Galbrait sneaked a glance up and the guard sniffed at his battered face. “Must’ve done you a wrong.”
“A bad night at the tavern.” Draken sighed. “We’re just trying to get back to Shadowcliff.”
“What’s the hold-up?” Someone shouted from behind. “Rumors Ashen have taken the Palace and you’re trading crow stories?”
Rumors, eh? That was quick. Almost as if it had been deliberate. Draken’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Tyrolean. The Captain’s jaw twitched. If rumors had escaped those secure stone walls, how long would it take for Sevenfel to erupt? By daylight and no later. The earliest marketeers and cooks were already rising.
“Heed, keep quiet! It’ll take what it it takes.” The guard scowled down at the King on Draken’s palm and muttered, “Two.”
“Two?”
“Each.”
A shaggy highwayman in the Norvern Wildes wouldn’t ask a fare so high from a coddled Landed lady caught unawares without her guard. “Four total and not a Prince more.” Truth, he had no silver, only Aissyth’s gold, and if they were held up much longer it’d take them past moonfall to make the Bane. They might need coin to buy passage on another ship.
The guard bared his teeth in a hostile grin, closed his burly fist over the coins, and let them through, though Draken felt his eyes on his back. The steps into Shadowcliff were empty but treacherous—so cold the damp had become a veneer of ice. Several times Galbrait slipped and Tyrolean had to catch him under the arm.
Tradeseason days started early in all the burroughs. Shadowcliff, by the time they descended the steps, was full of tradespeople. The buildings were all low and crowded, stalls and tents set up anywhere they could fit. They ran across several groups of guards, mostly city forces there to keep peace with so much coin floating about during trade, and all manner of races. Bare-chested, well-armed Brinians, an Akrasian half with lined eyes and Gadye braids binding back her dark hair, merchants from Felspirn robed head to toe and Straits traders in their red-stained leathers. No one paid them much mind beyond the Brînians, who were probably wondering why Draken wore local attire. But as they made their way through the warren of streets hemmed in by lowslung buildings, Tyrolean grunted. “Royal guards behind us, I think.”
Sharply. “Following us?”
“No, Your Highness. I don’t think they’ve seen us yet.”
Galbrait, who’d been shuffling along with his head down, albeit keeping pace, slowed and looked back. Draken grasped his arm and shoved past a couple of slit-pupiled Dokkaelfs to get some distance. “No. Do not look.”
“But they can help us. The royal guards are all loyalists.”
Draken snorted softly. “It’s not as if that garb is tattooed on. They could be Ashen in disguise.”
Galbrait kept looking behind them and Tyrolean kept close, doing his best to stay in between the Prince and the guards. Draken concentrated on leading them to the harbor. Shadowcliff he knew as well as his own hand.
“We won’t make it. The sun’s up.” Galbrait spoke sullenly, cuts slurring his words worse than Halmar’s lip rings.
“Shut it, Galbrait,” Draken growled.
Again, there were too many ships moored in the center of Sister Bay to pick out the Bane from among them, even with the rising sun setting the watery horizon aflame. Draken cursed low, impatient.
“Be easy, they won’t leave without you.”
Draken shot Tyrolean a look. “I gave them orders.”
Tyrolean shook his head as if he already tired of the conversation. “Halmar might go so far as to let you wander Sevenfel alone, but he would never leave his Khel Szi to the mercy of Monoea. Not to mention Aarinnaie gave in to you far too easily to trust.”
“There is that,” Draken said. All of which could bring in a new host of problems. The Bane was surely known. Ashen could surround the ship.
“If we’re stuck here, we should ask for their help.” Galbrait started to turn round and lift an arm as if to hail the guards. One of them looked their way, though Tyrolean snapped his arm back down as if it were the lever on a well-oiled latch.
Galbrait yelped, frustrated and impatient. Several heads turned from the docks and on shore, saw they were foreigners, and looked away. One of the guards glanced their way.
Galbrait opened his mouth to speak again, but Draken backed him a couple of steps behind a dockshed and jabbed his fist into the Prince’s stomach. The Prince bent over with a sharp grunt and Draken brought his knee up. The collision of knee to forehead made Galbrait drop to the wet wooden dock like a lumpy bag of mortar.
