“Aye, we’ve met.”
“He told me it is thought she is inside the city.”
“Lowild moves quickly.” It almost proved the Moonling priest used the Abeyance, at least for travel. Draken sank into a chair and rubbed a hand over his face. “The city won’t last long. There’s only that tributary off the Eros watering it. Not so difficult to dam up.”
“They’ve got a fair jump on it already.” Setia reached for the pitcher of wine again.
Draken held out his cup but Osias waved her off. “Lowild and I destroyed the dam but it won’t take a day or two to rebuild.”
Draken narrowed his eyes. “I’m a little battleshy of Moonling magic, Osias. Do you trust Lowild?”
A slight smile. “Do not fear him.”
Not exactly an answer. Typical.
“We left him there to watch things in our absence,” Setia said, her dappled brow wrinkled.
Draken forced himself to relax a little. He nodded to Setia. “It’s not so much the Palisade falling I fear. I expect it to hold fair. It’s the water. They can’t last long inside, even with city and family cisterns. A sevennight at best.”
“It’s worse than all that,” Osias said. He glanced at Setia. Breath barely raised her chest, as in an animal waiting on prey.
“Magic, I assume,” Draken said dryly.
“Ma’Vanni controls the undersea, as you well know. But Korde controls freshwaters.”
Draken’s brow fell. “So when I fought Truls, and killed him, you raised the Eros using Korde’s help.”
“Help is a … direct term. It was more bending his will, as I am allowed. Mance have some control over freshwater through our bond with Korde.”
Draken dropped his gaze to the Mance’s arm. “And now that bond is broken.”
Osias sighed. “His will is no longer mine. But his strength is still imbued in all my spirithands, as it is in Bruche. It is through them I was able to raise the tributary to destroy the dam. But it is not the people needing water that worries me. That tributary must reach the Palisade, Your Highness, or the city will fall. Freshwater fuels the magic which holds the Palisade in place.”
Draken let that sink in. “Thousands of Ashen, you say?”
“This we knew, Draken.”
He persisted. “More than five thousand?”
“More than twenty thousand.”
Draken stared. Dozens of ships must have left Monoea before his arrival then. How had the King not known? And even more curious … “How are they feeding so many?”
“Remember the reports of herd slaughters along the old border? It seems the carcasses did not go to waste. Your theory was correct, I think. The Moonlings killed the animals. The farmers, trying to salvage their livelihoods, prepared as much of the meat as they could. Buyers appeared immediately.”
“What buyers?”
“Our own people. Of all races. Too varied to pin down any central supplier.”
“And sometimes it was simply stolen,” Setia added.
Draken slumped against his elbow where it rested on the arm of his chair. “They’ve used our own resourcefulness against us.”
“With a deal of help from our own peoples, aye. Which is odd. I doubt even the lowest Reschanian trader would take coin from a Monoean, not when we’re under invasion.”
Draken slumped back in his chair. It was a day’s march for his measly fortress servii. The road was not broad and the woods thick with prickly undergrowth. He had a bad feeling they’d meet resistance from Moonlings, as well, since they’d obviously aided the Monoeans. And what could five thousand servii do against thirty thousand men?
“You must make terms,” Osias said as if Draken had asked the question aloud.
He lifted his gaze to the Mance’s face. His beauty was back, glowing faintly in the torchlight. Outside the sky had turned off bright and blue, the wind fair. His servii were preparing hard for the march, for the fight. For him. For the Queen.
“I have only one thing they want,” Draken said.
And you’ve no idea if you’re enough to pacify them.
“Aye.” The Mance’s voice was soft. “But you will have to do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Once he decided to give the Ashen what they wanted, Draken fell into the rhythm of acceptance. He had no illusions it would work out so well for Akrasia. His only hope was to steal enough power as their new King to protect Elena. A bargain for their Prince and men returned, or in exchange for the gods’ will. He brought only two cohorts of servii with him back to the Bane and the Monoeans he’d left behind. Commander Geffen led the rest to temple ruins near Auwaer, well uprange of the siege. He compulsively kept his hand on Seaborn and drew it several times in the day that followed. The sword was quiet.
