Osias nodded. “The splint strengthens with her every kill.”
Draken released a breath between his teeth. “I lost Bruche once. It wasn’t so bad. Perhaps …”
“But he returned, aye? Followed you until he could join you again.”
Can’t bloody stay away. Death is boring.
Osias smoothed his hand over the front of his pale grey tunic. His face took on the hard planes of truth. “Even were I able to separate them, the splint would seek her, hunt her.”
“So kill it.”
“It cannot be done.”
“Aye, it can. With a damned magic sword.”
Osias shook his head. His voice gentled. “Not even Akhen Khel can destroy a bane splint, not without killing Aarinnaie, and I certainly cannot. The best she can do is to forgo spilling blood altogether. With time it will weaken its grip on her.”
Draken shook his head, trying to shake away the words, his fears, the pressure that wanted to explode into pain behind his eyes. A knock sounded before he could answer. “Come!”
Tyrolean stepped inside. “I searched my brother before sending him to the deadcart. He had a deal of coin on him.” He poured some from a bag out onto his palm. Draken’s cousin, King Yssef of Monoea, stared back at them from the golden surfaces, a neat beard covering his very dead chin.
Draken cursed. “He was a ruddy traitor, then.”
“Aye. Your Highness, I’m afraid we cannot trust anything he’s said.”
Truls caught his eye, melding into wisps of smoke escaping the flue. Draken turned away. He hadn’t had time to even hope Weswick was telling the truth before Aarinnaie had killed him.
His gaze skirted Draken for Osias, who nodded. Tyrolean released a slow breath. “What’s happened?”
“Sikyra is dead.” He wondered if his voice sounded as hollow as he felt. Quiet passed between them. Before Tyrolean could offer condolences and draw up ruddy tears or the like, Draken went on. “I have to find Elena. She must be told.”
Even though he had no idea how he would explain how he had sent their daughter away to her death.
She won’t take it well, Bruche said.
Draken ignored this vast understatement.
Tyrolean cleared his throat. “Speaking of the Queen, her heading through the woods along the front makes sense if she’s headed for Brîn. It’s the quickest route.”
“Weswick also said she was going to Algir,” Osias said. “Who knows which is truth? We’re no closer to catching up to any of them than we were.”
More silence for a bit. Draken had nothing to offer, couldn’t drag his mind to the implications of Weswick’s lies.
“Logically,” Tyrolean said, “If Wes was lying during our entire conversation—if he was paid by the Monoeans to keep her whereabouts secret—she is going to neither place.” Draken shook his head, confused. Tyrolean lifted a hand. “Hear me out. We’d have had word if she was at Auwaer. She wouldn’t go back to Skyhaven and the Moonlings. Which leaves … ?”
“Downland to Khein?” Draken said, finally catching on. “To the coast?”
“Too close to the front,” Tyrolean said. “She’d have been seen, I think. And the coast is harsh during Frost, especially this one. No one is traveling by water now.”
Osias huffed on his pipe. “Upland, then. Septonshir.”
“But why?” Draken asked. “How can the Septs help?”
“They’re too reclusive to attract much attention from the Monoeans, and they prefer Elena to Kings. Septonshir might make a good place to hide,” Tyrolean said. “Especially if she knows about the coup in Brîn and presumes you dead.”
“Then that’s where we go.” There was some relief in the decision, even if it was the grimmest trek he’d ever embark on.
“And Aarinnaie?” Osias asked.
“I’ll speak to her about not killing any longer.”
His sister had curled on the bed, blankets pulled up against the chill. She was awake, staring at the fire. Draken put his back to it. “We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”
She said nothing.
He should smooth the covers over her, stroke her hair. She needed comforting. But there was a wall of stoicism around her. “Will you come?”
She shifted to look up at him. “Will you have me?”
The thought of all she’d been through, their father, Truls, the bane splint, and Ilumat … it all tore at him. But he had to tell her. They could discuss her bane splint on the road. “I need you, Aarin. Osias brought word of Sikyra.” His voice broke over her name.