“That wasn’t very nice, Your Highness.”
“I’ve never pretended to be nice. Help me up with him.”
“It’s almost as if he wanted to get caught.”
“I noticed.” They hauled him up between them. Galbrait swung his head woozily, but he didn’t fight them. Nor did he help; he was almost a dead weight with dragging feet despite a vague mumble of protest.
They walked as quickly as they could. Draken had to keep tight control of his emotions lest he dump the Prince and race down the pier in a fit of anxious impatience. He kept telling himself they could find passage home, he was a Prince with means, he could take his pick of the uncouth ship captains that populated every port. But it was difficult to believe while hauling the beaten, bloody Crown Prince of Monoea to tremulous safety during a burgeoning revolution.
A couple of whispering ladies eyed them; Draken worked up an even tone to apologize for his friend who had drunk too much at the tavern. They giggled and hurried on, adding to the throng behind them. Draken saw a small craft waiting for a lease and dragged the Prince onto it. It swayed under their weight but he let Galbrait fall to the deck a little harder than necessary. The Prince groaned and shifted but didn’t lift his head.
“Drunk?” asked the skiffer.
“Got into a little trouble with the local guards. Get us out of here and there’s a gold King in it for you. There. To the moored ships off Coldbank.”
“Straightaway, master!”
Draken stared out where the Bane should be. A vague forest of masts shifted in the gathering gloom as the skiff pushed off. Behind them, fog and smoke layered the sky and drifted to taint the sea air. He wondered if Elena was all right. He wondered if the Bane would still be there. But mostly he wondered if he’d ever live to smell air cleansed of war and death.
#
“It’s about bloody time,” Aarinnaie called, shrouded in a cloak against the cold.
Halmar’s hulking figure lurked behind her, new sunlight glinting against the flat of his sword and on the moonwrought pierced into his skin.
A slight smile cracked through Draken’s anxiety. Aarinnaie sounded uncharacteristically worried. He gave the skiffer two of Galbrait’s kings, leaving him bowing and sputtering. “Master … my lord …”
“You did not see us. We were never here.”
The skiffer blinked at him. “Of course, I—”
“Go.” He turned away and hauled Galbrait upright. The Prince moaned and peered at him with his good eye. The fresh bruise from Draken’s knee was blooming on one side of his forehead. “You hit me.”
“Don’t make me do it again,” Draken said. “Halmar, a hand?”
Two sailors set the wooden and rope dock-steps in place as the skiffer bid his oarsmen to row away. Halmar strode down, his weight shifting the dock. It earned him a scowl from a sailor fishing at one end. He hauled Galbrait over his brawny shoulder as if he were a boy and strode back up the steps.
“Put him in the bunk in my cabin,” Draken said. “Aarinnaie, watch him. I’ll be along in a moment … what?”
“You have different clothes on,” Aarinnaie said. “What happened?”
“We ran into some trouble.”
Osias was watching with narrowed eyes, his double-bowl pipe smoking in thin streams. He looked too pale to be pretty as usual, his features hard and jagged in the new sun.
“I’ll tell you all in a li
ttle; first I must speak to Akhanar Joran so we can launch as soon as possible.”
She bit her lip, but followed Halmar into the cabin. Draken drew in a breath, intending on finding Joran, but instead he leaned back against the rigging. Tyrolean lingered near, watching Sevenfel.
“An interesting city,” Osias said.
“If it survives this.” Draken frowned, but he didn’t look back. He’d lived most of his life in Sevenfel but it never had felt like home. Even Lesle seemed a dream. He rubbed his fingers together, thinking of her silken gown. He had trouble recalling her feel, her scent, her voice now. It all had been replaced with more recent memories of Elena.
Who would soon be fighting a battle because he’d failed here so miserably.
“Setia and I’ll see to the young Prince, Draken.”
“Fine. But be aware, he’s as much hostage as anything, even if he doesn’t know it.”
“Be easy. We’re going home.” Osias touched his shoulder and disappeared into the cabin, trailing Gadye smoke that seemed to tug deep on Draken’s lungs.