Tough not to consider that silence disapproval.
It was one of these times he wished he’d left the sword at the bottom of the bloody ocean. Perhaps himself, as well.
You didn’t bring yourself back up; I did. I should think you’d be grateful.
He ignored Bruche, preferring instead to concentrate on the hypnotic way his horse’s ears framed bits of the passing forest. Gradually the oppressive woods thinned into wide trees with the strong roots to bear a constant onslaught of sea winds, and the brambly undergrowth gave way to scrubby beach grasses. They emerged onto the rocky sand, the horses picking their way over the stones. Draken lifted his gaze from the narrow view between his horse’s ears to the sprawling bay and ocean.
The Bane was beached, listing irreparably to her swordside.
Fools all, bloody Monoeans.
Draken reined up, his body falling still and cold. His horse pawed at a rock under its hoof.
Low tide lapped the Bane’s stern and bared her underside. Varieties of spiny, sucker creatures clung to the glossy saltmoss slicking the hull. Some had dropped off and were trying in vain to make their way back across the rocks to the sea; others died where they hung. The beaching and subsequent sheer listing had broken the innovative deep slice of keel that kept the light schooner so stable for a ship of its size and weight. Jagged, splintery chunks stuck up from the rocks.
Draken swung down and strode toward the lower rail. The hull had been chopped with an axe. Lines hung in a haphazard, wind-tossed tangle, sails sagged like the bellies of old peace-time kings. Despite the soft waves of low tide, the gentle wind tugging at the limp sails, and the thump of knotted ropes against the deck and masts, a tomblike silence hung over the wreckage.
Don’t be so maudlin. It’s just because you’re used to seeing so many men aboard her.
And that she had died here on the beach, the wind whispering through her boards like breath rattling in diseased lungs.
Blood smeared the deck in a wide swath. Draken suppressed a wince. It reminded him sharply of the slave ship. He felt the spirithand rustle through his memories. Look again. It’s the same mark, I’ll wager.
He grasped a rope and climbed up, his szi nêre protesting from the beach as they strode closer.
“Your Highness? Perhaps it’s best to say aground.”
Draken ignored Tyrolean as he caught at the lopsided, broken rail and maneuvered himself up onto the steeply sloping deck. The mark of moons, smeared across the deck like on the Sea Swallow. He climbed past it, grabbing winches and ropes, and hauled himself on his belly to peer into the hold. Insects buzzed in a thick swarm and the reek of death was stronger here. A few bodies sprawled, tossed during the beaching like ugly, rancid dolls. Empty eye sockets stared into the distance. Joran hadn’t gotten to be Akhanar for very long. His head was nearly severed. Blood had pooled in the corner by one of the water troughs where he sprawled.
Draken had seen enough. He climbed back down, sickness clawing at his gut. “The Monoeans killed the crew and escaped. If they got hold of the map inside the captain’s cabin, they can find Auwaer easily enough.”
“They’re weak and thirsty.”
He shook his head. “The crew has been dead a few
nights.” Insects had made steady progress on the soft facial skin and eyes. “I imagine the Monoeans are fed and watered well enough to travel.”
But where were the servii he’d sent to keep watch over them?
“We’d best get after them then,” Tyrolean said.
Galbrait shook his head. “They are less than fifty. Nothing to your five thousand.”
Aarinnaie snorted. “They know too much. And they swore to you and Draken, and then deserted. Makes them traitors, doesn’t it?”
Osias and Setia pushed ahead and disappeared into the trees, ready to track their errant shipmates. Within the morning Setia returned to report they’d found the trail. She led Draken and his party a bit astray of their course to Auwaer, and she hurried them. Their nimble horses made quick work of closing the distance to the Ashen; still, it was just getting on dark when they met up. The Ashen staggered in a ragged line down a deadpath, shoulders sloping and gait uneven as a seapede missing three legs. Most stumbled to a stop when they realized they were caught. One ran. Draken yanked an arrow from his quiver and it whistled through the woods. Despite cutting through a low hanging branch of leaves, it caught the runner in the back. He fell and didn’t move again.
