“It doesn’t seem their way, unless someone is suicidal.” As he had been … Gods, that was all he needed. Another influx of Banes. But Osias and the other Mance would know.
Draken thought of his boots slipping in the fresh-spilled blood of the villagers. Moonling slaves. Ilumat’s complaints. The strains of rebellion in Brîn, from an island House conveniently available for mercenary action right when the Monoeans, too, seemed restless for war. The shared sigil.
“Something you said to me once, Ty. It is honorable to kill from the light …”
“Not from the shadows. I remember. An old Akrasian saying.” He paused. “The Moonlings strike me as shadow people.”
Draken glanced up. Clouds were closing in over what small bit of sky he could see. “Aye, well, the Moonlings aren’t the only ones with blades in the dark.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The send-off party was a small, miserable, bedraggled group, huddled under a dripping tent on the riverside platform: Draken, Tyrolean, Osias and Setia, and Akhanar Ghotze, captain and commander of the Bane; on the other side, the Queen, Lady Marshal Oroli, and Lord Ilumat. Banners dragged down from the constant rain. At least the platform was stone to keep them out of the muck. The fields between Brîn and Seakeep had become a churned, muddy mess. Draken thought when he got back he ought to see into putting in proper stone roadways … until he remembered he wasn’t coming back.
His back stiffened as he listened to Ilumat, and then Elena wish them good fortune on their journey. It was all very proper and chilly and he found himself wishing they could just board the bloody boat, even if the journey was leading him to his death.
He dared a glance at Elena when they were about to depart for their skiff in the boatcaves. She stood in a tight knot with Ilumat and her guards and had no expression as he thanked her for her good wishes. The words sounded flat to him; insufficient and mundane.
His throat tightened and his heart twisted. Still angry, then. Ever the Queen. He turned to go, stepping out into the rain to head for the passageway down and striding away.
Soft, slippered footsteps across the wet stone. “Draken.”
He turned.
Elena had broken from the others. Pelting rain dripped off her black hood and ran down her cheeks. She blinked up at him. He could read nothing in her dark eyes or pale face.
“My Queen?”
She stepped closer and threw her arms around him, her face pressed against his neck.
A long sigh escaped him and he folded his arms about her, pulling her close though her belly made the embrace a little awkward. “Elena.”
A shudder ran through her and her arms tightened. “Don’t be away long.”
There were no words. He kissed her cheek and then her mouth, set her back, and strode away while he still could.
#
If Draken considered the weather an ill omen he might have had Ghotze turn the ship round before they left Blood Bay. Rain lashed down late in the night and into the next morning, and so on for three days, whipping the sails and dripping off the booms, soaking lines, clothes, sails, and everything else not under cover. The Monoean ships were not in sight, so they must’ve gone on ahead.
Traveling in a cabin was a novel experience, and boring. He was used to working at the myriad of duties on board and sleeping in the hull with other off-duty crew. Whenever the shift bell rang, he had to resist the urge to go topside and report. After enduring days and nights of endlessly roiling sea with nothing to do, pulling lines for hours in the stinging spray seemed preferable to his cabin and the damp stink permeating the tightly shuttered space. Once a day he pulled on his heavy oiled cloak, toggled it tight over his chest, and climbed to the deck to keep Brimlud, the helmsman, company. As the storm persisted, the crew got progressively snappish.
On the fourth morning, Draken held onto the rails and lines on deck as the ocean swelled beneath the ship and harsh crosswinds tormented the sails overhead. Their progress stalled as they rode over a white-tipped wave and his stomach flipped as they slid down the other side and shot forward again with the shifting winds. It was a familiar sensation, and not entirely unpleasant, though it forced him to keep a tight grip. Brîn and her islands had long since disappeared from sight. He doubted he’d ever see her again.
The helmsman dipped his chin as Draken climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, though his dark squinting eyes never left the sea ahead. Grey laced his hair, soaked and hanging limp and thinning over his head. Deep crevices lined his brown face.
“Keeping course in this, Brimlud?” Draken asked. He had to raise his voice over the creak of riggings, snap of sails, and the waves slapping the hull.
