Truls didn’t move.
“What? Don’t like the outdoors?” he muttered. Perhaps errant gods-in-the-flesh lingered in palace gardens.
He squeezed his fists to warm his fingers, undid the latch, and cracked the shutter to peer through it. Shrubs and trees crowded the ground; it was the more natural part of the garden and small woods on the palace grounds. Shadows reigned, broken only by the faint glimmer of light rain. Cold air swept over his chest. He could use something warmer to wear. It reminded him when he first landed at Akrasia in old rags that barely covered him. It hadn’t been Frostseason then. A cloak? A blanket? No. Just worktables standing in silence peculiar to the typical activity in the room.
He shoved the shutter open and climbed out, gripping the stolen sword in one hand. A thorn pricked his foot as he hit the ground. Hissing, he bent to pull it out as light flashed amid the trees. He stayed down, crouching under the open shutters, back against the smooth stone of the building. He picked out moving people, three at least, each with lanterns. He wished for a bow because, trees or not, he could at least set them on the run.
A thud jerked his attention to the room at his back. Someone was coming, surely. He shifted to a crawl along the cold dirt, fingers clasped tight around the unfamiliar hilt as he eased around the building. The occasional bones of a shrub scratched his arm as it made for meager concealment.
Bruche urged him irritably, Pick up the pace. They’ll be hopping out that window and coming after you in a breath.
Unless they are subtle rebels, he retorted, just as surly. He was making for the corner but he had no idea what was around it. He had never come back here but for the very occasional stroll. Why would he? The cold ached in his bad knee and his shoulder fussed from crawling. Worse, the icy rain fell harder, shifting from mists to stinging by the time he reached the corner. He took meager shelter under a shrub but trembles overcame him. He gritted his jaw. If his teeth chattering gave him away he’d never live it down. Of course, he wasn’t likely to survive the night as it was …
Enough. Focus. You’re thinking like a bane got hold of you.
Draken shook his head and wiped rain from his eyes with a dirty hand. Optimism was a bit difficult to come by when crawling in the mud and rain at one’s bloody palace with a horde of eager servii just behind. But he didn’t waste effort in arguing, just poked his head around the corner to look. It was lighter ahead with torches under the dripping overhang, but the rain shaded his sensitive eyes well enough. No figures moved there and the doors were shut. Perhaps not so eager then. He smiled grimly and kept crawling, forcing each arguing joint on.
At last he pushed his back against the wall under the narrow overhang, gripping his sword in one hand and wiping his face with the other. Simplest would be to rush in right through these doors. He was steps away from his private chamber, just a corridor and a flight of stairs.
Enough thinking. He turned and pulled the door open. Stopped, squinted in the light. Voices filtered down the corridor, but no footsteps, nothing came closer. He eased the door closed behind him, shutting out the wet. His heart thundered in his throat. Cold, still air on his wet skin made him shiver. His fingers tightened on the blade again. Bruche forced them looser, an easier grip for easier killing.
Truls sifted upward, seeming to leave foggy bits of himself that faded and reformed higher up the flight of steps. Draken didn’t wait for him to appear whole at the top but started after him, keeping his eyes on his own feet as they landed. A shallow groove slanted the middle of each tiled step, bright glaze worn down to hardened clay. But the stairs didn’t creak or ease under his weight. Draken listened, knew no one was coming, but Bruche lifted his head when he neared the top. Truls waited, as expected.
Couldn’t go on ahead and be useful, could he?
No need. There’s no one here.
Bruche spoke truth. The corridor lay before him, dark and empty. His ante-chamber doors hung open. No sound, and then a low grunt, maybe a ting of metal on metal. His antechamber was roomy and if the inner doors were shut they’d mostly conceal sounds from within. But a few short, running strides had him there, shoving the door open. Bruche had the stolen sword up, point first through the doors as they swung open and slammed against the flanking wall. The noise startled those within. Draken squinted at the movement in the candlelight. Ilumat squared off with Aarinnaie, though their faces were twinned in astonishment. Seaborn glittered in her grip. As she recovered and swung, Draken got the sudden rush of ruthless insight that it was better suited to her hand than his.