One of the Ashen turned on Draken, shoving through the foiliage. “Why’d you kill him? He did nothing wrong.”
Draken stared down at him, then up and down the row of exhausted men. It struck him suddenly. Maybe it was the bare chests and shorn hair lined up like that. They were all men. “You didn’t think to strip my crew to better clothe and arm a few of yourselves before you killed them?”
Sullen silence.
Osias rode near and spoke lowly. “I made a count, Khel Szi. They number forty-four.”
“Fools all, they’re three short.”
“Perhaps they died trying to overcome the crew,” Galbrait said.
“Perhaps they ran ahead, clothed and armed well.” Draken spoke loudly enough for the raggety line of men to hear him. He watched them carefully. A couple shifted on their feet. Most eyes were lowered. One, more lad than man, met his gaze steadily.
The first to die. A grim whisper in the hollow of his chest.
Draken’s breath felt shallow. He glanced back at the servii. Laid his hand on his swordhilt and jerked his chin.
A few of the Ashen twitched to life, scattering in the trees, as Draken’s servii descended on them with bared blades and bows. Many fell to their knees and pleaded for mercy, which his szi nêre gave them with quick deaths. The ones who fought back found their limbs hacked off before their throats were cut. Draken’s eyes stung, as if blinking or tears could shut out the reek of death or the screams of the dying. He kept his gaze on the dying though, except when he glanced at Galbrait to see that he was watching. The lad needed toughening. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Aarinnaie sniffed and rode a short distance away, likely irritated Draken had not allowed her to participate in the killing. But this was an ugly duty, no honor or finesse in it. Simple killing, cutting down these soldiers who had betrayed them and now stood between Draken and his Queen. Assassin or not, this not the kind of killing Draken wanted staining Aarinniae’s hands.
He backed his horse toward her, still watching the death.
“I’m a better fighter than these servii,” Aarinnaie said, her tone tight.
“Truth, you are.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m a better fighter than you.”
Ouch. Bit below the belt, isn’t it?
This has more to do with her need for blood than my abilities.
A deep chuckle that rumbled Draken’s chest. Or lack thereof.
“This is amusing to you, is it?” Aarinnaie lifted a hand to her cheek to wipe away a curl. Her hand trembled. “Fine. I’ll see you at Auwaer. Perhaps I’ll be of some use there!” She wheeled her horse and started off into the underbrush and deeper trees.
Curse you, Bruche! “Aarin!” He chased after her and headed her off with his bigger horse. He reached out and caught her rein. “That was Bruche. He is very apologetic for his lack of respect.”
Bruche snorted.
“No tantrums, Szirin, not just now. We can ill afford it.”
She snarled. “It’s not a tantrum. I am not a child. Stop treating me like one.”
“You’re barely old enough to marry, Szirin, and I am twice your age. You think I do not recall what it was to have less than twenty Sohalias of life?” He didn’t let go.
“I’m fair old enough to kill.”
“Aye. And yet you are also Szirin.”
“A title. It means nothing.
“It means everything to me. I rely on you utterly.”
She blinked. “You don’t. You have Elena. Tyrolean. The Mance … even Setia is more valuable to you than I.”
Was this a jealous fit? He had no idea and no time to address it. “How would it look to my servii to see you kill this day, these people? To our nêre, sworn to shed their blood before ours? These Monoeans are not worthy of your blades. They are brambles over our path, and we must hack through them to be on our way. Akrasians already believe you and I are uncouth heathens. But you are a Princess. It’s time you behaved accordingly. It’s time you honor our house and Elena’s.”
Aarinnie tugged on the rein. Her horse snorted and tossed its head. Draken reluctantly let go. “Do not run. You say you are no child, so don’t behave like one. This is certainly no child’s game. My Queen and the heir to the Akrasian throne are at stake.”
She looked down at her hands, tight on the rein.
He eased his tone, lowered his voice so not even a nearby Mance could hear. She could read lips well enough. “You had blood a day ago. Your captors. Those were worthy kills.”
