleep through the clatter of swords, much less the shouts ringing through the torchlight. The Khel Szi himself had sword in hand. A foreign soldier had called Prince Draken’s card in the brutal dance of death in the courtyard of his own palace.
Muscles screaming to yield, Draken lifted his sword and met the oncoming high-line strike, allowing it to clang against his hilt. He grimaced at his shoddy defense. His opponent’s blade skittered off his sword and across the bracer and upper arm protection of his armor harness. He was glad he’d taken a moment in the chilly pre-dawn darkness to strap them on. Still, the shock of it drove him a step back. He cursed. When that blade struck his bare chest, it would draw blood.
“No, Drae, protect your high line. Again!” Captain Tyrolean attacked as before, same form, same balance, same strike.
There was no honorific in the practice lists, no “Night Lord” or “Khel Szi” or “Your Highness.” Here, Draken and Tyrolean were not Prince and honor-liege but student and teacher.
Draken gritted his teeth against his sore muscles and lifted his sword again. Every day they rose well before the last of the Seven Eyes had slipped beyond the horizon and each of those days, Tyrolean never allowed Draken to stop a moment before full daylight crested the dome of Brîn’s Citadel.
As Tyrolean’s sword went up, it caught the glare of sun against its dulled blade. It flashed against his brawny shoulders, turning him into a hard, pale godling of war. Only neat lines of scarred hashmarks marred the perfection of his muscled chest. Faint steam rose from the crown of his dark head.
Tyrolean’s narrowed eyes were his only tell, but Draken didn’t recognize it quickly enough. Tyrolean’s blade flashed, slipped across Draken’s chest. Blood stung as it welled from the cut.
Tyrolean shook his head. “Don’t ever let your guard down.”
“That was cheating. You turned to stone, Ty.”
Tyrolean finally lowered his blade, his black-lined eyes crinkling in a rare smile. “Cradle tales again, Your Highness?”
“Aye, I’ve got to learn them, haven’t I? Children like stories.” Draken wiped the sweat from his eyes. He was hot despite the cool ocean winds slipping through the gates of the protected palace courtyard.
“Your royal get is still in the Queen’s belly and for many moon-turns after it’s born all it’ll want is a dry nappie,” Tyrolean said.
“Aye, and you’re the expert, are you? Having no children of your own.” He backed off toward the table. The cut already had that tightening tingle that told him it was closing. Damn, damn.
“That I know of.”
A rare joke, so Draken forced a chuckle. He kept his back to Ty and stripped off his bracers, made a show of pressing a cloth to the wound. “A shirt,” he told Kai, his body slave. The lad scooted off to find him one.
“Not too bad, I hope. Does it need sewing?”
“No. It’s just a scratch.” Kai returned. Draken pulled on the shirt and turned to Tyrolean. “It’s already stopped bleeding.” And stung like nettles as it closed. He tensed as a slight tremor tickled his bare feet. He looked down. Odd, that.
Tyrolean didn’t seem to notice as he walked to a nearby table tended by a slave and took the two goblets she offered with a polite thanks. He sipped from both, even though they’d been poured from the same jug. Poison could coat the inside of one or the other goblets. Draken had given up trying to talk Tyrolean and his szi nêre out of tasting for him. The sweet morning wine was cold and good.
“Rumors claim Lord Ilumat sent Queen Elena gifts of late,” Tyrolean said.
The Queen had many suitors before Draken had arrived at the Akrasian court. Though they doubtless had infinitely more husband potential, Draken tried not to worry. After all, she was spending her pregnancy in Brîn in order to stay close to him.
He rubbed the back of his sweaty neck. He needed a good scrubbing if he were to meet the Akrasian lords today. “Rumors you’ve confirmed, I assume.”
“Via your Ghost,” Tyrolean said.
Draken’s brows climbed and he glanced around before he answered. His sister Aarinnaie, Szirin of Brîn, wasn’t someone they discussed often. “You spoke with her?”
Tyrolean shook his head. “A message only, script in chalk on the floor of the temple by my kneeling mat.”
Sounded like her. “It’d be convenient if she would appear in public sometimes. Even if he hasn’t said as much to me, Rodkhim Vannis wants to ask me for her hand.” He cocked his head at Tyrolean’s expression. “What? He’s not a bad man, Rodkhim.”
“Rodkhim can’t manage her.”
“It’s not as if she listens to me either.” It was a fair match. Rodkhim’s father was City Comhanar of Brîn, an old, respected family—as close to nobility as Brînians got. “Perhaps marriage would suit her better than playing the vigilante.” As well as his secret royal assassin.
“Scouring Brîn of your father’s corruption is a noble endeavor.”
Draken grunted. “A dangerous one, you mean.”
Tyrolean’s lips tightened. Draken had noticed a distinct tension around the subject of Aarinnaie recently. It vaguely worried him that Tyrolean, who had ever been a close confidante of the Queen, knew something he didn’t. But Tyrolean changed the subject before he could question him.
“You still treat your sword as something you’re holding rather than part of you.”
Draken lifted the practice sword with its blunt edges in acknowledgment and handed it off to one of the armory slaves. Muscle memory developed from training on the bow left him feeling he was carrying the wrong weapon. “I didn’t learn much from Bruche.”
