The slaves did well to leave him with his Queen that night as he moodily guarded her slumber. Elena slept restlessly but seemed to be soothed by his touch. At last, breakfast arrived and their body slaves waited by the door to dress them. He watched them through heavy eyes and his bed hangings woven through with bright beads, wondering if they would remain with him if he saw fit to free them. He sighed. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t live to free them.
Elena stirred and rolled over, her cheeks flushed from sleep.
“You look exhausted,” she observed, and winced as she stretched. She shifted her gaze from his and laid her hand over her stomach.
“And you look in pain. Shall I fetch the healer?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbed his palms over his face, and turned to look at her.
“No, this is normal.” She eased up to a sit and leaned back against the brightly painted headboard. “So the healer says.”
He wondered what chances the healer gave her for delivering a healthy child. “There’s breakfast. Shall I bring you some?”
“That’s very kind, but I shall come to table. I’d hoped Osias would council us this morning, actually. And Ilumat is here.”
“Aye, we met when I returned from Eidola.”
She ignored his dry tone.
Draken signaled the slaves to come. Two carried bowls of water and fresh towels, and others came with clothes. He stood patiently while one washed his face and arms and chest, and Kai helped him bind the loose trousers around his middle with a sash. He settled Elena’s Night Lord pendant against his chest. Another slave offered face ink; he waved her off.
He kissed Elena’s forehead and seated her on a cushion at the low table before opening the door and speaking to the young slave girl left there as a runner. “Fetch Lord Mance Osias and his companion, aye?”
She dipped her chin to him and scampered off with a skip to her step. Before he could close the door, a footman strode up. “Khel Szi, Lord Ilumat begs audience with you and Her Majesty this morning.” His tongue rolled awkwardly over the Akrasian. There was no equivalent for Her Majesty in Brînish.
Damn Ilumat to Eidola. He’d hoped to postpone the young lord’s company, maybe until after he left. “We’ll receive him here.” Draken’s personal surroundings would both soothe the lord’s ego and keep Draken on his own turf. “And tell him to come unarmed. I’m wary of weaponry in my Queen’s presence.”
The footman bowed low. “As you wish, Khel Szi.”
Elena picked at her bowl of fruit. “I’ve known Ilumat my whole life, Draken. We were tutored together and are cousins. There is no need to insult him.”
“Would Reavan have done the same, my Queen, on the heels of battle?”
She flinched and stared at him, her brows drawn and her lined eyes narrowed. The door opened and the child did her best to admit the Mance King—the former Mance King, Draken reminded himself—with the pomp and circumstance due. Even Elena smiled tolerantly at her shy diction. Draken rose and allowed Osias to kiss him on both cheeks, and the Mance bowed to the Queen. “Your Majesty, you look well this morning.”
She laughed. “I feel mostly horrible; this you know. Please sit.”
He slid onto a cushion with all the grace of his kind. Setia dipped a knee to both the Queen and Draken and sat silently at his side.
“I can’t help thinking you should still be at Eidola,” Draken said.
Osias nodded and lifted his cup of sweet watered wine and held Draken’s gaze with his silvery one. “I am no stranger to banishment, Khel Szi.”
Draken said nothing as the slaves served them, refilling goblets with wine and blue glazed mugs with honeyed tea. His gaze followed them again as they went about their quiet duties. He thought back to his previous life of servile drudgery punctuated with the occasional beating. They seemed mostly well, here.
“I had hoped to see Aarinnaie Szirin,” Osias said.
“Wouldn’t we all?” Draken said dryly.
Elena shook her head. “She is such a wild thing, Aarinnaie.”
Draken thought of when he’d caught his sister trying to murder Elena. She served him well as his royal assassin and spy. “She needs a long leash and comes to me in her own time. It was she who heard of the massacre at Parne and brought me there.”
“You’ll have to corral her soon, Draken,” Elena said. “You should be thinking of who will best serve you as a husband to her.”
Marrying her off? Truth, he’d thought of it but he didn’t know who he trusted to handle her with a light enough hand. But Draken had no chance to reply because the shuttered doors swung open to admit Lord Ilumat. He bowed low as the footman announced him, his hair in a thick, smooth braid down his back, his glossy mustache perfectly trimmed.
