Chapter Five
Draken’s stomach turned over at a waft of blood within the throne room. At one end, a white metal chair, thin as scroll-paper, glowed like a full moon in a starless midsummer sky. Draken wondered how it bore weight and why the Queen would keep something so flimsy as a symbol of her power, and then he realized in wonder: moonwrought. He’d seen examples up close of the metal mined in the Akrasia outlands: a small blade, light as sunlight in his hand, trinkets, jewelry. The Monoean King wore a chain of the stuff. But never anything so large and priceless.
More impressive, an elaborate display of at least a hundred swords, knives, axes, and other foreign weaponry crowded the walls. Many gleamed like freshly cleaned teeth, as white as the throne itself. One short, evil-looking blade was stained dark to the hilt, though. It had been fresh from killing when it had been hung, because blood had run down the black wall.
Draken realized with a jolt it was still wet. Blood dripped from the sword in a never-ending stream, pooling on the floor and disappearing into a crevice. What devilry worked here? He gestured with his chin, eyebrows lowered, to Osias, who frowned at it.
Lord Marshal Reavan genuflected to the throne and made a sharp downward motion with his hand at Draken and Setia. Setia knelt. Draken took a reluctant knee as the Escort behind him kept her sword point close to his back. Osias moved to place himself between them and the throne. Reavan turned his attention back to the moonwrought throne as if the Queen would materialize there.
Draken stared up at the Mance’s silver hair, bright despite the gloom. A pale light followed him, leaving a faint, dusty trail in the air. Gods, I’m dizzy with hunger, he thought. Seeing things.
“Captain Tyrolean informs me we have visitors, Reavan,” said a voice as smooth as molten iron, though it held the clarity of authority as well.
The comment came from the doorway through which they’d just come and they all turned to look. Draken saw a female-shaped silhouette, but the broad man who came before her attracted his interest first. He bore the lined eyes of an Akrasian and the suspicious disposition of an oft-challenged bodyguard. He kept to within five feet of her. When she waved him off, he retreated to stand in the doorway, scanned the room, and settled his gaze on Draken. The pointed hilts of two swords stuck up like horns from sheaths on his back. Formidable weapons, but Draken wondered how he drew them without stabbing himself in the palms. His green tunic bore two diagonal white stripes. Twisting around to keep his eye on him pained Draken’s stiff, exhausted body, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the newcomers.
“I’ve brought you a Mance, my Queen,” Reavan said, sounding amused. He walked toward her and bowed over her hands, lifting them to his forehead. Simple affection between a royal and her familiar, but it lacked warmth.
She didn’t reply. Osias, having turned to face her, touched his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “This audience honors me, Queen Elena.”
She stepped out of the glare of the doorway and walked toward the throne. A black gown draped her narrow form in shadow. Draken had the immediate impression she’d be stunning if she smiled, but she didn’t seem the smiling sort.
“Mourning does not become you, my Queen,” Reavan said. “Throw it off so we may begin anew.”
“Sevenmoon, Reavan, do not chastise me before my guests. I shall mourn Father until Sohalia as is proper.” Her easy tone didn’t match her taut expression. She moved, a hiss of silken skirt, and she walked past them toward the white chair. One leg crossed over the other as she sat, and she shifted a little as if preparing to settle in. The throne didn’t flex under her weight.
She fixed a steady gaze on Osias. “What brings you to my court, Lord Mance?”
Osias had turned as she walked and he stared at her before answering.
“Trying magic?” Queen Elena did not add a smile to her taunt.
Draken bristled inwardly.
“No, Your Majesty,” Osias answered.
“You show remarkable restraint for one so young,” she said. “Most Mance cannot resist testing the wards in my throne room.”
Osias smiled in a limp attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s been many Sohalias since I’ve been accused of restraint or youth.”
She didn’t like having her words turned back on her. She turned her petulance on Reavan, further setting off Draken’s irritation. “Mance always speak in circles.”
“To the point, Mance,” Reavan said. “Tell the Queen why you’re all here.”