“He wasn’t there to teach you. He was there to protect you.”
Draken’s spirit sword-hand was in his well-deserved rest, no matter how Draken missed his council. For now, Draken was just glad he’d been able to conceal how quickly his cuts healed.
“I think you should spar with Seaborn,” Tyrolean added. “It’ll come quicker that way. She’s the blade you fight with.”
Draken opened his mouth to argue he wasn’t about to bring the greatest treasure of the Brînian Principality into the practice lists, but the city gate bells pealed through the early morning quiet. Both men fell still and listened. Four palace szi nêre stationed at the Citadel gates drew their swords and archers on the wall nocked arrows, though Draken had no real worry the bells meant something needing his attention. With the days of Newseason lengthening into Tradeseason and the moonroutes at their most expansive, it might be confusion over shift changes.
The echoes of the bells against the crowded buildings and the faint reverberation off the Eidola Mountains towering over the city o
f Brîn kept Draken from making a proper count of rings. He frowned at Tyrolean, unable to determine if it was a warning of attack or some other announcement.
Tyrolean’s eyes narrowed. “I hope it’s not another scuffle between the servii and the gate guards.”
It was a point. The Akrasian servii stationed at nearby Seakeep liked to drink, fight, and whore in Brîn, which had myriad opportunity for all three. But the servii weren’t so happy when tossed out of the city at daybreak, and Brînian soldiers tolerated their presence grudgingly at best.
The immense carved doors to the Great Hall opened to frame Draken’s chamberlain Thom. An impassive moonwrought mask concealed half his face from cheekbone to hairline, and the hazel eye painted on it was a neat match for the other, real one. The flesh of his face was strained and reddened against the silvery moonwrought, probably because the Head Seneschal followed Thom closely, scrolls clutched in his hands. Gods, it was an administrative day. Of course, when wasn’t it, for a Prince?
“Why the bells, Khel Szi? Too early for guard change, isn’t it?” Thom asked in broken Brînish. He shoved his many thin braids back from his face and his real eye locked on Draken’s.
“We were just wondering the same thing.”
The Seneschal, Hina Shaim, surnamed for the patron god of peace and truth, cleared his throat. “Khel Szi, several matters require your attention. The Lords’ Council convenes at Seakeep this morning. Lord Va Khlar would speak with you prior. As well, the city mason’s guild representatives have been asking for an audience for two sevennight now. I’ve put them off, but they’re most insistent and—”
Draken shot him a glare for interrupting his conversation with Thom, but a clatter of hooves on the cobbles at the palace gate cut off his reprimand. They all turned. The szi nêre swung the gates back as a royal messenger in Akrasian Greens galloped straight for them, slowing his horse only when he saw Draken. He brought with him the acrid scents of blood, fear, and the sea. The horse snorted, its belly heaving as it panted.
Halmar, Comhanar of the szi nêre, pushed past Hina Shaim and Thom to stand at Draken’s side. Muscles strapped his broad frame and he was newly inked with even more sigils of war and honor. Jewelry glowed against his dark skin: earrings, rings, and armbands.
The rider threw himself to the ground barely a stride from Draken’s feet and fell to his knees. “Your Highness, Seakeep is under attack!”
Elena. She’d ridden for Seakeep the night before to prepare for the High House Council. Besides the Queen, four of the highest nobles in the land were there. The keep, a a battered stone fort with a high tower, rested on the point of high land where the River Eros met the sea, across from the Brîn city gates over a flat, windswept field. A fair errand’s ride by horse; a good hike on foot.
Draken swallowed hard to clear his voice. It still came out guttural and rough. “Who?”
“Monoeans, Your Highness. Three ships bearing their banners.”
Cold seized Draken, despite the warming sun. His old countrymen had come to call. If Monoea was here with any show of force, she would destroy Seakeep in a day and turn her attention to the City of Brîn. Seven damn them all, what was this about?
“Are they anchored yet?” he asked.
“No. Sailing back out of Blood Bay. Came in by skiff overnight, we think. There’s a sizeable force surrounding Seakeep.”
“Or another ship. One that grounded troops downcoast,” Tyrolean said. “There’s a small port at Rhial, abandoned from the mining trade.”
“Damn, damn, damn, there could be other Monoeans attacking elsewhere, then.” If Draken knew Monoean tactics, some of which he had helped devise during his officership in the Monoean Black Guard, there were most certainly more. “Sound the alarm again, raise the duty troops, and those at rest. Any who are able must come. We must stop them at Seakeep.”
He ordered horses and strode inside to pull on the rest of his armor and fetch the sword Seaborn. The lad Kai helped him silently, though his hands shook and he dropped a few pieces of armor. Mail, his leather breast and back plates, hinged arm bracers, greaves, thigh protection in the way of a metal-strapped loose kilt, and extra knives soon weighed Draken down. He remained silent as Kai armed him, suffering the free reign of his curiosity. Had his cousin-King learned he was Khel Szi? Would the Brinians learn of his sundry heritage from his former countrymen? Exiled from Monoea after false accusal of murdering his wife, pulled unwitting into a war with the gods, and risen to a Prince’s throne he didn’t want, he’d been left with little of himself but bloodstained hands.