“My dear Queen, Your Highness, thank you for inviting me.”
Never mind he’d invited himself. At least his scabbard was empty as ordered.
“You are most welcome, my lord,” Elena said. “I was distraught to hear of your loss last Sohalia.”
Ilumat’s face creased, enough to make Draken nearly believe he actually mourned his plain little wife whose blood had run thick with High House nobility. “My beloved bride, Your Majesty. And our baby daughter, too. But I must salve my wounded heart with duty to my Queen.”
Elena patted the cushion on the other side of her. “Very well. Come. You’re among friends.”
“And a relief it is, my Queen.” He sat by her, took her hand, and bent his head to touch his forehead to her fingers.
“Please, my lord, tell me what news from the shadows of the Agrian Range? And Auwaer. Did you visit?”
Ilumat’s grief hardened to indignant rage. “I never made it into the royal city. There was a slaughter on my own lands, Your Majesty. An entire youngling herd, cut down. The carcasses were destroyed, pelts were so slashed and bloodstained I could salvage neither wool nor leather. We had to burn the lot and I spent my entire time home soothing my servants before rushing here. Their worries are not unfounded. It will be all I can do to feed them over Frost now.”
“Have you caught the perpetrators?” Draken’s skin prickled, guessing the answer.
“No. They left no mark of themselves. My herdsmen were killed with them.”
“How long had it been between the deaths and your discovery?” Osias asked.
Ilumat shook his head. “Some nights, Lord Mance. Perhaps a sevennight.”
“Seems a long while,” Draken observed.
“They weren’t due back for another two sevennight. Still fattening them and letting the wools grow. Market is after the fifth fullrise.” The last he added with a condescending glance to Draken, as if he wouldn’t possibly know when market took place nor understand how managing lands went.
Which of course he didn’t. Draken swallowed the snarl clawing at the back of his throat. “Perhaps Lord Va Khlar can help solve your financial woes. He knows finance and the markets better than us all.”
“Indeed.” Ilumat maintained careful control over his expression, but he surely nurtured the full-blooded disdain against sundry commoners rising above their station. “Tell me of the attack on Seakeep. Members of the High Houses are dead, my man told me this morning.”
Draken doubted that. He’d seemed well-informed yesterday on his arrival. But he explained in short terms what had happened, and that the Monoeans had requested a diplomatic visit.
“Who shall go?” Ilumat asked.
As if Draken wanted this arrogant upstart permanently damaging relations between Monoea and Akrasia. “They requested me, actually.”
Ilumat’s sculpted brows rose. Draken wondered if they’d been shaved that way with a blade. “The Brînian Khel Szi, handling relations for Akrasia,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
“I am also Night Lord,” Draken said.
“Of course. It’s just …” His gaze flicked over Draken and his upturned lip tightened. “I rather assumed we had a proper ambassador in Monoea already.”
> “Not since the Decade War,” Draken answered before Elena could.
She shook her head and stabbed a piece of fruit. “It doesn’t matter. Draken is needed here.”
“Aye, it seems we all are. A shame the High Houses Elders were killed. They’ve the leisure and means to make such a journey.” Ilumat shrugged. “I’d volunteer, but it’s a particularly bad time for me.”
Draken’s lip twitched at Ilumat’s audacity. The elders had been valued members of rank in Akrasia, not feedstock dead from gasping sickness. He opened his mouth to retort; Osias shook his head very slightly.
He reconsidered and spoke slowly, as if conceit hindered Ilumat’s speed of thought, which he suspected it did. “Very generous of you to offer but we must send someone of high rank. To do else is to insult the King, as well as risk losing the ambassador to an execution. Having just killed prisoners to prove a point, I’d hate to see the same happen to one of our inexperienced, low-rank nobles.” He fixed Ilumat with a mild gaze. “As well, such important diplomacy takes some care.”