“Draken is here at my will.” Osias reached down and brushed the back of his fingers across Draken’s cheek. The touch sent a funny shiver of appreciation through him. “Setia and I come more by design.”
Queen Elena arched a narrow eyebrow. “You’ve designs upon my realm?”
“Designs upon its protection,” Osias said. “A traitor threatens, and I wish to message this to all the sovereigns of the land.”
Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. “I am sovereign of this land.”
Got something to prove, do you? thought Draken.
Osias inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty, I misspoke.”
“You mean, of course, you intend on informing the Prince of Brîn.”
“Aye, Your Majesty. And the Moonling mother, Lady Oklai, as well.”
Queen Elena’s lips tightened at the name.
Draken shifted, trying to be unobtrusive about it, but her dark eyes flicked to him. An arrow had once penetrated the armor on his knee and it did not bear weight well when kneeling for long. His superiors, even the King himself, had always accommodated his injury.
“A traitor, you say,” Elena echoed faintly.
“I fear a Mance has been at work outside our noble duties.” Osias’ voice faded as Reavan stepped closer.
“As you are, since Mance are tasked with the dead rather than the living,” the Lord Marshal murmured.
“That is a strong accusation, nigh on treason against your own, is it not?” the Queen asked, ignoring Reavan.
Osias acceded with a nod. “Some will think it. But this concerns more than my own kind.” Osias paused and switched tongues to Brînish. “Fhavla Korde. Akrasians call them banes.”
Reavan gave an incredulous laugh. “You’ve come all this way to tell us a cradle tale?”
Osias gave a negative jerk of his chin at Reavan’s disdain. “All tales grow from seeds of truth. I saw a bane in the Moonling woods upwards from Khein just last nightfall.”
The Queen frowned. “Your own King sent recent word all is well.”
Osias hesitated before admitting, “I didn’t know. I’ve not been home since Sohalia last.”
“You’re rogue, then.”
Draken detected defeat in the Mance’s tone. “Truth? I’m on a lengthy scouting assignment. I found the bane by accident and thought it prudent to warn you. Perhaps it is best I bolster your perimeter. Should the bane take you, Your Majesty, I fear you could become a puppet under a traitor’s control.”
“I appreciate your concern. However, I assure you I am quite well-defended and we have provisions in place should I be unable to lead.” Elena pinned on an indulgent half-smile. Draken had been right. Even false graciousness changed her entire appearance. Darkness fled and she was beautiful. But she lifted a graceful hand to her throat and her smile faded. “What is it, Lord Mance?”
Draken glanced up at his companion and his empty stomach turned over at the sight of Osias’ eyes swirling to purple again. He twisted his head to look behind himself, though the guard nudged him. But he couldn’t look away. The last time Osias had looked like that, Draken had nearly been killed.
Something whooshed overhead. Draken didn’t quite see Osias move, but he suddenly held an arrow in his hand. He looked back at Setia for a moment, some understanding passed between them because he gave a curt nod, and he turned to the Queen. He closed the distance between them and knelt before her, placing the arrow on the floor at her feet.
“Step back from the Queen!” Reavan said sharply.
Fingers dug into Draken’s bicep and the guard shoved him down. His aching muscles cried out as he hit the hard stone, and again when he thrust himself back in an effort to free himself. A heavy boot on his spine pinned him to the floor. He grunted, thinking, At least I’m off my knee.
Hurrying footsteps brought more Escorts. Boots and cloaks swished by Draken’s face. The doors whooshed closed and darkness enclosed the room, brightened only by distant pools of torchlight. The weight on his back shifted, painfully heavy, digging into his spine. The arrow glowed with faint silvery iridescence on the black floor. How had the Mance caught it with no magic? Or was he stronger than the wards?
Osias retreated to stand between Draken and Setia. He spoke quickly. “It wasn’t Draken, Your Majesty. Let him up—”
Reavan interrupted. “This is outrageous! These visitors are obviously a distraction to provide means for an attack. This is a Mance arrow!”
Draken struggled against the boot, but a prick at the base of his neck stopped him again. The cut burned like the stingers in the Monoean surf.
“It is Mance-made, but it is not mine,” Osias said. “Nor Draken’s.”