She blinked up at him. Soulful, tearless eyes. “I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry.”
He knew the strength in that small body, in that mind he’d only just gotten to know. She had resisted his every effort to coddle her, to discuss all that had damaged her, all that had made her weak.
Because it hadn’t made her so weak after all.
“Get some rest,” Draken said. “We leave at daybreak.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
A fierce storm tormented the grassland plains upland of Reschan, along with anyone who dared cross it—except, of course, Truls and Osias, who were immune to the weather. Draken’s pony kept his ears flattened as he leaned into the wind and he kept trying to shield his face in the rump of the pony in front of him. Aarinnaie took to calling him Bumpus.
Draken had forgone a thick saddle for a blanket in hopes of sharing the tora pony’s shaggy warmth. He couldn’t say it made much difference, but maybe it did keep him from freezing. The leather pants, thick woolen shirt, and undershirt under his buckled cloak helped, some, but the frosty air found ways of sneaking in. They all had scarves of wool tied around their faces and thick mitts on their hands. Draken’s shoulder and bad knee ached from the tense position he’d held against the wind for the past two days. Their only saving grace was a lack of snow.
Before they’d left Reschan, Va Khlar had gifted him with a new mask: a finished strip of wide-weave linen with padding around the edges to hold it away from his eyelids. The glare of white, cloudy skies meant he wore the mask constantly in the day.
Aarinnaie always held her gaze just shy of his face, as if he might change his mind and start questioning her about the bane splint, her training, and Ilumat. But the constant wind dulled his curiosity, and he sank deep into silent grief. The four travelers spoke little.
Truls led them, and Draken doggedly followed, more from lack of determination and the assumption he was in on their plan to find Elena. So far Truls had not led him too far astray.
When Draken had envisioned the upland plains from maps in Monoea, and later as Prince, he had imagined it a flat stretch of deep grass as far as the eye could see, dotted with grazing herds. But the ground rolled underfoot into hills and valleys. Rock formations jutted up; the remnants of an ancient sea, Osias claimed. Draken and Bruche privately doubted even his spiritkind went back so far to have seen this land underwater, but some of the scrubby plateaus resting on sharp cliffs did look suspiciously like islands.
The dried grasses held pockets of ice and snow, but Bumpus rode the occasional slip without breaking stride. His plodding pace was so incessant Draken wondered if he would ever stop unless made to do so. At last Truls led them down a steep incline, waving his arm at them to follow before he disappeared completely. It was for the best; the Mance’s silvery cloak was a beacon on the plains and with the country in upheaval from the war, they didn’t know who they might meet. The skies were cloudy but Draken had no doubt the Seven—or Six, as it were—were looking for him.
Draken followed, leaning back as Bumpus plodded and slid down the grassy hillside into a long, deep crevice that was more grass at the bottom. Long, dried grasses wavered over the top, rustling and making a tunnel effect. Tyrolean and Aarinnaie followed and they gathered in the space. It was wide enough to walk at least three horses abreast and faded far off under the glare of clouds and misty, fading daylight. At least they were out of the worst of the blasted wind. It
was enough to drag Draken from his fugue.
He pulled down his scarf. “What is this?”
“The Silent Trail.”
“That’s myth,” Aarinnaie said.
“No, Szirin. I assure you it isn’t.” Osias gave her a slight smile.
Draken wondered if Osias ever got annoyed that Aarinnaie claimed to know the absolute truth of everything until proved otherwise.
No. I’m fair certain that only plagues you.
Draken grunted and concentrated on adjusting his scarf. The air was still cold even out of the wind. Red streaks marred the tops of Tyrolean’s cheeks. “All right. I’ll bite. What’s the Silent Trail?”
“It was used to populate Septonshir and then further to Algir, though the trail hasn’t worn as deep there. It is old and well used through the Grassland.”
“Why silent?”
“Because you can hear and see anyone coming for miles on the plains, if you listen closely enough. As the trail wore down the ground, it cut the noise travelers make.”