“Worthy kills do not sate me,” she whispered.
His chest tightened. He reached out again, this time to touch her shoulder. “I know. We will find a way out of this, Aarin. I will help you. Come back with me now and let us shift our attention to Auwaer. Doubtless there will be killing enough to suit even you.”
She held for a moment, and then nodded, not meeting his gaze.
He rode back to the others, giving her some time to compose herself.
“Is she all right?” Tyrolean asked.
“Aye. She’ll be all right.”
But he wondered. Aarinnaie had endured long training under the Mance King in killing, made intimate with death as Korde himself at such a young age, now perhaps they were seeing the steep cost of such ability. How long would they be able to hide this from Galbrait? From Tyrolean? From the whole damned kingdom? How long could Aarinnaie even live with her deep urge to kill? He had seen no guilt or regret in her, only disregard for her victims. Once dead, they no longer ceased to be. She was his sister, and he loved her. But hers was a hunger he could ill afford to feed.
Except you are at war and have great need for killing.
Osias watched him, his body quiet but eyes swirling sickeningly purple.
Not like this. Not his little sister. Curse Truls who inflicted Aarinnaie with Korde’s compulsion, Draken replied. And curse the gods for sparing her no mercy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Aarinnaie remained sullen and quiet as they rode. Her eyes constantly roved the woods and her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. Setia rode near her, as did Konnan, who Aarinnie doubtless resented. Osias ranged ahead, occasionally flashing silver through the trees.
Galbrait was as dirty as the unwashed servii, shadowed by grime. His forehead had taken on a permanent crease between his eyes. He wore oft-repaired, sturdy mail topped with a battered leather breast plate, kilt, and perfunctory metal reinforced leg and arm protection from Khein. It looked incongruous against the golden torq gleaming around his throat at the collar of his hauberk.
Tyrolean rode close to Draken. “Looks as if the Prince has settled in all right.”
“I wish he’d spend more time watching the woods than Aarin.”
“He needs duties, regular work to perform.”
“Things have been too hectic for duty rosters, if you haven’t noticed.”
Tyrolean went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “He could be your personal aide perhaps. Keeping him close would give you the opportunity to teach him. He would learn about tactics, about managing loyalties, running an army, how to be a good King.”
Draken snorted. “As if I know about any of those things.”
“You know how to rely on the expertise of others. That is a far more valuable skill than all those put together.”
Draken lowered his voice. “He likely won’t get the chance to be King.”
“And yet, he is. By virtue of his birth.”
“Aye, and it may be the death of him yet.” Even if he turned himself into the Ashen it was doubtful they would let Galbrait live. He hadn’t decided what to do about that yet. Send him away? And yet … Galbrait’s “virtue of birth” kept him from it. If it took the Prince’s death to secure the safety of Akrasia and Elena, so be it.
“Tell me about the temple ruins, Ty. Have you been?” Draken asked.
He nodded. “They are close to the Eros. Legend says those who lay their heads to sleep inside the pillars will never wake. Indeed fog hangs over it and moss and damp creep into every crevice.”
Draken raised his brows. “And that’s where Geffen chose to gather?”
“Kheinians are a practical lot,” Tyrolean said. “I daresay most of them doubt the existence of the gods at all.”
Draken snorted at that. “Sounds like a place the Ashen would be interested in.”
Osias’ grin stretched his lips into part grimace, part smile. “The temple ruins are also highly defendable, Khel Szi.”
Draken found himself matching the grin. “Right. Warn them of our arrival, then, if you would.”
Osias gestured to Setia and they rode off together.
Giving orders to a former King, are we? With nary a please nor thank you.
Draken purposely misunderstood. I need to get a look at this siege before we settle into the ruins. See what we’re up against.
He gathered his troops in close and raised his voice. “Wait here. I, with Tyrolean—” Aarinnaie was staring hard at him. “—and my sister are going to observe the siege.” The emphasis was for Aarinnaie’s benefit. “You wait here for the Lord Mance and we will reconvene at the temple ruins before daylight.”
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