“You must have conjured it, Death-speaker,” Reavan said. “There are no other Mance in the city.”
“As you say, my magic is void here.” Osias knelt next to Draken, and, despite the proximity of the blade, laid his hand on Draken’s back. “Moreover, should I wish Queen Elena dead, she would be dead.”
Brilliant, thought Draken. Insult her while they’re so keen to run me through.
Reavan strode toward them. “Is that a threat?”
“It is truth,” Osias said. “If you know anything of my kind, you know I can only speak truth.”
“Let me up!” Draken grunted into the floor. “I know naught of any arrow—”
“Silence.” The Queen. Draken heard a tremor in her voice that hadn’t been there moments before. “The Mance stopped the arrow, did he not? Reavan, swords away and let the Brînian up.”
Two guards grasped Draken by his upper arms and hauled him back to his knees. The flesh hollowed, skull-like, beneath the Lord Marshal’s cheekbones and his lips pressed into a deep frown.
Behind them, Captain Tyrolean beckoned to guards and drew them outside. Two Escorts closed in behind Draken and other hurrying footsteps started and faded as soldiers trotted off to warn the rest of the Bastion. Tyrolean’s low voice issued orders while Reavan knelt next to the Queen, offering her a cup. The door swung open as people passed through. Draken took the opportunity to glance at the opposite side of the Bastion, across the courtyard. The roofline was clearly visible, until Tyrolean saw him looking and swung the doors shut again.
The archer was on the roof, he thought. Why would she ever allow such a direct shot to the throne? Foolish, though he wasn’t so foolish himself to say it aloud.
Queen Elena caught Osias’ eye. “Could this be part of the rebellion you speak of, the bit with the banes?”
Either Queen Elena was a simpleton or she was trying to make herself believe. Draken didn’t think she looked stupid, but cruelty and conviction could make up for a great deal of incompetence. He waited for his heart to stop thudding so violently, but alarm prickled every pore. Why weren’t they moving her to a more secure location?
“I can’t help but think this attack has something to do with the banes, and the Mance traitor,” Osias said. “It is one of our arrows, Your Majesty.”
Lord Marshal Reavan approached the throne. He took a deep breath before he spoke, as if garnering composure for a lengthy argument. “This bane story is clearly designed to distract you, my Queen, as well as gain a mislaid trust. King Truls reports peace is ever fair. No word of banes: truth, he’s never spoken of them because I think he knows, like we do, they are cradle tales.”
Before thinking better of it, Draken blurted, “It’s what I thought. I felt it, though—” The sword bit into his back again. He twisted and snapped, “Back off!” The sword point drew back an inch, the Escort blinking in surprise.
Queen Elena’s cold gaze turned to Draken. Osias spoke in soft apology. “Forgive him. The bane attacked him and the memory of it pains him still. He very nearly died, Your Majesty.”
“And yet he so conveniently did not,” Reavan muttered.
Osias ignored Reavan. “I brought Draken here as a witness, to help you understand. They are powerful, evil things. Should they take the right soul, especially your soul, Your Majesty, they could sanction a Mance with power which does not belong to us.” Osias hesitated and his expression opened into one of childlike hope. “Do you believe me? Do you know I speak truth?”
Queen Elena hesitated before nodding. “I do.”
“Queen Elena!” Reavan thrust himself into pacing, white-fingered fists at his sides. “Wisdom has fled in the face of this attack. Surely this is a Brînian plot to undermine your reign.” He glanced back at Draken, his face twisted with perilous fury. Reavan was a man on the edge of doing something Draken would regret. “A witness? The Brînian pirate attacked us—”
“Only after you attacked me,” Draken said. “And I’m not a pir—”
“Silence, sir,” Tyrolean said quietly from close behind Draken.
Draken hadn’t noticed Tyrolean’s approach in his preoccupation with Reavan. Keep it together, he chided himself. Let anyone sneak up and I won’t last long.
“The Mance saved my life,” the Queen said, suddenly looking quite young. But her next words erased the image. “And you forget your place, Lord Marshal. Go to my Escorts. See they bring the assassin to me. Alive.”