“Fair holding, Khel Szi. Just slow. Be a day off, maybe two, weathering this storm. If it don’t worsen.”
“And will it?” In his experience, no one could predict the weather like a craggy old helmsman.
Brimlud lifted an eye to the steely sky and blinked. “Reckon so, aye. Island with a cove two nights hence if we see real trouble.”
“That’d be Newfar, aye?”
Surprise creased the skin around Brimlud’s eyes deeper. “Your father wasn’t none for maps, pardon my saying, Khel Szi.”
“No pardon necessary, helmsman. Truth, he wasn’t.” And I’m little like him, thank the gods for small favors.
“Don’t much like being out of sight of the Seven for so long,” Brimlud went on. “But I reckon with you aboard, Khel Szi, we’re safe enough.”
Draken snorted. He’d be less surprised if the gods dragged him into the sea and shredded him to bits. He made his way to the rail, shuffling from handhold to handhold as the ship listed and creaked. Rain slipped under his cloak and soaked his shoulders. The sailors ignored him; they were too busy fighting the wind and lashing rain for pleasantries. He caught a few wry looks though. Only a bloody fool would be out in this. Or a desperate one. At least his appearance in Monoea would give King Aissyth something else to think on than making war with Brîn and Akrasia.
He stayed until rain ran in rivulets down his spine and chest under his cloak. Nothing ahead but a blur of grey seas and skies, and silvery, stinging rain bridging the two. At last it even drove Draken back into cover. Tyrolean was sharpening well-honed weapons and Osias sat wrapped in his cloak, staring at nothing.
Draken remembered the Mance had once manipulated the currents on the Eros. “Can you do anything about the storm?”
Osias shook his head. “This is no regular storm. It is Korde, showing his wrath.”
Draken shook the water off his cloak in the corridor and hung it by the door. “Excellent. I suppose that means he will chase us all the way to Monoea.”
Osias gave him a rare smile. “You only did as I asked.”
Draken strode the width of the cabin to peer through a crack in the shutter, then dropped down in front of it. A faint spray of water penetrated the shutters to dampen the back of his head and the ship rode another swell. He wondered if he imagined the voices of the shouting crew over the wailing wind. He hadn’t felt this trapped since he was in the dungeons of Sevenfel.
Tyrolean cleaned his blades without missing a stroke. “Nothing to do but ride it out. Especially if such is the will of the gods.”
Draken grunted, noncommittal. He was in no mood to talk philosophy or religion, not while being immutably dragged toward his fate. The gods had torn his life apart with their great hands and now they were dropping the pieces back to the world one by one, watching waves of destruction ripple out.
He dropped his head, trying to stretch the tension from his neck. If he could just be in the open sea air on a fair day, it might make this final journey bearable.
“The storm can’t be all on your mind,” Tyrolean said.
“No,” Draken admitted. He avoided Osias’s gaze. “Truth, I wonder if we’re sailing into a trap.”
“I like it less than you do,” Tyrolean said. “But there’s naught for it now.”
Draken shook his head slowly and toye
d with the hoops hanging from his ear. “King Aissyth can be … unpredictable. So I’ve heard.”
Unpredictable enough to raise up his bastard cousin from enslavement to his own most trusted secret service, and then believe the lies framing Draken for the murder of his wife. He thought of his own recent sordid history, and how he’d followed the father he hated to a throne he never wanted. Unpredictability must run in the godsdamned family.
“I need ale,” he said.
Osias nodded and rose. “I’ll fetch it. I’ve made friends with the galleylad.”
Draken watched the Mance go. “Thing is, I’m not sure why he’s unpredictable, nor how to counter it.”
“It’s likely from answering the whims of too many others,” Tyrolean said, the strap swishing along his blade. He held it up to check the edge. “Trying to please everyone. I’ve seen it done with commanders. They’re the ones who tend to lose battles.” When Draken didn’t answer, he looked up. “What? No advice from your father’s scrolls this time?”
