His throat tightened too much to answer. Selfishly, he was glad she was here. A much smaller, nobler part of him wished she was safe at Brîn. She stood stiff in front of him, but then pressed her face against his bare chest, her fingers reaching up to grip the chain around his neck. He ran his hand over her curls, kissed her head, and set her back. “Put your cloak on, Szirin. It’s time.”
He walked her down the short corridor to the deck. The day was clear, fine, the air over the bay fresh but surprisingly cold. After having the warmth of the Akrasian day on his back for so many moonturns, and then the dampness of Brîn warming to Tradeseason, he was just remembering how chilly Monoea always was.
Sister Bay sprawled out around them, busy as usual. Dozens of ships anchored in the depths by the floating platform docks, and rowed barges ran their constant routes from the Outer Docks to the coastal docking districts. As a navy bowman, Draken had spent time in all the various docksides and trade districts, but especially at Coldbank, where the navy patrol ships docked. He scanned the ships there and found Yramantha’s fleet of three. They drifted, no mark on them to betray what they’d done to their own people. I’m here, he thought. As you bid me. He wondered if he would see Yramantha. He wondered if he could keep from killing her if he did.
Aarinnaie’s wide eyes took in the Seven Cities of Monoea from this close vantage of the Harbor, the great swath of land encircling Sister Bay packed to overflowing with buildings, roads, and people. Over the great, sheer Sevenfel Cliffs the gold-domed towers of the Palace Ashwyc glowed in the sun, blurred slightly by mists. Each city but two had docking districts: Ashwyc, the enormous palace and grounds built on the edge of the Cliffs, and Kordwyn, which sat behind Ashwyc and was all things bureaucratic in the kingdom: maintaining roads and byways, collecting taxes, trade licencing, policing the state. Despite the anxiety clawing at his gut, Draken smiled at his sister’s amazement. He’d rarely compared his old and new countries, not wanting to dwell on the past too much since his exile, but Brîn was a village compared to the Seven Cities.
The barge captain, a ranked sailor in a bloodstone uniform, bowed to them deeply and welcomed them aboard. Draken helped Aarinnaie over the gap and handed her to Tyrolean, who seemed happy enough to take her arm and guide her into the comfortable lounge.
Halmar and three szi nêre accompanied him first, keeping close. The Brînians were all heavily armed with sword harness straps across their bare chests. Not a shiver among them, just proud vigilance. Tyrolean, Osias, and Setia followed, all regarded with naked curiosity. But soon the drums started, the oars caught the beat, and they glided across the bay.
The Captain saw them served warmed wine by a footman and then left them alone. “That’s odd, his not staying,” Aarinnaie said, reaching for her cup. Kon-nan gently took it from her and sipped from it himself before handing it back.
“He must have a good reputation to bring important diplomats to shore, but even so, a barge captain is too lowborn to make small talk with royalty,” Draken answered. Also the captain didn’t know Brînish and Draken hadn’t yet decided whether a language barrier would serve or hurt his disguise, such as it was.
He didn’t sit, but shifted from window to window. The shutters were open, admitting the view and the cold. Aarinnaie drank and got up to stand by him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his heavy cloak enfolding her.
“No snow. It’s a fine day.” Though the air was cold.
“Snow in Trade?”
“Sometimes.” Draken pointed to the greystone palace topped with golden domes and hung with banners atop the great cliff. “The royal palace. A city unto itself. Next to it is City Kordwyn. The other side, where there’s so much open green between the walls, is Wyndam. Those are Landed city estates—the oldest, richest families. Below Wyndam, that great township is Newporte. And the other side of the Bay is Shadowcliff, Ostborough, and Coldbank.” Where Yramantha’s ships were docked.
“Why so many cities?”
He shrugged. “The cities started out as walled holdings, run by warlords.”
She turned her head, looking at the dozens of docks along the coast. “At which dock will we land?”
“We’ll go through Galbrayt’s Gate in the big harbor with the stone piers and towers, just there below Wyndam.”
“Where the Landed live,” Aarinnaie said.
“Well done. Sometimes it’s called Landed Gate.”
“Galbrayt is a hero, aye?” Osias joined them at the window, eyes narrowed as he stared.