As he moved forward, Bruche shifted his blade up for leverage on the attack. It was perfect: his form, the approach. Ilumat did his damnedest to always keep his fight above his opponent’s sword. It was a brash style and he was reputedly better at it than anyone, at least better than anyone he or Bruche had ever fought.
Draken stumbled over something soft and heavy, hands and knees slamming the tile. The sword bounced from his fist. He looked back. A body, unyielding under his ankles. The bane from the dungeon.
Draken didn’t have time to think about it. A sword blade flashed, reflecting candlelight that should be dim but to Draken was nearly blinding. He ducked his head in a wince from the burn and felt a whoosh of air over the top of his shorn head. Then a sharp clang and Aarinnaie shouted. Draken looked up in time to see her drive Ilumat back two steps.
Ilumat grunted: frustration or fury, Draken couldn’t tell. Aarinnaie really was no match for him, but she kept him busy enough for Draken to find his feet. He swept up his stolen sword and pressed in on Ilumat’s swordhand, trying to draw him away from her. Ilumat backed further, but it was just to improve his balance. He attacked Draken in force. His sword was superior to the servii’s weapon. The first swing notched Draken’s blade as Bruche raised it to block, and Ilumat twisted his sword down and around Draken’s too quick to see.
Bruche flicked the tip of Ilumat’s sword away from his hilt and swung his around, trying to catch Ilumat’s arm. He only snagged the wide sleeve of Ilumat’s long sleeping tunic. It did set the Akrasian off-step, but not enough to halt a rebounding attack, a fury of blows even Bruche had a hard time managing, especially with the poorly balanced sword. Aarinnaie pressed in from the side again, diverting Ilumat’s attention.
The doors to his antechamber slammed open and the air filled with shouts and cries. Draken raced toward Aarinnaie, struck hard at Ilumat’s throat with his free hand. The Akrasian cried out and staggered back. Draken didn’t wait to see if he was dead. He dragged Aarinnaie away toward Sikyra’s chambers. She paused, grabbed up an oil lantern, and threw it back the way they’d come. Bright light flashed as it exploded, the reflection against the tiles ahead nearly blinding Draken. More cries from behind them. Bruche kept him stumbling forward.
Aarinnaie slammed the doors behind them and set the latches. The little-used far set of doors off Sikyra’s room led to another balcony cloaked in overgrown branches from a sizable tree. They pushed through the doors and Aarinnaie leaned back against them. Tree branches concealed them, broad leaves slick. A heavy rain fell, dampening harried voices behind and below them.
Draken took his sword back, pressed the smaller stolen blade into Aarinnaie’s hands, and climbed out. The tree made him feel like a stranded target, though he was concealed from all sides. He felt awkward and heavy in it, and it creaked softly under his weight. He found a place he could more or less stand, bare feet on a lower, broad branch, hands gripping another. Droplets showered him as leaves shifted. Branches had been trimmed up to clear the ground below. Getting down required a jump higher than he was tall. Draken hoped his knee could bear up. Bruche returned the sentiment to move cautiously and quit whining.
Aarinnaie climbed out behind him, sleek and nimble. Leaves rustled but she slipped between branches and started climbing down. “Stable,” she whispered.
Is she mad? You’ll never get horses out of here.
Mad? No more than he. But Aarin wasn’t called Ghost for small
reason. He moved to drop his foot to a lower limb …
The balcony door creaked open. Both he and Aarinnaie stilled. Air locked in Draken’s chest and soon started to burn. He eased it from his lungs, unwilling to risk a noisy, desperate exhale.
“Still can’t see from that damned lantern exploding. Black as pitch out here. But they must have come out this way.” A male voice, brisk.
Branches shifted. A female voice answered: “Climb down the tree, then, and find them.”
“You climb it. You’re littler than me. And I outrank you.”
Draken narrowed his eyes so the whites wouldn’t show. A rain started to fall, pattering against the broad leaves, splashing off them onto his head. Wind ruffled around him, ran over the top of his wet head and chilled his bare skin. Rain ran down his skin in maddening streams. He gritted his teeth.
The female servii snorted. “Blast the Seven. Maybe they already got down and tried the temple again.”
“If they did, they’re already caught. It’s blocked and escorts are positioned there. They’ve got to be on the grounds somewhere if not right here in the damn tree. Go on, then. I’ll notify Lord Ilumat and meet you below.”