Rain lashed hard at the shutters, rattling them. The whole world smelled of wet wool, salt, and sweaty, close men. Too close. There was no way to keep the truth from Tyrolean much longer. He would find out what Draken had been. Best to have it all loose now so he knew where Tyrolean stood, and to make certain he would care for the Queen afterward.
“Ty, there are things you should know.”
“Such as?”
“Put the bloody swords down and I’ll tell you.” He waited while Tyrolean laid his weapons aside and drew a breath. “You know I wasn’t born in Brîn.”
“I remember.” Tyrolean fell very still. He had learned as much when Osias had done the ritual to bind Bruche to Draken.
Draken inhaled, held it for a little. The words came out in a rush. “I am half Monoean.”
The captain’s lined eyes widened. “You’re sundry?”
Draken bit down on his annoyance at the slur. “But royal blood, all. My father fled to Monoea when the Sword War turned against Brîn. I expect he thought he’d be received by the King and given asylum. I don’t know the circumstances, but instead he was enslaved. Perhaps it was mistaken identity. Perhaps it was just compensation for being his own ruddy self. At any rate, my mother is the King’s cousin.”
Tyrolean sat very straight and stiff. He was quiet for a long moment. “He claimed he hid in the Dragonstar Isles. Where you said you were fostered.”
“Osias encouraged me to tell the fostering story to match up with Father’s.” Bile pressed on the back of his throat. “When King Aissyth freed the slaves, my father worked his passage home, leaving me. Aissyth had me trained up as a bowman by way of the Navy. I sailed a few Sohalias, patrolling and fighting through the Decade War. After the war he raised me to the Black Guard to help mop up.”
“You’re familial with the king?”
“Distant, but I was at court, aye. Until my wife was murdered.” He paused. “King Aissyth convicted me and banished me to Akrasia for her death.”
“Does King Aissyth know the new Khel Szi is you?”
Draken shook his head. “Truth? I don’t know. And before you ask: no, Elena doesn’t know.” Tyrolean’s mouth tightened, but Draken barreled on. “I held my tongue for stability’s sake. Brîn would be in a terrible state had I not taken the Brînian throne. This you know. The truth would have undermined all we worked for in the battle against Truls.”
Tyrolean stared at him. “I should kill you where you stand, if only for lying to our Queen.”
“You’d execute me for lying to her, but not for killing her?” Difficult to say which made Draken feel worse. Killing Elena and bringing her back with Sea-born’s magic had amounted to terrible, heartrending guilt and the torment of subsequent dreams.
Tyrolean’s hands hung loose between his knees. He fisted and flexed them.
“I know you’re faithful,” Draken said, his tone tight, hands itching to reach for Seaborn. “You consider me an abomination. No better than a slave.”
Tyrolean gave him a look. Unreadable. Wounded, maybe.
Draken laughed, rough. “Khellian’s balls, I was a slave, first to Aissyth, then to my father, and now to my throne. So maybe the priests are right after all. If you must kill me, do it now.”
Tyrolean rose to his feet. The sway of the ship didn’t seem to bother him. In a moment he’d reach for his sword. Draken’s fingers twitched. Tyrolean’s swords still lay on his bench, but within quick reach.
“People have fought for you, died on your behalf,” Tyrolean said.
Draken had killed dozens of Brînians for the simple crime of being abandoned by Akrasia during the Decade War, and dozens more had died on his behalf. Most of the women he cared for had died or suffered because of him. He suspected even Aarinnaie nurtured a death wish, and if the gods granted it, it would be in his service.
“I am sundry, truth. Heresy flows in my blood.” He tried to keep control of his voice, but anger made it rise. “But you needn’t trouble yourself with killing me. I am banished from Monoea. I will be executed when I arrive.”
Tyrolean stared at him, but someone knocked, cutting off whatever reply he had fashioned. Draken cleared his throat and rose. “Come.”
A galley lad, his face shadowed by furrowed brow and matted braids, clutched a pitcher of ale in both hands. He walked with his feet apart to keep his balance as the ship listed and set the pitcher on the railed table. There was a deep divot carved into the wood to keep it from sliding about. He backed out, head still bowed. Just as he caught the door latch his dark eyes caught Draken’s. His whole face tightened as if in fear, and he darted through the door. It rattled as he slammed it behind him.