No warmth tempered her tone. Reavan gave a tight bow and left, his swift steps hammering the stone floor.
Elena turned back to Osias once he’d gone. “Tell me more of this Brînian. Why is he so far from home?”
“His name is Draken. He comes this way by accidental sorcery, and I’ve claimed him.”
Draken saw no reason to disagree. So far the Mance had protected his secret, and Draken had no one else to trust.
“Let me hear your voice, Draken.”
His hands were numb from their bindings, and he thought he was getting too old to kneel like this. It was fine for these soldiers in their twenties; he was past thirty-five with a body full of battle wounds. But he hadn’t forgotten the sword at his back. “It’s as Osias says, Queen Elena. The bane attacked and Osias rescued me.”
“Are you pureblood Brînian?” Her gaze perused him as if she found him distasteful.
Draken glanced up at Osias. This might get dicey. They hadn’t discussed the finer points of their lie.
“He is, Your Majesty,” Osias said.
Queen Elena drummed her fingers once on the thin metal of her chair. It rang like a bell and one of the Escorts grasped Draken’s arm again, her fingers digging into his bicep. Jumpy lot, he noted with some disdain. He’d expect a Queen’s guard to keep better composure.
“The Brînian Heir and his betrothed are here,” Queen Elena said at last, “resting from their journey. They will attend court in a few days. Let them claim you if they will. In the meantime, you are detained to the cages—”
“He means no harm,” Osias said in a hurry.
Elena’s lined eyes held Draken’s in their grasp. “I am not afforded the luxury of leniency when it comes to any Brînian, especially one who killed my First Captain.”
“He is a Brînian nêre, a warrior lord who will serve you with honor,” Osias said. “Respected in his homeland and no danger to you. I asked no reparation when your Escorts attacked us; I would have it now, with his freedom. I’m certain Lord Prince Khel would beg it of you as well.”
“I do not wish to insult Prince Khel,” Elena said. “But I must be cautious, especially if what you say of the banes is truth.” She paused and stared at Draken again. “He may remain in your custody. In the meantime, Draken, think on how you might be of service to me.”
Draken inclined his head. “I will, Your Majesty.” Not as if I’ve anything better to do, stuck here as a prisoner, he thought. But he knew a minor negotiation win when he heard it. And if there were regular meals, he’d already improved his condition seven-fold.
Elena began her dismissal, “Now. I’ve other matters—”
Osias said softly, “In this, you’ve gained a powerful ally, Queen Elena.”
Elena’s lined eyes darted his way and she half-rose from the throne. “Perhaps you’re not as simple as you seem, Lord Mance.”
“Mance protect many secrets,” Osias said. “Not all of them our own.”
Something in the way her face constricted sent a fresh buzz of alarm through Draken. But it passed and she sat back down, smoothing her skirt with one hand and turning a triumphant smile on Draken.
“I am glad to offer my hospitality, Draken,” she said. “By the looks of you, you’ll be quite useful indeed.”
A quiver went through him at the sudden return of beauty. He didn’t know if it was from nerves or attraction. Gods, but she was dangerous.
***
After untying Setia and Draken, the Escorts made the point of strolling them through an unpleasant courtyard filled with sweltering cages without so much as sheeting for protection from the sun. Miserable captives suffered in the heat. They were sweaty and bloodied, men and women alike. Three flat tables bristling with gears and chains were stained with blood, and a body dangled from a scaffold.
Draken stared at the skinny body, recently dead, as it twisted on its cord. As the face came into view he paused. Sarc.
He had not died easy or well. One hand caught under the rope around his throat; he’d tried for a futile escape. The other dangled at his side, branded like Draken’s. Head tilted; eyes bulged. Body waste stained his prison rags, which hung in bloody tatters from lashings and torture.
Osias inverted his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Draken tucked his hands under his cloak and walked on. He had little time for sympathy. Averting his attention from the cages and the gruesome dead, he took the opportunity to study the line of bowmen along the roof, arrows nocked. This Bastion was as good as his prison, as well.