The only good, uncalculating thing that had come from his exile to Akrasia was Elena. He had already endured the loss of his wife, a wound so deep no amount of happiness could more than scar over. He’d be damned if he’d let Monoeans, the gods, or anyone else take Elena from him.
Kai dropped his hands when he finished, his braided head bowed. Draken laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder before striding down the hall. As he walked, he drew Seaborn from its scuffed scabbard, but the gods had left no message for him in the white depths this day.
The city bells rang again in a quicker, unceasing cadence. By the time he snatched up his bow from a waiting armorer and entered the courtyard, Tyrolean was mounted, ashes from the Citadel temple smeared on his forehead. A groom held Draken’s saddled horse and his shield, fielded in black and painted with the same crimson snake Draken had tattooed around his bicep. His helm hung off the saddle. He went around the horse to strap his bow to the other side, using a pull-knot he’d learned aboard ship as a Monoean bowman.
The Citadel priest limped closer, clutching a bowl of blood, his greyed head bowed. Draken started to wave him off, but under Tyrolean’s stern gaze, he submitted to letting the priest bless and anoint his brow with Khellian’s horns. The priest’s fingertips were smooth as the flat of a honed blade as they caressed his forehead. A tingle, like glamour magicks, coursed through him.
He stared hard at the priest, who bowed his head and murmured prayers for Khellian’s aid. No. Must be my imagination.
Had the old priest ever done service to Khellian on a battlefield altar? Likely not. Draken couldn’t imagine his dead father dragging along a priest and wasting time on prayers before killing someone. In that we might be alike, Father and I. His stomach didn’t sit well with the thought, nor with the delay. He pulled from the priest before the words were done and nodded to his szi nêre. They led him through the city at a quick pace, clearing the way through curious passersby headed for market and business. Despite the ringing bells and the appearance of their Khel Szi on the streets the Brînians maintained their tenacious hold on their business at hand.
The city gates were barred. He had to wait for another scouting report anyway. He circled his horse, which skittered at the squeal of the gates rolling open. He was young and had yet to be blooded in battle, though he was purportedly the best-trained horse in Brîn. “Be easy, Tempest.”
Though every instinct urged Draken to race across the dirt road spanning the several-thousand-stride run to Seakeep, he dismounted, tossed his reins to a waiting stablegirl, and climbed the steps against the wall.
Slowly the rigid formations of the grey-armored Monoean attackers came into focus under the rising morning light. He asked for his glass and cursed when he put it to his eye. Rows of Monoeans, protected by three lines of shieldmen, made a rigid barricade between his soldiers and Seakeep. He eyed their formations, calculating. Four septinaries … no, five. A clear tactical mark of Commander Zyann—a legitimate cousin to the King, unlike Draken—and suggested how many soldiers they faced behind those rows. Oddly enough, though, he didn’t recognize their tabards. Some sort of red symbol that he couldn’t make out through the glass.
“I’ll put their ranks at fair to three hundred,” he said grimly. “Seakeep won’t hold for long under that.”
“Seakeep is not defenseless, Your Highness,” Tyrolean said. “The High Houses brought companies of servii and their best guards.
”
Draken handed the glass to him. At the moment the Monoeans were preparing to burn down Seakeep’s gates by hurling bags of fire oil against them. They exploded into flame as they hit. Armor, helms, and upraised shields deflected most of the arrows raining down on them from the battlements. Monoean archers stood behind lines of armored and shielded attackers, shooting flaming arrows over the keep walls.
Every line of Tyrolean’s body tensed as he peered through the glass.
A hundred battle-ready Brînians and twenty-five Akrasian servii commanded by a horsemarshal stationed in the city awaited Draken’s orders just outside Brîn’s walls. A few more Brînians were straggling in. Despite their calm, orderly assembly, Draken shook his head, his jaw set. It wasn’t enough. Even with the servii inside Seakeep it might not be enough.
His fingers itched for his bow, though his arrowheads couldn’t penetrate Monoean armor. He had charged Brînian blacksmiths with developing a harder alloy and wood stock for arrows some turns of the moons ago, but he’d not pressed them. Akrasian longbows were in short supply, as well as the servii trained to shoot them, and mines were nearly spent of weapons-grade metals. Truth, he hadn’t anticipated attack from the Monoeans or any other trade partner. Until today.
Blast it, he thought. Outnumbered, and we don’t even have decent arrows.
“Hie, a rider from the cliffs, Khel Szi!”
Bows creaked.
Draken squinted through the glass. “Hold! He’s one of ours.” He went down to ground level as a Brînian sailor barreled up, his bare, inked chest slicked with sweat, his snorting horse flecked with foam from outracing the arrows of enemy. A fletched shaft stuck from the back of his arm. Blood poured down his side. Draken bid him to speak with an impatient wave of his gauntleted hand.
The rider’s dark face was pinched with pain. He more fell than threw himself from his saddle and knelt. “Enemy attacking the seaside wall with hurling balls. Three ships are dropping anchor in the Bay.”
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