Tyrolean returned an unreadable look. “It’s a risk, bringing the dead boy back. Rinwar is a rebel, aye?”
“I know Monoea, Captain,” Draken said, and he hoped it was true. “If we held Soeben from his father, it wouldn’t be looked at as a bargaining chip but as a threat. Or worse, an insult.”
“Is bringing the dead lad not a bribe of sorts?”
Draken gave him a grim smile. “Monoeans prefer to call bribes ‘acts of good faith.’ Whatever it is, I have to befriend the rebels to stop them.”
“I see,” Tyrolean said, though it was clear by his frown that he did not.
The Rinwar estate in Wyndam was no Ashwyc Palace, but by any standard it was huge, constructed of square-cut stone and a few real glass windows. Iceflocks bloomed alongside other early Tradeseason blossoms. He was grateful the unseasonable cold diluted their heady scent; Lesle had planted their cottage over with creeping flowers and the last thing he wanted at the moment was a reminder of her. Two wings of the building sprawled out hundreds of paces in each direction, fronted by terraces, and surrounded by lawns. The formal gardens were trimmed so sharply it set his teeth on edge.
Two decades of Rinwar’s hirelings stood in formation before the villa in honor of the return of the House’s dead son. Most were older, unwealthy minors gone mercenary after their stints in the military. Draken set his expression to properly regretful, resisted the urge to lay his hand on his sword hilt, and dismounted. He wished he had his armor, but that would have given the wrong message. Tyrolean wore his, as he was acting as a guard.
The yard was quiet, only a slight cold breeze rustling Draken’s cloak and the far off sound of the ocean, so familiar it made his throat sting. He pushed ahead of the others and went to stand before the carriage. The horses snorted and stamped, then settled.
Lord Rinwar, the only man old and dressed well enough to be Soeben’s father, stepped forward from the group gathered there. He wore his house sword, long enough to require a leather baldric embroidered with the three twined moons. The ash smeared on his forehead made crude contrast to his finery. A woman had been holding Rinwar’s arm; she released it, staring at the carriage. Also marked with ash, her face was flushed and her eyes were red. Soeben’s mother. Draken felt a stabbing sensation in his gut, sick and piercing. For the first time that day, Elena flitted through his mind—her strained face and voice when she’d been in pain and and in fear of losing their child.
If you ever loved me, Khellian, Draken thought, slay me now and spare my heart the loss of my child.
He strode forward to greet them. Rinwar, too, only had eyes for the carriage. Despite careful study, Draken saw nothing but grief in that drawn face. If he had anticipated his son’s death, he was as good an actor as any Newporte street mask. Rinwar’s lands were large but unimportant, very unlike the slight, older man standing here. Draken was willing to wager Rinwar hadn’t been to the Norvern Wildes and the city of Wildefel since he was a very young man. He blinked at Draken, apparently too stricken by the death of his son to hide his astonishment at Draken’s uncultivated, inked appearance. Of course, according to Soeben, Rinwar had seen Draken’s entrance into the city.
“I am Khel Szi of Brîn,” Draken said in Brînish and then repeated the phrase in Monoean. He met the man’s gaze squarely.
“I know who you are, Draken vae Khellian. You recall my lady wife, Lady Faizen.”
“I do. This is First Captain Tyrolean of Akrasia, Special Envoy to Brîn. We bring your son, our heartfelt sympathy on his loss, and a message from His Highness Galbrait, Prince and Lord Regent of Monoea.”
Rinwar’s thin-lashed eyelids fluttered slightly. “Regent …? What’s this about?”
“Perhaps this is best discussed in private, Landed.”
“Yes … of course. I am remiss. Please, come. My wife will see to Soeben.”
Draken turned to the lady and gave her a bow after Akrasian custom, taking her outstretched, cold hand and touching his forehead to it. Something he normally only did for his Queen, but the woman had just lost her son. “My lady, please accept my condolences. Your son was very brave.” He paused. “It may be best if others care for him before you release him to Ma’Vanni’s embrace.”
She swallowed. Tears welled in her eyes. “Was his passing peaceful, Your Highness?”