Their room was large and airy and simply furnished. Thick beams supported coal brick ceilings and a small fire burned in the hearth. A single large mattress rested on a low platform, and two benches flanked a table. After a peek out the shutters at the street and the quiet moat languishing outside their window, Draken latched them again. Doubtless something nasty lived in the water. Servants brought a meal, and they fell to, quiet for the while.
“You think I missed that bit about the powerful ally,” Draken said. “Is it meant to be me or you?”
Osias smiled. “Fight well, do you?”
Draken shrugged. “Trained to the bow since I was small.”
“And you’re a thinking man. So I reckon she has gained an ally in you, aye?”
“That remains to be seen. I won’t be so keen to serve her if she threatens me with those cages,” Draken said sourly, getting up to scrub his hands. He gestured, flinging water droplets. “She won’t like my brands, nor my past.”
“She won’t know. Most Brînians wear bracers, or enough chains to cover your scars. Speaking of, I’ll see to the cuts on your back.”
Draken pulled the conjured tunic over his head and sat down, his back to the Mance. Osias’ smooth, warm fingers ran down his skin, probed a cut, and Draken cringed without meaning to. The damned thing stung to the bone.
“Aye. They coated their blades in smolder.” Osias opened his pack. “I’ve a Gadye balm should draw the poison out.”
“They poisoned me?” Draken turned around to see what the Mance was doing.
Osias dipped his fingers into a small leather pouch of black ointment. “A mild toxin, designed to create pain as a diversion.” He smeared the stuff across Draken’s cuts and it cooled the sting away.
“What is Gadye?” Draken asked.
“Healers and diviners,” Osias said. “An ancient traveling people who see well beyond what our eyes tell us.”
“Many think them liars and false prophets.” Setia crawled across the bed to sit near them.
“Setia, they no longer keep Moonling slaves. Do not let past grievances hold you from seeing someone’s worth.” But Osias sounded more lenient than reproving.
Having no opinion on the Gadye, Draken bowed his head, letting his neck stretch as Osias applied the balm. The coolness seemed to sink into his skin and spread through his body, stealing some of his anxiety.
“Who did that to your hands?” Setia said. “It’s horrible.”
Draken tensed. The brands stared back at him, crimson, ugly betrayals. The pain hadn’t been the thing so much as the shame. “They mark me as a criminal at home.”
“Try not to worry.” Osias’ breath brushed across the back of Draken’s neck. “It went fair well, don’t you think?”
Draken lifted his head. “I don’t know about you, but I heard the word ‘detained.’”
“Appearances,” Osias said. “She won’t hold you for long. I’m more concerned over my King’s message to her.”
“It sounded fair plain,” Draken said, retreating to a bench and pulling his tunic back over his head.
“I didn’t share the entire truth to the Queen—or with you.” Osias pursed his lips. “My King is missing. It’s why I’m away from home. I’ve come looking for him. So if he did not send the message, who did?”
Draken leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Any ideas as to his whereabouts?”
The Mance shook his head. “We’ve wandered in circles since last Sohalia, and now with the bane, I wonder…” He paused and looked at Setia. “Could it be King Truls has something to do with the freed bane?”
“More likely a weakening of the gates,” she replied, “with both you and he away. Message Eidola. Your brothers will see to it.”
Osias nodded, but he stared distantly at the fire.
“They ignored you in the throne room,” Draken said to Setia after a few moments, cupping his chin in his hand. “Why?”
“They thought me your slave.”
“Mine? Why?”
“Because many Brînians keep half-breeds as slaves.”
Draken shook his head. “You’ve aligned me with those who keep slaves? I might not have much honor left, but I will not tolerate slavery.”
“Of all the horrible things the banes did, before Mance confined them in Eidola,” Osias said, “their worst was to combine the races in order to conceal themselves—often through rape. Sundry are considered descendants of banes, weakened by their influence, and so are not trusted. It is the rare sundry who is not a slave.”
Draken frowned. It was something he’d never heard. “I fought in the Decade War. I hunted the Akrasian invaders afterward—most were Brînian and indebted to the point of slavery themselves. I thought I knew…well. Anyway, sounds like a cradle tale to me. Hardly an excuse for slavery.”