Ilumat’s lips whitened. It took a drink of wine to stain them back to regular color. “I’d suggest Va Khlar but I am certain he is loathe to leave Reschan. Protection fees run high during Trade. I daresay he survives off the coin earned in these few sevennight.”
Draken set his jaw against challenging the insult. Va Khlar was capable of defending himself. He was Baron of Reschan now, even if they called him the Baron of Extortion behind his back. “You’re right. There is no one else. It’s why I think we should accept their request to host me.”
“Draken. We’ve been all through this,” Elena said.
“Except we haven’t,” Draken said. “We’ve barely discussed it.” He abruptly made his mind up. He would go, regardless of her permission. There was no other course. Gods willing, maybe someday she would understand.
“If I may, my Queen,” Ilumat said.
Draken hissed a breath. If Ilumat didn’t curb his tongue, he couldn’t be held responsible—
“I agree with the Prince,” Ilumat said.
Draken twitched. “Sorry?”
“I agree with you. It’s extraordinarily poor timing, but Monoea is a valuable ally and a perilous foe. If they have requested Prince Draken to attend talks, I think we’ve no choice but to agree, Your Majesty, no matter our personal concerns.”
Elena set her table knife down with a soft tap of metal against wood. She was quiet for several breaths, or would have been several breaths if Draken had remembered to draw air into his lungs.
“If he leaves now,” Ilumat added, “he can be back well before the baby arrives.”
A sigh. She turned her head to look at Draken. He opted to say nothing. He was going, with or without her blessing, and he would likely die for his trouble. He wondered abruptly if it would be better if she refused him, if only to assuage her guilt later. Better she hate him, perhaps, than feel responsible for his death. He knew what it was to live with another’s blood on one’s hands.
“I see reason now, though I am loathe to let you go,” she said softly.
He wished they were alone. “Ilumat speaks true. If I leave within a few days I can be back for the child.”
She bit her lip and blinked, met his gaze. He closed his hand around hers under the table.
“You mustn’t worry, Your Highness.” Ilumat’s free hand traveled down to stroke his empty scabbard. “Queen Elena is my dearest friend. I swear to keep close to her.”
#
Tyrolean was sent aboard the Bane to inform the Monoeans of Draken’s impending diplomatic journey, and Draken ordered him privately to beg them to stop killing his people and their animals. He wondered what they’d say to that, or if the Monoeans aboard ship even had the means to stop any Monoean marauders. But not knowing precisely who was at fault, and the curious sigil that unrelated groups wore, made him feel as if he must tighten every knot.
All through a long day of enduring tailors measuring him for a diplomacy wardrobe, leaving instructions for Thom, fending off diplomatic advice—some well-meaning and some not so much—and a grueling formal dinner with local lords and families, Elena was never far from his thoughts. Besides having been away from her capital city for too long, she would be safer within the dual protection of the magical Palisade and her own Royal Bastion surrounded by hundreds of Escorts. Draken told her as much once they were alone.
Her back stiffened and she crossed away from him. “I realize you think it’s your duty—”
“Truth, it’s entirely duty on my part for wanting to keep you safe.” Sarcasm nipped on the heels of courtesy. He realized his mistake too late. “Pardon, my Queen. I am too familiar.” Though he could hardly become more familiar as her lover.
He tore his gaze from her exquisite face, strained in anger, and let his back straighten to attention. “Will you at least keep Tyrolean close?”
“I have Marshal Oroli and Lord Ilumat.”
“Ilumat.” The word was sharp as a dagger.
“You aren’t jealous?” She shook her head. “I told you, he is a dear friend and my cousin—”
“And in the market for a new wife since he lost his last one.”
Her tone tightened. “That was very unkind.”
But truth. And Ilumat was of a rank to marry Elena where Draken could not. He gritted his teeth. She wouldn’t understand anyway. She didn’t want to understand. Ilumat’s flattery probably reminded her of her mistakes with Reavan.
“You must take Tyrolean,” she said. “His loyalty is with you now.”
Stubborn resentment overcame good sense. “Only because my loyalty lies with you. I am your Night Lord and sworn above all else to protect you. I must go away, so the least I can do is find a suitable replacement to guard you. You will be safest with Tyrolean.”