Truth was integral to his scheme, though he cursed himself inwardly before saying very gently, “I’m afraid not, my lady. He suffered to the last. But he was never craven.”
The lady’s lips parted in a strangled gasp and a few women came to lead her toward the carriage. Rinwar, paled, turned, and led the way into his manor. He barely gave them time to look around; Draken got a sense of cold opulence in stormy shades of blue and white before Rinwar brought them into a smaller private salon with a desk, darkened by heavy navy drapes and grey stone walls. Draken and Tyrolean exchanged glances. Ground floor, so the windows might provide escape if needed.
“Drink?” Rinwar poured without glancing back for an answer and brought them each a fine spun-glass cup. He didn’t take one for himself.
Draken and Tyrolean accepted the cups without lifting them to their lips.
“You have my condolences on the loss of your son, Landed,” Draken said.
Rinwar snorted, though it didn’t have the weight behind it that it might ordinarily. “Indeed. He was meant to execute the King, I was told. But what I don’t know was why.”
Draken ignored the lie. “Soeben turned on the King when the King was fighting me … I was forced to magick the King back to life. Soeben survived his capture and was sent to the dungeon.”
“Magic?” Rinwar sounded startled. Reports of what had happened hadn’t reached him then. “What did you do?”
“I saved him. That’s all you need know.”
Rinwar’s gaze flicked downward. To Seaborn, where it rested on Draken’s hip? “Were you with Soeben when he died?”
Was Draken imagining the sorrow had faded from those narrow, thin-lidded eyes? “I watched the King’s sadist torture your son to death. It took the better part of the morning.”
Rinwar winced.
Draken pressed a little more. “Before he died, we spoke, Soeben and I.”
“What did he tell the sadist?”
As he thought, Rinwar was worried about his rebellion. “Far less than he told me.”
“Damn you, man. What did he say?”
“Fair enough to implicate you, which should prove I am not trying to make an enemy of you, Lord Rinwar. Actually, I myself am none too pleased with the King at the moment.”
“I imagine not. I heard you were to be executed, too.” Rinwar walked back to the table with the wine, poured out one for himself from the same pitcher, drank it down, and poured it again.
Tyrolean visibly relaxed, drank some of his, and exchanged cups surreptitiously with Draken while Rinwar’s back was turned.
Draken shook his head at Tyrolean’s tasting for him and set the cup down. “Landed, since the King is missing, my only recourse is to deal with his youngest son—”
“Missing?”
“Please do not think me a fool. You know the King and Queen are missing, and I know you most likely had aught to do with it. As I said. I tire of pretense. Let us speak as equals, though I lower myself to deal with Landed when I am a Prince.”
He let the last word sit in the room, heavy on the air. Tyrolean managed not to gape at Draken’s uncustomary arrogance. Rinwar, not so much. He sputtered. “What—just what are you accusing me of?”
“I see where Soeben got his tenacity from,” Draken said. “A shame it only prolonged his suffering.”
Rinwar scowled but gave up his protest.
Odd, that. Draken didn’t look at Tyrolean. If he did he might falter. “Destroy the Crown, kill off the royals. I have no claim to this throne. I care not.”
Rinwar grunted. “As if you don’t want a taste of revenge.”
“It is sweet. I admit it. But I also look to Brîn’
s wellbeing. Rip this country apart if you wish, only do not touch mine. If you agree, I will help you.”
“Monoea is your country.”
“The better part of my blood is from Brîn. Aissyth proved that when he banished me from Monoea.”
Rinwar relaxed a little. Here, Draken thought, is a man who is only comfortable when owed a favor. “Refreshing to deal with someone so direct. Aissyth has long been weak.”
Draken tried to keep his voice mild. “History has plenty of weak kings, and yet things do turn for the worse when there are none.”
“Indeed. I wonder that Aissyth cannot disprove our history.” Rinwar drained his cup and poured yet again. He breathed heavily through flared nostrils. Draken waited. Rinwar obviously wanted to openly slander the King. “What do you suggest?”
Now, at last, they were getting somewhere. “I can get you into the Palace.” “How?” Rinwar demanded.
“Have we a pact or not? My help in your rebellion in exchange for leaving Brîn and Akrasia alone.”