Truls, for his part, kept gliding ahead. He paused and looked back at Draken, then kept on. “I’ll go ahead to scout,” Draken said, staring after him.
Bruche signaled his silent disapproval, but didn’t speak.
Osias looked from Truls to Draken. “I think you should rest, aye? Have a bite.”
“I know you mean well, but—”
“One cannot live on anger and grief alone, friend.” Osias sounded friendly enough but his eyes were slipping to storm.
He glanced at Aarinnaie. Hatred seemed to keep her going well enough. Having the bane splint seemed to be a bit like having another being inside her, perhaps, which reminded him … “Something I’ve been wondering, Osias. Did your power increase with the death of the other Mance?”
Osias was still a long moment until he nodded.
“You have all their power?”
“I don’t yet understand the breadth of it.”
Bruche was listening closely. If that’s true, you and your sword might not be the only thing that can kill a god. But would he do it?
He rebelled once, removing the fetter.
Aye, and now perhaps the gods avoid our Mance.
Osias surely heard their conversation, but he turned away. “Go take your walk, my friend.”
Draken shook himself. “Right. Best make camp here. Can’t see how a fire will hurt down in this gulley. The wind will disperse the smoke.”
He swung down from Bumpus, who needed a rest and, truth, wasn’t fleet enough to get him anywhere much quicker than his own legs would. He untied his sword from the saddle, bound it around his middle, and strode off into the gloom before anyone could protest. Truls floated in his periphery, no help at all when he nearly stumbled right into a Monoean sentry. The man was just turning slightly away from Draken, staring into the darkness. Draken held, not breathing. His dull grey armor was shadowy, even to Draken’s darksight. For the first time that struck him. If Korde had a hand in this army, had he armored them to shield them from Draken’s darksight? Regardless, he could see the gleam of a seax gripped in one hand. The bracer on the other arm made him fair impenetrable, if the man knew his business.
Draken’s sword, though oiled at Reschan, clung to the inside of its damp sheath. Draken stood in the man’s line of sight, but darkness still cloaked him. One move would break through even regular night blindness. He considered and couldn’t see another way.
Instead of drawing, Draken stepped forward and tried to catch the man’s throat with his arm. The guard turned just as he made his move. His eyes widened and mouth opened. He emitted one wordless grunt before Draken’s fist caught him in the jaw. The man staggered back. Draken followed, caught his throat in the crook of his arm, and squeezed. Killing in this position wasn’t easy, but Draken had size to his advantage. The guard gagged, spat, struggled. He twisted, shifting to try to bite and scrabble for his weapon. Draken turned his head away. He punched and flailed at Draken. The fists pounded his ribs, but it didn’t cause enough strain to make him let go. Draken caught his wrist in his free hand and pulled, tightening the grip. The struggles faded and the man fell limp.
He had no thought to letting the man live and in this Bruche was in agreement. He held him, counting under his breath, then lowered the slack body to the ground to feel for a pulse. The vein had fallen still and Draken caught the twin scents of death flowing from the body. Draken yanked the helm and hood from the guard’s head. A hairline of pale hair, no slant to the eye. Dark remnants of an oily ash mark on his brow. Whatever they used certainly stained the skin well enough. A Monoean. Draken stepped over the body and held, wondering if he should go on, return and get help, or simply retreat. But he couldn’t make himself leave this opportunity to find out more about the enemy.
He walked as the gully gently curved, blade held in front of him. To his swordhand, rock outcroppings grew from the ground and broke through the grassy walls in spots, obviously having diverted the road. They blocked most of the moonlight, letting his eyes relax further. He slowed his pace and moved as silently as the dried grasses would allow. There’d been a guard, which meant someone or something important nearby.
As he came around an outcropping, a ray of moonglow made him squint. No, not just the moons. He dropped to peek over the edge of the gully, leaning against the slanted, grassy wall. Fires dotted the ground beyond, sparking against his darksight. He dared a glance upward, and had to close his eyes for a few breaths. Khellian and Ma’Vanni. War Phase. No wonder it was so bright.