Cold sank into Draken’s bones. “He heard us.”
“He’s just a lad,” Tyrolean said. “He talks and they’ll think he’s telling tales.”
Tyrolean poured out ale in the mugs and they drank, the only noise the waves crashing against the ship and the creak of the masts. Draken considered what would happen if the lad told what he’d overheard. But he was just that, a lad. Tyrolean was right. No one would believe him.
He cast Tyrolean a chary look. The Captain was another matter.
“I’d like to know more about your cousin,” Tyrolean said. “Not much known of the King. Most Akrasians who come in contact with him have a nasty habit of dying.”
Draken’s heart lurched. He was responsible for some of those deaths. He forced his mind to Tyrolean’s question. Truth, his cousin-King rarely exposed himself to outsiders. Maybe that was why this whole request for diplomacy didn’t ring right. He wondered if the King even knew he was coming, if he was even still alive, if Monoea suffered from a real rebellion.
“The Landed courtiers are fierce for his pleasure,” he admitted. Tension curdled in the muscles of his neck. Tyrolean watched him intently. Perhaps he really wanted to know. “There is much infighting. Elena’s High lords are tame by comparison. But King Aissyth manages dozens of Landed lords and hundreds of minor landless. The hierarchy is rigid, locked in tradition. The minors chafe under the restraints of their positions, always have done.”
“How are they raised up, then? Or are they?”
“Aye. They join the military. Unit commanders make more money on Ranking Day than a clean whorehouse on Sohalia Night.”
“Is that how you achieved your rank?”
He felt as if Tyrolean wanted him to prove his quality, but he tried a weak joke instead. “I like to lie to myself and believe I was just that good.”
“You must know the King in some ways better than his courtiers,” Tyrolean said slowly. “Especially if you didn’t try to get anything from him.”
“From him? Gods, no. Even when he raised me up to his Black Guard, I took none of his favor for granted.”
“And your wife? Did he have anything to do with your marriage?”
His throat tightened and he nodded, dropping his gaze. He wondered where her grave was, if someone had built an altar for her and kept i
t up. Her mother, perhaps. “Had Osias left it alone, Elena wouldn’t even know I was alive.”
“Hmm. I wonder. Elena might not have found you, but it’s difficult to escape the sight of the Seven Eyes. You do have a way of landing on your feet, Your Highness.”
“What are you going to do?”
Tyrolean snorted softly. “Who am I to destroy what the gods have wrought?” He sank down and reached for his sword and strap. “Born a Monoean slave, raised to a Brînian Prince. You’ll make quite the cradle tale when it all comes out.”
Draken shook his head and drank deeply of his ale, hiding his relief at Tyrolean’s acceptance of his sordid past. “That’d be of more comfort if cradle tales weren’t so often about the dead.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
By evening drink had muddied Draken’s head and dulled the jagged edges of his worry. Tyrolean’s blades, stored in a rack against the opposite wall, gleamed with fresh oil. He lay dozing on his bunk over Draken’s, as self-contained as ever. Probably praying if he wasn’t asleep already.
Draken sighed and hunched over his ale. Chill, wet air hissed through the shutters. Dried salt water streaked the wood beneath the window like tearstains. He tasted it on the rim of his earthenware mug and smelled it with every breath. It pervaded him with a sense of home and created an unaccountable longing for Bruche, his wit and rough wisdom. He’d considered his mind a noisy place when he’d carried Bruche inside him, but the swordhand had served the purpose of mocking him out of his own worries.
He’d kept the galleyboy running after more ale all evening. He hadn’t noticed any more fear or shock from the boy, but he slowly considered that might be his blunted senses. He reached out and poured more, sloshing a bit on the table as the ship rolled over a wave. He could only pray for sleep. Gods knew it passed the time, not that he woke all that rested after tossing in his bunk all night.
The boat pitched over another, bigger wave, forcing him to grip the table to steady himself. Draken heard a low curse and something scrabbled outside his door. He turned his head to look just as it slammed open.
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