Rinwar squinted at him, considering. At last he sighed. “Yes. We’ve a pact.”
“Swear it on our blood.” Draken drew his blade and sliced his palm, shallow but stinging.
“That is magic.” Rinwar didn’t show the typical Monoean disdain.
“Aye.”
Rinwar did as he was bid, cutting his palm and letting their blood mingle. The cut hurt only a little, but Draken felt a slight wave of nausea roll through him as the cut healed, as if the ground shifted slightly under his feet.
Rinwar frowned. “How do I get in? And will it accommodate my troops?”
“Aye, though it’ll be slow going. There are two ways. Steps from the outside to some residence apartments, and a small tunnel into the dungeons.” His mother would kill him if she knew. “Careless of the King, really. But the difficult bit will be getting into the city proper.”
Rinwar flushed red. “I thought you had a way into the city, Gods curse you!”
“They already have,” Draken said. “It’s a problem, not impossible. I’ve a way inside, don’t worry. I’ll lead your men.”
Rinwar’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you go back there?”
“As I said, I want Brîn free of your troubles here. Also, I’ve unfinished business at the palace.”
“Which is?”
“My own to know, my lord.” Draken was not going to forgo his vow to Soeben. Besides, they’d need every man to fight the coming attack on Ashwyc.
Rinwar grunted, obviously displeased but not enough to argue. “I’ll just ring for my captain and you can explain the details.”
Of course the Landed Lord wouldn’t be fighting himself. Draken supposed he should have thought of it. He’d have to kill Rinwar here, without his men knowing, before he and Tyrolean led them to their deaths inside Ashwyc.
“Is the King dead, my lord?” Tyrolean, his voice quiet and calm. A simple question, but it set Draken’s heart racing.
Rinwar held a long moment before relenting. “I suppose it’s rather time he was.”
“Why keep him alive?” Draken asked.
“It’s not sentimental, if that’s what you’re wondering, though we are cousins. No, once it’s done, it’s done. The King will be of no more use to me.”
The narrow doors slammed open. Lady Faizen. “He murdered our son! Kill him now, my lord, or I will.”
Two bright spots of ire marred her pale cheeks. She had blood on her bodice and skirts and brought with her the faint scent of death. Damn, she’d opened the casket and touched Soeben. Draken shot a glance at Tyrolean. The captain’s lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. His hand crept up to rub his chest, a sign he’d be going for his swords soon.
“Faiz—” Rinwar began, but the lady interrupted him.
“They tortured him! Soeben is dead, his body ruined!” She turned on Draken. “You were there.”
She knew he bloody well had been. He just looked at her.
“And you did nothing?” Her voice shrilled.
“His Highness was locked in a cell at the time,” Tyrolean said.
“You … You should be dead. Not Soeben! Why are you even free? The King wanted you executed—”
“It was a ruse,” Draken growled. “To draw the rebels out. To gain information.” To see if you Ashen want me for my magic.”
“Rebels—but Soeben had no part in that!”
So she did know of the plot against the crown. The deathblow to Rinwar’s innocence. Draken’s mind raced. How far did this stretch? How many Houses?
Grieving parents or not, he wasn’t about to gift them with the truth of Soeben’s confusion and innocence, his sense of betrayal. They deserved none of it. He could only pray they died thinking it was all their fault. Right now it was the best he could do for the boy.
“He most certainly did, thanks to his Lord Father. I heard all he said as they tortured him. Not that he talked much amid all the screaming. But it was enough.”
Lord Rinwar shouted something inarticulate, drawing the sword at his belt. But indignation carried Draken through. Soeben could have been spared pain and death had his own father not used his compliant nature and youth against him.
Lady Faizen gave an inhuman hiss and launched toward Draken. He started to lash out at her, defending himself with his fist, trying to catch the knife. But Tyrolean was quicker; he caught her around the middle, trapping her arms against her body with one strong arm and dragging her away. She screamed as he wrenched at her hand with the knife; it clanked against the floor.
“Drae, look to the lord!” Tyrolean said.