He closed his eyes, but felt nothing but the familiar sway of a ship’s deck, the endless, soft lap of water against the hull. “Maybe Aarin was right. Maybe I should sail off. We could go anywhere.”
“And let Akrasia suffer attack with no warning?”
“We’re too far behind to warn them.”
“We aren’t too far behind to help.”
Draken opened his eyes, snuck a glance at the stoic Tyrolean. His dark eyes reflected the rising daylight. It made Draken think of Osias. “If I go back, she may well learn the truth about me.”
“Perhaps that is for the best,” Tyrolean said.
“I am heresy, embodied. You of all people know that.” Tyrolean spent more time praying than anyone he knew.
Tyrolean shrugged, though stiffly, as if his shoulders pained him. Doubtless they did. They’d seen a lot of swordplay. “Perhaps. And yet, the gods chose you to carry their sword. They help you live, again and again, no matter how many times you try to die.”
Draken grunted. “You always say that when you won’t indulge me in an argument.”
“Or your self pity.” Tyrolean slapped Draken on the shoulder, a rare gesture. “Go speak to the Akhanar Your Highness. Take us home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Draken stood at the prow of the Bane, his hands resting on the rail. Joran knew his business. They’d had to sail upcoast catch the Backtrades and now, a sevennight later, a fair wind blew them toward Akrasia, though not fair enough to catch the Monoean fleet. The Bane was quick, but not quick enough to catch twenty galleons with a whole day and night headstart. And he had no idea what they’d do if they caught them anyway. It’d be like a bloodfly taunting a herd of lions.
His fingers tightened on the rail, thinking of warships rounding Akrasia, searching out Khein or maybe going downcoast around to Brîn. He wondered whether Elena was still there, or if she’d gone to Auwaer as he’d asked. Twenty galleons meant at least six-thousand men, and he had a bad feeling more would follow, and more after that.
“Akhanar Joran says he’ll drop anchor at Khein, Khel Szi.” Aarinnaie eased up next to him and laid her narrow hands on the rail. They looked incongruous next to his, completely unrelated. Once again, he wondered how they could be so bloodstained when they looked so delicate.
“Aye,” Draken answered. “Most of my troops are at Khein.”
“Your Akrasian troops.” Her voice held the tinge of insult.
“They far outnumber my Brînian soldiers, this you know.” The treaty with Akrasia held Brîn to an active army of about three thousand.
She shook her head. “You’re still Elena’s creature, after all this.”
Draken arched his brows.
“I only mean that in this, you should be King.”
That sounded too close to what the Ashen wanted. “I control Elena’s army,” Draken said. “That’s quite enough.”
Aarinnaie scowled.
He sighed. “Elena is a good Queen. She was raised to rule, Aarin. I wasn’t.”
“When are you going to realize that you weren’t raised to it, but born to it?”
Draken just shook his head, feeling weary. He was far more suited to the thick of the battle than the strategy tent. “How is Galbrait? Any change?”
“I think he would starve himself to death on that bed if not for Setia coaxing him to eat.”
He slipped her sideway’s glance. “I understand you’ve been instrumental in his care, as well.”
A delicate shrug. The day was clear and warm and her shoulders were bare. Fine muscles corded under her skin, darkened from days of sunlit sailing. “The Mance and Setia know how to handle him better than I.” She tossed her curls, drawing the eye of a sailor. He saw Draken watching him and turned away. “I’ve little use for such weakness,” she added.
“Grief is not weakness, Aarin. Does he know he’s a hostage?”
“I don’t think so. We’re being too nice to him. But he is angry with you,” Aarinnaie said. “He realized you have him by the stones.”
He snorted to hide a grin. “I’ve got to get you off this ship. The sailors are a bad influence.”
A smile quirked her lips. “If Monoea is in civil war, Galbrait won’t be able to live with himself.”
“He’s going to have to learn to, if he is to survive this and take back his throne,” Draken said. “At least he is alive, and his own man, free to make his own decisions.”
“Indeed. And if that decision is to turn right back round and go to Monoea as soon as we land?”