Draken nodded, though a chill prickled his back as he watched Osias peruse the Seven Cities. Osias had been bound by many spirits before Draken had broken his fetter. He wondered if they were still with Osias, or if they’d fled. He wondered if some of them had memories from ancient times, though it was centuries ago and in a different country.
“One of the Princes is named for him.” The youngest.
More details of the Seven Sisters emerged as they drew closer: blocks and blocks of muddy streets and sharply peaked buildings, open squares for markets, roads winding near the Docksides, men and women working barges and docks and smaller freighters, fishers headed out to net the day’s catch in the bay or open sea. The grey stone curving cliffs pocked with little alcoves rose like stern visages above it all. In the time it took to cross Sister Bay clouds had rolled in to smother what was left of the blue sky, promising a cold, stinging rain.
Draken’s stomach tightened uncomfortably. His knee ached in the familiar damp cold, though it had been wrapped tightly and he’d had a Gadye potion to ward off the worst of the pain. His back was rigid enough to bounce a coin. He fingered the leather wrap on his sword absently, toying with the end that always came loose. Tyrolean spoke softly to Aarinnaie and the szi nêre, pointing out things of interest. None of the Brinians answered, but they stared. Osias and Setia stood at Draken’s side.
The barge rowed toward the arch looming between the twin towers of Galbrayt’s Gate. Dozens of bodies swung there, mangled by weather and birds. The breeze off Sister Bay turned them gently, revealing lank hair, tortured or missing limbs, gaping jaws. They ran the gamut from fresh to bird-picked. Draken’s stomach convulsed around the wine he’d swallowed and threatened to spit it back up. Tyrolean fell silent.
“I thought Monoea didn’t execute their prisoners,” Setia whispered.
“They don’t,” Aarinnaie said.
“I wonder if they are rebels caught by the King or loyalists who would not bend to the rebellion,” Osias said.
Draken swallowed hard. His voice was hollow. “King Aissyth would not break the laws of his lineage, not even for rebellion. That is not his work.”
The bodies passed from view and the hollowness spread to his chest.
The Captain came to open the door, unsmiling and quiet. Or maybe he spoke and Draken missed it; all sound seemed to cease as he stepped off the barge. The land swayed beneath his feet and his limbs felt heavy. He paused to get his bearings. A Prince—Draken could tell by the twisted gold torq set with sky-stones about his throat and blond hair that matched the King’s—approached them and bowed his head.
“Your Highnesses. I am Prince Galbrait. It is my pleasure and honor to escort you to the Palace at Ashwyc, His Royal Majesty’s City.” He spoke in flawless Brînian.
It had been a long while since Draken had seen Aissyth’s youngest son. Galbrait had been dispatched to a military post in the Norvern Wildes as was commonly done with younger children to toughen them. Toughen him it had. He’d matured into broad-shouldered confidence. The sword at his hip was pragmatic rather than ornamental, the leather wrap on the grip stained black with sweat. His cloak was fur but his clothes and armor beneath were simple and fine.
Tyrolean stepped forward as they’d discussed. “Khel Szi, His Royal Highness, Prince of Brîn, and Night Lord for Her Majesty Queen Elena of Akrasia.” Tyrolean spoke in a mix of Brînish and Akrasian as he indicated Draken.
Because he sat a throne, there was no need f
or Draken to bow. Galbrait bent in a bow and rose. He eyed Draken’s four szi nêre and Tyrolean in his black armor and green cloak, then shifted his attention to Osias and Setia. Galbrait went rigid, enough that Draken thought he would recoil. Before Draken could wonder on it too closely, a smile twitched across Galbrait’s lips. Brief. Unreadable. Diplomatic.
When he turned his gaze on Aarinnaie, the smile took on more life. “And you are?”
Aarinnaie’s eyes widened at the mild breach of protocol.
“Khel Szi’s sister, Aarinnaie Szirin, Her Royal Highness, Princess of Brîn,” Tyrolean said. “And I am First Captain Tyrolean of the Akrasian Royal Escort, Your Highness, Special Envoy to Brîn. I serve the Khel Szi at Queen Elena’s pleasure.”
If Galbrait thought a high-rank Escort serving the Prince of Brîn was odd, he hid it well. “Khel Szi, Szirin, Captain …” Again his gaze flicked over Osias, likely not knowing how to address him or Setia, “It is my very great honor to greet you. Welcome to Monoea.”