A hesitation and the servii started out on the same branch Draken had, grasping it with both hands and swinging a leg over the balcony. Draken looked down at Seaborn in his hand. The sword wasn’t much use in a bloody tree. Aarinnaie lifted her knife. She’d have to strike quick and just right to kill the guard soundlessly. The dead made no noise, but the dying made plenty. A dead servii will make plenty of noise falling from this tree, Bruche growled.
At any rate, she struck too quickly for Draken to stop her. The servii turned a little, hanging onto the balcony rail with one hand and reaching for a branch with the other as she swung her other leg over the railing. Her stiff boot slipped on the wet branch. Aarinnaie reached out and shoved her with her fist. For a moment she seemed to hang, as if she wouldn’t fall. Her lips parted. “You—”
Aarinnaie jabbed her in the throat with the knife, letting it go as the servii tumbled through the branches. Blood trailed after her, splattering on leaves. She made a dull thud as she hit the ground. Draken was already climbing down. Something felt as if it tore inside his knee as he landed and hot pain raced up his thigh. He hissed a curse, grabbed the servii, and hauled her behind the big tree trunk.
Aarinnaie dropped to the ground in a quiet crouch. She leaped up into a run, fleet through the shadows at the edges of the courtyard. Bruche rushed to chill the pain and Draken ran after her, albeit in a lopsided limp.
They skirted the courtyard, which helped Draken’s vision. Soldiers were positioned by the gates but other than that the space was empty. A few trees and damp shadows hid their progress as they moved in front of the temple. He wished they didn’t have to get so close—he raced up and grabbed Aarinnaie’s arm and dragged her back. She had the presence of mind not to shout but fought him until she realized who had her. He pulled her back against a tree and gestured. Two Escorts stood under the overhang at the front of the temple. Their fishscale and pale skin glinted against the night. Aarinnaie shook her head and gave him a look.
He tugged her along the side of the temple, toward the back of the grounds. Trees were more plentiful there, providing cover from eyes and the pounding rain. He limped along as quietly as possible, which wasn’t much with mud squishing between his cold toes and sticks jabbing his feet and scraping his ankles. He studied the small woods around them intently, but no movement penetrated the gloom. It struck him. He’d walked here often. There had been gardeners, animals scurrying underfoot, and birds calling. The animals had run and flown to escape. The gardeners had died on the edges of Akrasian swords.
He slowed as he came upon the back corner of the temple. Beneath his feet was escape, the tunnels filled with his ancestors. His hand crept up to sign the horns but he dragged it back down. The gods walked in Brîn. Such a sign might be a summons.
Aarinnaie lingered close as he paused, her warmth against his back. The rain eased as he looked around the corner at the darkened clearing behind the temple. Empty of servii. Still, every bit of him was sharply alert, every muscle ready to leap to the fight. It was dark, but all cleared ground. Tall buildings, mostly windowless, butted up against the back wall. On the ground there was not so much as a shrub for cover. He judged the temple fifty paces wide, and twice that to the stable. But escape hinged on not being seen. They couldn’t fight off even a few servii, and those would let others know, and they’d be overrun. And then the stable … how were they to escape that?
He looked back at Aarinnaie and whispered, “This is a bad idea.”
She shook her head. “Go, Drae. I’ll show you there.” When he didn’t move right away, she shoved him. “They’ll come. Go!”
He clenched his jaw; arguing wasn’t going to help. But damn her, even as good as she was, there was no escaping the Citadel.
You must at least try.
He growled annoyance because Bruche was right. They’d gotten this far. He rounded the corner, sword up. The patch of bare ground behind the temple was clear and quiet. It wasn’t as muddy back there as it was under the trees. A carpet of cropped, wet plants, softer underfoot, concealed the noise of their movement. He peered around the next corner. Torches burned by the stable entrance. He squinted against the glare but saw no guards. Horses crowded the paddock—Akrasian mounts, he assumed. He pressed his back against the smooth wall of the temple and looked at his sister.
“I don’t see servii, but the slaves usually sleep in the stable, don’t they?”