He gave her a sharp look. “Has he suggested it?”
She shrugged again, more at ease. One-upping him seemed to relax Aarinnaie. “Not in so many words,” she said. “I know you think he’s the only one who can stop the attack.”
He rubbed his fingers over his unshaven chin. “I’m also saving his life.”
“Please. I don’t fault you for it. Brîn is my home too.” Sly smile. “And I hate Elena less than before. She is carrying my niece after all.”
He gave her sharp look. “Certain of that, are you?”
“Thom mentioned something.”
Draken’s eyes widened, wondering if she was teasing him or if the Gadye had actually spoken. Thom had known Elena was pregnant before any of them. He carried the pureblooded Gadye penchant for healing and Sight, which of course made him a very useful chamberlain. He allowed himself exactly one breath of wonder: A baby girl … a daughter. Dark hair and Elena’s eyes, with a rosy glow to her brown skin … so tiny and helpless …
“Draken? About Galbrait?”
His hand had strayed to Seaborn’s hilt. “I don’t know that he can stop them. I only know it is his duty to try. For all our sakes.” The troops, when attacking a foreign country, surely wouldn’t disobey their Prince if he stood right in front of them with an army of Akrasians at his back, would they?
“He isn’t the only one who needs a duty, Khel Szi.” Aarinnaie dropped into a perfect curtsey. “I hope you need your assassin soon. My knives have been idle too long.”
“I will, Aarin. Remember what I told you before?”
“Find the Priest and the commanders and kill them.”
He nodded. “Aye. Kill them all.”
Her slender form descended the short flight of steps from the bow, all fluid, perilous grace. Draken cast a glance to the sky. And blinked. Khellian, faint as melting frost, lingered over the horizon, far away toward distant lands. Monoea, Felspirn, the Straits. Listening. Watching.
“A daughter, then?” he said softly to the god. Another female to rip his heart out when he lost her.
No. To protect. To love. A deep voice, so soft he barely heard it between the waves.
His back prickled. The gods did not speak, not in so many words. He was in a position to know. It could only be … “Bruche?”
Halmar glanced at him from where he lingered toward the rear of the prow deck. “Khel Szi?”
“Nothing, Halmar.” Draken turned back to the sea, staring out, wishing to see land, to see Akrasia. Or a fleet of Monoean ships, at least. He listened hard, but heard no more words from the waves. The sea breeze swept over Draken’s chest. He felt himself stiffen. The God of War was keeping a hawk eye on his swordbearer.
#
Draken’s dark cabin stank of sweat, fish, and piss. Galbrait curled on the bottom bunk, his face and knees toward the wall. He didn’t move as Draken strode in and pushed the shutters open.
“Galbrait. The day is fine. Up.”
“Why didn’t they kill me?” Galbrait asked softly.
“What? Who?” He thrust open the shutters on the other side. Sunlight and fresh sea spray flooded the cabin, sweeping out the stink.
Galbrait turned his head, though he didn’t look right at Draken. “Why didn’t the Ashen kill me? I keep thinking about it.”
“They hadn’t been ordered.” He sighed. “Your kind does nothing without orders.”
Galbrait rubbed his hand over his face. His chin was bristly, his golden hair lank and tangled. Draken indulged the idea of tossing him into the ocean for a bath, but poured them two cups of warm ale instead.
“They are nothing without their King.” Draken sat on the bench to drink, the sea wind buffeting the back of his head from the unshuttered window. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but Monoea is basically leaderless at the moment. Enough people saw me take you. You practically waved them down, if you recall.”
Galbrait lowered his gaze. “I was frightened. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You did us all a favor. Rumors you’re alive will persist, no matter what tales the Ashen tell. Even if they put some Landed puppet on the throne, there will always be doubt. That gives you an opportunity to come in later and take command as the rightful King.”
“Don’t pretend you have honor, or that this is about me. You just want to use me to stop the attack on Akrasia.”
Draken snorted. “My honor died with my wife. I’m merely pointing out the benefits of this situation to you.”
“Which are few, and fewer still with time and distance,” Galbrait said.
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