Draken spun, drawing as he did and bringing his opposite arm up. Rinwar’s sword crashed against his bracer. Draken growled in pain as the impact shook through his arm and weakened shoulder. Rinwar pressed his sudden advantage, snapping his blade up. Draken jerked back just in time but the tip of the blade caught his cheek and left a stinging cut that poured blood.
He closed in, driven by fury, and risked taking a strike by lashing out with his fist and catching Rinwar by the thick, ornate tie on his shirt. He jerked Rinwar closer, stealing the advantage with his shorter sword, and drove his blade into Rinwar’s side.
Rinwar gasped and coughed, a strangled sound of agony. He fell against Draken, who bore his weight to the stone floor. Lady Faizen screamed, but it choked to a stop.
“Your Highness.” Tyrolean, calm. Almost placid.
Draken turned to look at him. The Captain held a dagger tight under Lady Faizen’s chin.
“If you would die this day, my lady,” Draken said. “By all means continue screaming.”
Faizen swallowed, which made her skin press harder against the blade. She winced against Tyrolean, but her struggles faded.
“That’s better,” Draken said. “Hold her, Ty. She may be of use. If she is not, or if she fights you, kill her.”
Draken shoved Rinwar away. The motion dragged the sword out of his body. Draken climbed to his feet, suppressing a wince at his aching body, and crossed the room to bar the door.
“You’ve killed me,” Rinwar gasped. He rolled his eyes toward his wife, who stared back at him, horrified, from Tyrolean’s grip.
“Not yet,” Draken said grimly. He went back to the lord and knelt on one knee. “Where is the King?”
Rinwar’s lips parted. He coughed. No blood. Yet. He’d taken a severe gut wound … it would take some time, perhaps even some nights, if properly tended, for him to die. Draken had some time yet.
“Speak,” Draken said, “or suffer. It matters little to me. I will comb this fastness to find him.”
“Not … not here.” Rinwar’s gaze skittered away from Draken’s. He blinked rapidly.
“You’re lying.”
“Tell him, please …” Lady Faizen swallowed. “Please let us go.”
“Silence her, Ty.”
Tyrolean slid his free arm up around Faizen’s throat beneath the knife and squeezed. She pried at his arm with her fingers, making airless noise
s of protest, but the struggle made little difference to his taut muscles. The acrid scent of urine filled the room and soaked her skirts. She kicked a couple of times and then she slumped against him. He still held her in his arms, his inscrutable stare on Draken.
Draken couldn’t even pin this one on the gods. This is the ugliest thing I’ve made him do, he thought. I’ve lost him as a friend. And yet, Soeben’s screams still haunted his thoughts as well. His parents had sent him to a horrible death. Not the King. Not Draken.
“You’ve killed her! Bast—” Coughing broke the word in half. Blood sprayed from his lips.
“A blood choke, only,” Draken said. “So far. Let’s start simply. Is the King here, in Wyndam? On your grounds?”
Rinwar stared at his wife, stricken.
Draken would have sworn before this day that there was no love lost between the two. He’d seen them before and they treated each other with perfunctory courtesy, nothing more. However, Faizen knew about the rebellion. They shared children and were grieving Soeben together.
At any rate, he needed to find out all he could, very quickly.
Blood seeped through Rinwar’s fine linen shirt and woven court jacket. It had been clean, quick stab, leaving the man with internal bleeding but little enough coming out. Draken nudged the wound with his boot. Just a little. Just enough to get his attention. Rinwar gasped a cry and his watering eyes locked on Draken’s.
“Stay with me, Rinwar. Is the King here?”
Rinwar’s chin twitched in an unreadable gesture.
Draken turned his head and nodded to Tyrolean. Faizen was just stirring. Tyrolean let a slight grimace pass, but he obeyed. His arm slipped up again around Lady Faizen’s throat and tightened again. She went limp in his arms, but his grip didn’t lessen.
“No! Stop … stop. He’s here.” More blood coughed up from between his lips, scarlet against the dark floor.
Tyrolean let his arm relax.
“Where, exactly?” Draken asked, gripping his sword but not moving it. His heart pounded and his blood roared. They’d made too much noise. They’d taken too much time. Rinwar’s men would be upon them at any moment. The sword heated in his hand. It glowed faintly in the candlelit gloom, black lines wavering beneath the surface of the metal.
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