“They’re all dead, remember?” she whispered. The words were like a punch to the gut but she didn’t seem to notice. She shifted around him to look. “We’re going in the back, through the paddock.”
“You don’t think we’ll upset the horses?”
She shrugged. “I don’t plan on upsetting them. Do you?”
Bruche snorted, amused.
He scowled at her and gestured her ahead. He hadn’t ever walked through the stable, a sizable building housing dozens of animals. Horses had always been brought to him in the courtyard. He’d usually mounted about where he’d been strung on the scaffolding and tortured.
Aarinnaie walked smoothly and without much hurry to the fence. Draken followed, skin crawling with cold and apprehension, certain arrows would cut them down at any moment. Horses lifted their heads and snuffled at them. A couple moved toward the fence, maybe looking for a handout. She never hesitated. Simply walked to the fence and climbed over to disappear among them.
Clever girl.
Draken grunted softly. Too clever by half. He climbed, bad knee first, wincing when that foot hit the ground on the other side. He hoped none of the horses stepped on his bare feet. Besides hurting like a bane, his healing would shake the ground and terrify them into a stampede. Horses snuffled his shoulders as he shifted between them, and a strange calm fell over him. A dangerous calm. He kept moving, sword pressed to his thigh, using them as cover. He lost sight of Aarin, but by then he’d reckoned where they were headed: the door hanging from rollers that led from the low-slung wooden stable to the crowded paddock.
Aarinnaie started to slide the door open but it squealed on its track and she stopped. Every horse’s head lifted and turned that way. “Fools all.” Draken cursed under his breath. Servii could be in the building and now they had warning. He pushed through quicker to reach her.
Voices from within. Damn, damn, damn. He pulled Aarin around the side of the building. There was a narrow slice of ground between it and the Citadel wall, perfect for them to slide sideways into. Also perfect for a semi-competent archer to draw arrow at one end and take them out like snakes in a tunnel. The reek of rotting flesh drifted down from overhead; the Brînian trophies who had once been his slaves and guards.
The sliding door squealed again as someone opened it, and a voice hissed the horses back. Then quiet fell. Whoever it was must be studying the paddock. Draken lifted his s
word to the ready.
“Must’ve been a bittersnake or something that riled them,” a voice said.
Another hushed the horses. “Aye, well. Doesn’t matter. They won’t get out by horseback at any rate.”
There was a point. Draken turned his head give his sister a look. What were they doing here? She grinned at him, teeth with a feral gleam, trusting he could see in the pitch between the walls.
Aarinnaie started edging down the gap between the wall and the stable. The wall was rough, scraping along his back. Damn, was it narrowing? Or perhaps it was his hard, anxious breath filling his chest that made it seem smaller. Faint tremors running through the ground under his feet as he healed the scratches wouldn’t help much. He hoped she had a plan but he couldn’t fathom what it might be. They were trapped and it was only going to be a matter of breaths before they were found and dragged out into the courtyard. He couldn’t bear the thought of Aarinnaie getting strung up on that scaffolding—
Stop now. Those who expect the worst often get it.
Aarinnaie stepped forward and disappeared. He blinked and edged closer. A damned opening, tight. He tried to force himself through after her, but even his near starvation diet of the past couple of sevennight hadn’t reduced his chest breadth enough to allow him passage between the log and a stone wall. Three horses were crammed into a stall and one stretched its neck to snuffle at him curiously. It was golden and unfamiliar. The horses, just the scent of them, gave him the same feeling seeing ships sailing from their moorings in Blood Bay. Old days, and some good ones, when he thought himself free. But he should know by now he was no more free than he had been as a child slave.
Aarinnaie emerged from between the horses, startling Draken. They didn’t so much a snuffle at her arrival. He grunted and stepped back.
“Sh.” She lifted her hand to her mouth to quiet him. It gripped a bloody knife. “Go through the paddock. It’s clear.”
He scowled at her but she disappeared again, so he did as she bid, edging back the way he’d come, blade held aloft. His whole body tightened, but no one saw him but the horses. He slipped around to the sliding door and stepped through, only to stumble over a body sprawled on the hard-packed dirt. A black-red stain surrounded it. The second time the dead had tripped him up this evening. Aarinnaie drifted past him to pull the door closed and set the bar.
Enemy Page 18