“I saw to my own security quiet effectively before I knew you.”
Even with his blood running high he didn’t dare bring up Reavan again. “Do you know what Szi means?”
Her bottom lip twitched. “Serve.”
“Aye. And that is all I’m trying to do. Serve Brîn. Serve Akrasia. But I cannot serve them without serving you first. It is my duty to keep you safe.”
Her jaw clenched, forming hard lines around her mouth. She reached out and curled her fingers around the pendant bearing her image. Her knuckles whitened. For a moment Draken wondered if she would take it back, sever the ties that bound them. Instead she gave it a sharp tug, released it, and swept away with a rustle of skirts.
He started to follow. But Elena snapped a few words to the szi nêre and her own guards in the corridor outside and strode on. Her guards stared after her, nonplussed.
Tyrolean filled the doorway. He met Draken’s gaze with all the affability of a stone wall. “Your Highness.”
“I need a drink.”
“Your Highness—”
“Out.” Draken spat the words. The idea of the sea rolling a ship beneath his feet was appealing. “Away from here.”
He retreated to change into plain clothes and slung his sword onto his back in Brînian bloodlord style, glad for its unraveling leather grip, battered scabbard, and dulled hilt. Despite its magical properties and keen edge, few would recognize it for what it was.
A hard stare kept his szi nêre from accompanying him close as shadows, but they followed with bows by rooftop and with blades by street. There were taverns plenty off the market, but he worried about being recognized, so he led them off-market to a scratchy-looking place with muddy hay on the dirt floor and patrons who didn’t study each other too closely.
Tyrolean leaned over his flagon of ale at a sticky table. The dual curving pointed sword grips stuck up over his shoulders like half-grown horns of Khel-lian. He spoke over the raucous voices of trades going poorly, the crooning of whores plying their wares, and the drunk taleteller in the corner. “Care to talk about it?”
“No. What did the Monoeans say?”
Tyrolean pursed his lips before drinki
ng again. “The Captain didn’t sound surprised.” “And the killings? Parne? Did you mention it?”
“Aye, as ordered.” Tyrolean was unruffled by his terse tone. “She denied it, of course.”
“Of course.” He wondered if Yramantha would wait for him, if they would accompany the Bane to Monoea. He bloody well hoped not.
The serving lass appeared. She studied Draken a moment before snatching up some money and pouring. For a moment, he feared she recognized him and would say something. But Draken’s face was on no coin, and without his szi nêre and fine clothing, it was easy enough for him to pass as the bloodlord of his fabricated history. Even Tyrolean drew little but a cursory glance; Akrasians and other races filled Brîn for Tradeseason. Merchant meetings were happening all over the city. The server trotted off and Draken’s shoulders relaxed a little as he glanced around at the patrons of the crowded tavern.
A rousing company in the corner drew his eye; a few brawny bloodlords of the sort who found employ guarding wealthy merchants flirting shamelessly with a slight Gadye woman. A multitude of long braids sprouted off her head like bent stalks of blackgrass. She turned her head to talk to one of them and Draken sucked in a breath.
“Khellian damn me, that’s Aarin.”
Tyrolean twisted to look and then turned back to Draken. His top lip twitched and his nostrils flared. “Shall I fetch her?”
Her companions seemed to be playing a game of sorts, something involving flipping a knife so that it landed point down in the middle of the table. Aarinnaie took a turn, clumsily, and the men roared in raucous laughter, jostling each other. One of them didn’t laugh as hard as the others, though. His eyes were deepset, shadowed by thick brows and a lined forehead. Maybe it was just the look of him, but his attention seemed drawn outside their little group.
Draken narrowed his eyes. Aarinnaie was sitting with her back to the room. Odd, that. “No. I want to see what she’s up to. Who is that she’s with, reckon?”
“No idea. We can ask.” Tyrolean nodded and drained his flagon and lifted it to the serving girl. She bustled over and took a coin from the stack while simultaneously pouring. “Those men by the back door. Are they regulars? No, do not look just now.” Shadow-eyes was perusing the room past his companions.
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