Within the protection of the rocks, two rows of pointed tents materialized in his darksight. The wind nudged the fabric walls, though within the protective rocks it was considerably less than even where he stood in the gully. To one side, horses stood in tethered clumps, nosing the ground. The smell of cooking meat drifted up, which would have made his stomach ache with hunger if he wasn’t only two nights from Reschan with relatively plentiful and fresh provisions.
Soldiers moved about, speaking in low tones that barely carried to his ears. Apprehension shrouded the camp. No huddled groups groused, gamed, and drank around the fires. It was all business. Cooking. Feeding horses. Walking the perimeter.
Curiosity itched under his skin. But magic or no, he was one man. Even with the others they only were four, and he’d guess this camp outmanned them tenfold. He cursed under his breath. Fools all! He should have questioned that guard before killing him.
Be easy. Think. There are guards, aye, but not so many. We’ve not seen one walk by us yet. Might there be a way to sneak in to eavesdrop on the tents or conversation?
When the fires are damped. There was enough wind to necessitate putting them out before bedding down. It just meant waiting.
Aye, and come in through the horses. They’ll give good cover.
Draken made his way up the slanted, steep wall, slipping several times on dried grasses into the more recent ruts that scored the bottom of the gully, and listened rather than using his darksight. He still wore the mask; the Eyes watched closely this night. Still no Zozia. Perhaps she was dead after all.
Something rustled the grasses over his head. He eased down on the slanted wall of the Silent Road and winced as the grasses shushed beneath him. Bootsteps, sounding relatively idle, moving over his head.
“All quiet, sir.” Monoean, docks accent. Conscript, then.
“So it appears. Not afraid to say this business makes me nervous.”
“Are the royals settled in, then, sir?”
Draken pursed his lips. Royals? He couldn’t possibly have had the good fortune to run into Galbrait a second time. But the conscript had clearly said royals. Plural. There were no Monoean Royals left but for Galbrait. Nerves clenched the back of his throat. Unless they meant Elena. Settled could be camp jargon for “secured.”
Surely not, Bruche said.
I have to go in now. What if she’s captive here?
The two Ashen moved away. He held until their footsteps mostly fade
d, until his own movements would be counted among the myriad other sounds on the plains, and he eased from his hiding spot and walked a little further until he heard whickers and the soft thud of hooves stamping.
He climbed a little way up the embankment top. A small forest of horse legs met his darksight, the scent of fresh manure and the tearing of grass. He pulled down his mask and hauled himself the rest of the way up, waiting on his knees, staring all around. A couple of horses turned their heads and shifted their hindquarters, but most were intent on their grain.
Of course he smelled of horse himself, and of sweat and the outdoors, like their riders. He eased among them, murmuring gently. They made way for him. He felt almost jealous; he’d like a real horse instead of the tora pony Bumpus.
Ah, but the pony suits a man of your status, does it not? An exile and prince now fallen from grace?
Very amusing. He had no laughter in him but appreciated Bruche treating him normally.
Draken moved parallel to the camp between the animals, keeping a watchful, albeit squinted eye. The damned moonlight made him feel as if someone were carrying a torch over his head like a beacon. At least the wind and animal noises covered his sounds.
Beyond, the tents poked up, and from this vantage he saw a taller five-stake tent encircled by the others. There might be the army commanders, and perhaps these “royals.” Gaining proximity to it was going to require a better trick though. Fires still burned all around. It would be deep in the night before he had the chance. He melted back further, until his back was against the rocks sheltering the animals. He ran his hands over it and frowned as he found crumbling lines. Mortar? He turned his head to study it. An ancient wall rested against the rock outcropping. Maybe it had been a stable once, or a home. Or an inn to feed and lodge the long ago upland exodus.
What sort of people are the Septs?
Bruche gave an inward shrug. Matriarchal. Reclusive. I’ve never met any but the sundry slaves marketed from there.
You make it sound as if they breed them on purpose.
Perhaps they do. I’ve heard they are traders to give Va Khlar fair fits. I think they well know the value of their own flesh.
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