“I do not disagree,” Osias said, “but you felt the bane. What would you have done under its influence?”
***
Osias and Setia slept, but Draken could not relax as the afternoon stretched into evening. The air in the room felt close and humid. Late in the day, he interrupted his pacing to open the shutter again. The relief of cool air swept across his chest. Night had come and the sky had gone pitch.
“The moons come late in this phase, so close to Sohalia.” Setia spoke softly as she joined him at the window. “Their light is brighter than ever.”
“We’re well into Last Moon,” Osias agreed, his voice rough from sleep. “One more fullrise before Sohalia.”
Sohalia. Day of the Dead. Who would tend Lesle’s grave, light the candles, lay coins on her altar? How would she rest while her killer walked free? Draken must find him. Five of the Seven Eyes stared down at him, accusing, and he stalked away from the window.
“Rest now, Draken,” Osias said. “Come lie with us.”
That conveniently distracted him from his larger problems. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“They will be curious if you do not sleep with us. Brînians sleep many to a bed.”
Draken had been no different than any young sailor when on shore leave in towns filled with women looking to make extra coin. He’d seen and done much, though life had settled since he’d married Lesle, these six Sohalias past.
“Are you two more than… friends?” he asked.
“We share intimacies beyond ancestral, but we are not bound by children.” Osias removed his tunic as he spoke. Toned muscles slid under his pale expanse of skin. Draken jerked his eyes away. As beautiful as Osias was, there was something disproportionate about him. And his intrigue with the Mance irritated him.
“I shall watch,” Osias said. “You may rest easy.”
“Come, Draken. How long has it been since you’ve had a night’s rest?” Setia asked.
“Too many to count,” Draken admitted.
Sighing in defeat, he took off his boots and shirt and stretched out on the bed, keeping to the edge, casting about for something to take his mind away from his lurid, uncomfortable thoughts. He could better see Osias’ cuff as the Mance took to the bed. It looked like unpolished base metal, and it appeared to have no clasp or seam.
“What is on your arm?”
“Korde’s fetter, which binds me to life and service.”
Draken shifted his gaze to the beamed ceiling.
Osias must have taken his silence as disbelief because he leaned up on one elbow. “I am of the gods, Draken. By helping you I risk the wrath of powers larger than you can imagine.”
“Why would you take such a risk for me then?” Draken asked.
Osias only smiled. “I should rethink it, I suppose. You have been a fair deal of trouble.”
As they spoke, Setia took off her clothing. Draken tried not to watch her, but as one will when one is trying not to look, he couldn’t help it. She bore more bulk than would be fashionable at a Monoean Royal House party, but her compact muscles were refined. She glanced at him as she turned to blow out a lamp and he looked away.
“Look at me if you will. I care not,” she said, leaving the lamp and turning to him.
Feeling boorish but unable to help himself, he let his gaze climb the contours of her body. The dappling covered her skin, widening across her back and thighs and stomach and narrowing on her ankles and feet. She had no fat beyond the gentle swell of her belly and full breasts, only a muscled efficiency about her found only in the wild.
“Come, Setia,” Osias mumbled. “Warm us with your fire.”
Draken tensed, wondering what that might mean.
Setia blew out the rest of the lamps, leaving the room in darkness but for the glow of a few embers in the hearth, and crawled between them. Draken heard some rustling before Osias rolled over with his arm around Setia and sighed deeply. Draken felt the curve of her back against his side and the firmer pressure of Osias’ forearm. The heat from Setia’s body overtook the chill of the evening.
All settled and went still. He’d never heard a silence so persuasive.
Osias touched his bare chest briefly, and Draken’s discomfort with the touch was only slightly weaker than his discomfort with shrugging it off. Osias had been kind to him, a stranger, a branded criminal.
Despite the exceptional circumstances Draken found himself in: this long, extraordinary day ending with sharing his bed with two strangers, an even deeper, silent darkness than the one overtaking the night began to wash across his consciousness.
“Sleep, strange one,” Osias whispered, and Draken did.