Greet. He said greet. Not meet. The knot tightened its bands inside Draken’s ribs. He gave Galbrait a stiff nod and replied in Brînish, “The honor is mine.” He glanced back at the Mance in order to introduce him, but Osias gave a minute shake of his head.
Galbrait gestured toward a carriage and several saddled horses flanked by a company of Royal Guards. Their heavy tack was familiar, causing a tug within Draken. “It is a cold Trade day, Szirin, and I’ve heard Brîn is milder than our Seven Cities. I brought the carriage for your comfort.” Galbrait offered Aarinnaie his arm and helped her into the carriage. To her credit, she didn’t smirk.
Draken cleared his throat and spoke softly in Brînish. “Setia, why don’t you ride with Aarin?” The horses were all immense for her tiny frame and she wouldn’t like being lifted up like a child, not in front of strangers. Konnan stepped forward to offer her his arm when Prince Galbrait didn’t. Setia’s dappled brow creased, but she acquiesced without comment.
Draken mounted the horse brought to him, a very fine kingstock Bay, distracted by the oddness of the scene. Why weren’t the ladies brought horses? He’d never witnessed coddling them like that. Was it Monoean perception of Brînish culture? Truth, women had no right to inherit, but some few islander women fought alongside their men, and many certainly worked the same as or harder than men in the same trades.
Konnan fell back to ride behind the carriage. Halmar stayed with Draken. Galbrait mounted and indicated Draken should ride abreast with him at the head of the little parade. They started the sharp climb up the road that cut back and forth across the Sevenfall Cliffs into Wyndam.
“How was the journey, Khel Szi?” Galbrait asked.
“It went fair well, Your Highness,” Draken said, gratefully keeping to Brînish since Galbrait did.
“We didn’t anticipate your bringing your sister,” Galbrait said. “A happy surprise. I hope we can make her feel welcome during her time here.”
A chance to show some solidarity between Akrasia and Brîn had fallen right into his lap. What was one more twist of the truth when a man’s whole life is a lie?
“It was Queen Elena’s suggestion,” Draken replied. “Aarinnaie has talents beyond what most men can imagine.”
Galbrait gave him a look, brows drawn. Then his face cleared and laughed politely. “Duly noted, Khel Szi.” He changed the subject by pointing out estates Draken already well knew and explaining where the nobles’ proper lands were in Monoea. Everything looked the same, brutally so. Draken had not been gone so long.
But fair long enough to make a new life. He longed for Elena’s quiet presence and especially to be the man in truth she thought him to be. Then he remembered he probably wouldn’t be a man at all before the sevennight was out, and he stiffened. Galbrait was too involved with his polite discourse about Wyndam to notice.
“The cliffs are called Sevenfel.” They’d drawn close enough to see the funereal niches well. The nearest cliff climbed up, the road clinging to it. Each was filled with anything from bone fragments to grinning skulls to entire skeletons crammed in. It had been the war since they’d put any bodies in; Draken had been spared overseeing the crews of soldiers who severed heads and limbs from bodies to add to the gruesome testament to Monoea’s military strength. There were hundreds upon hundreds of them and he felt as if he was seeing them for the first time.
“You don’t ask about the skulls,” Galbrait said quietly. “Everyone does. Do you know about them? Where you here at the Decade war?”
Dangerous territory, but not as dangerous as he was about to tread. Ashwyc City loomed ever closer.
“I know of the niches,” he answered, matching Galbrait’s soft tone.
Prince Galbrait glanced at Draken, likely wondering if the sight of his own people’s remains exposed to the open air angered him. And it did, he realized abruptly. They hadn’t fought for glory or riches, only for the yoke of Akrasia.
Chill winds whistled across the cliffs and cut through Draken’s cloak. At least he’d brought his warm one. Elena’s pendant felt like a piece of ice against his chest. Curse the Brînians and their brash habit of going shirtless.
Draken glanced back to see what the Mance made of the war prizes. Osias lifted his chin and scoured the cliffs with stormy eyes. As he passed beneath them, bones chattered softly in their niches. A flock of gulls cried out and soared away from the cliff top. Halmar remained as stoic as usual, but the Monoean guards shifted in their saddles, attention flitting from their charges to the cliffs.
Did they wonder why the wind seemed to barely touch the silver man? Would they accuse them of magicks? Surely Osias worked some eerie necromantic spell. Draken’s hand strayed to Seaborn’s hilt. The scabbard was warm against his thigh and the sword heated his palm. It did nothing to ease his stiff muscles.
Tyrolean glanced up and then bent to speak to Aarinnaie and Setia in the carriage. Draken felt a pang. It was right and good that Tyrolean keep close to Aarinnaie. But he couldn’t help feeling his friend was already letting him go, moving on toward protecting his sister.
He reminded himself sternly that someone needed to look after her, and he trusted no one more than Tyrolean. It was his fault she needed protection. His stomach clenched again. Truth, she’d sneaked aboard his ship and she’d insisted on coming ashore. But he should have ordered her to hide aboard until the ugliness was over. Yet another woman in his life he’d failed to protect.
Galbrait had slowed his horse and gave Draken a curious look. He realized abruptly he must have stayed quiet too long for courtesy and tried to think of something to say. “You’re too young to have fought.”
“I was a child,” Galbrait said. “But I dreamed of it, like we all do before we realize war is only ugliness and pain. And I remember the Night of Surrender.”
Draken did too. He’d been called to greet his cousin-King and awarded his new commission with the Black Guard not soon after, all the royal family looking on. Galbrait had been there, a child Prince beneath his notice. And now Galbrait was a warrior to be reckoned with. A man wise enough to know what war was, and more importantly, what it wasn’t. Draken didn’t know what to think of his cousin. Does he know me or not?
He would know, soon enough.
Galbrait continued with the history lesson. “… and some of the bones are very old. No one alive remembers the cliffs without them. Legend says a long-ago King married a Blood Queen from Felspirn and she commissioned the niches carved into the cliffs.”
Felspirn. Maybe Aarinnaie had the right of it. Maybe he should have fled to some far off land. “Have you been, Your Highness?”
“To Felspirn? I wish!” The Prince laughed again. “I’ve been on duty in the Norvern Wilds forever. I only was called back to court two sevennight ago. Father thinks it’s time I marry.” His lip curled.
Draken felt he could almost like the man. He had the sudden insight this was exactly as the King had planned. It sounded like Aissyth to sent this younger, likable son to win the Br�
�nian Prince over. It was oddly reassuring.
“Are you married, Khel Szi?” Galbrait asked.
Draken lifted Elena’s pendant from his chest, curled his fingers around it. The familiar contours of Elena’s face under his fingers soothed him. “My life is sworn to my Queen. We expect our first child before Frost.”
Prince Galbrait ’s brows climbed. He was a handsome enough man, with the perfect Monoean royal profile but for the lopsided bump on his nose indicating it’d been broken and a pale scar through the cleft in his chin. “Marriage must be different there. In your homeland …” He colored. “Forgive me. I pry.”
“Not at all. Queen Elena and I cannot marry because of cultural differences and politics.” Something even a Prince who’d been hanging around the Norvern Wildes for most of his raising up could doubtless understand. “I am her courtesan and subject. But my heart is fully with her, and hers with mine.” At least until she found out who he really was. Draken cleared his throat, his attention drawn by a low rumble coming from higher in Wyndam. He lifted his chin to listen, but it remained the same. Must be the wind between buildings and walls.
Once they made the initial switching ascent through the notched cliff and passed through gates guarded by young Landed soldiers, the ground leveled out. Draken had passed this way hundreds of times in his life. At the clifftop it widened into a proper cobbled street. Great trees and stone walls rose on either side, protecting estates of the Landed. When they passed gates, he couldn’t help but glance through them at the familiar houses.
“I’m attending balls at all of them lately,” Galbrait mentioned. To search for a wife, no doubt.
“Does His Grace have someone suitable in mind for you?”
“A few.” Another scowl touched Galbrait’s lips and then he brightened. “Ah, Temple Ring. Nearly there, then.”
It was on the tip of Draken’s tongue to say he knew, but an odd reverant memory washed over him as the clean stone roadway opened up into the great circle—Sohalia revelries and scenes of daily market business.
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