“Do you think Agrias is dead?” he asked Bruche between pants.
Aye, you did a fair job of it.
Guards had edged closer, but none made to draw. He looked up at the nearest one, guessed what they’d been dealing with, and straightened his back. Soreness had set into his shoulder alongside the cold. His chest still lifted quickly with breath. “How long has he been behaving strangely?”
The man swallowed hard enough Draken heard his throat work. “Since the Queen left. He said kill the Oxbows.” He paused. “And his own sons and daughters.”
“Where is the rest of your clan?”
“Attacking. Children and elders I sent off to our old camp, upland that way.” He pointed.
“You didn’t obey … ?”
“Something needed doing, my lord.”
“Well done. You’re now clanmaster and you should … what?”
The guard sputtered. “My lord, I’m just a guard. I cannot …”
“Something needs doing,” Draken repeated grimly. “And you’re the only one to do it. Proved by your actions. Fetch your kin back from attacking Oxbow and then fetch your children and elders.”
The guard looked down at his clanmaster, reduced to a bloody heap, slashes gleaming crimson under a rising moon. Draken glanced up. Khellian. For a long time, the only sounds were his heavy breaths, until the regular forest and lake sounds surrounded them again.
“Was he really a god?”
Draken gave a tired nod.
“We should. Ah.” The guard blinked wide eyes, eased back from Draken and the clanmaster. “Hide. We need walls and—”
“Walls cannot stand against the gods, and there’s no hiding from the others, so don’t bother trying. Bring your people home and with a little good fortune, your part in this is done.”
“And you, my lord? What is your part?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ve a bad feeling it’s just begun. Now. Tell me where my Queen has gone.”
* * *
Draken leaned against Bumpus as he spoke with Tirnine, who had rushed out to see him as he rode into their village. It had been a long night rounding up the Cove warriors and explaining things. Then he had to speak with Oxbow to get them to stop the fighting. It was a tremulous peace, which he hoped would hold with the Cove clan being so busy retrieving their children and elders from their hiding spot. At last he trudged to the longhouse to speak with his own companions.
“You survived.” Aarinnaie raised her brows but didn’t get to her feet like Tyrolean did when he shoved aside the curtain strung for privacy. Fire warmed the space, and Osias’s pipe and good food smells, though it was quiet and mostly empty at this time of night.
Draken nodded them both and lowered himself to the floor with the fire to his offhand to keep the glare from his eyes. His sore knee made annoyingly loud cracks as he sat. “It was easier than I expected.”
Bruche’s snort reached his lips.
He shifted his attention to Osias, who sat quietly in the shadows, a little apart, smoke twining from the dual bowls of his pipe. The shadows carved his face into ugly lines.
“Agrias is no fighter,” Draken said.
A puff of smoke filtered up into the still air inside the longhouse. “No. I suppose not.”
“Agrias … what did he want?” Aarinnaie went back to sharpening her blades, apparently unmoved that Draken had killed another god.
“To take his magic back. Apparently he gave me healing.” His own, Bruche added. “Aye, Bruche is right. He gave me his healing.”
She shook her head, mystified. “Why?”
“Korde made him do it, I suspect. Apparently there was some notion of turning me against Khellian. Something about my bad attitude.”
Galbrait snorted softly. “Surely not that.”
Draken shook his head, too weary to snap back at him. “At any rate, the guards know where Elena went and now so do I.”
* * *
A day and a night of hard riding left Draken trembling with weariness and half-asleep in the saddle, but Elena was where she’d told the Cove Clan she’d be, entrenched in a sizable camp outside one of the larger villages resting on a river streaming upland from the mountainous Skymarke Lake. It was wide and shallow, and it died into a thick, wet, cold marsh that took half a day to trudge through, but the army had found dry land on the banks of the river. Tents spread out across the trampled grazing lands under copses of scraggy, Frost-wrecked trees. Draken thought he saw the merest hint of green shading the land. He wasn’t sure if it meant Newseason was nearly upon them or if it was some trick of his darksight.
He felt like a drifter riding up to the sharply armed Escorts and servii, days off a bath, more time in the saddle than he cared to admit, beard scruffing all their chins but Osias’s, and the shaggy tora ponies coated to their hocks in mud. They were challenged, and sorting out their identities took some time since Draken had no pendant to show. “Tell the Queen I have news.”
They were shown to a tent, one big enough for dignitaries. That was confusing, to be treated so, but Draken nodded to the servii who brought them, asked for some wash water, and put in a request for an audience with Elena. But no amount of negotiation kept them from taking Galbrait off to a makeshift gaol. The Prince looked back at them, a protest on his lips, but Draken scowled at him, silencing it. He couldn’t deny the relief of having someone else look after his cousin for a bit.
“I wonder if they’ll rough him up,” Tyrolean said.
“He can take it. Besides, he has it coming. The Queen might do much more.”
“No. He’s too clever,” Osias said. “He won’t tell where your daughter is until he’s certain of his freedom.”
“Aye, he learned that much from his father.” Gods, how he wished for Yseff now. His cousin hadn’t been the best of kings, but he’d been a decent man.
The others cleaned up quickly and went off to find something to eat. Maybe they sensed his wanting to be alone to gather his thoughts. A camp maid brought a cloth and a bucket of water, dipping into a curtsy. He dipped his fingers in once she’d gone. Cold, of course. He wasn’t that honored of a guest.
Draken undid his sword harness and laid it aside, then stripped to the waist to scrub off the road. He ran a cloth over his head and face. His beard had grown in thick. He had no body slave to shape it into something decent, so he edged his knife blade on the strap and shaved it off, wincing at the occasional sting. The tent poles rattled slightly as the minor nicks and cuts healed.
He wiped his face with the cloth again. It came away grimy and a little bloodstained. He dug into his pack for a shirt, but a rustle at the entrance to the tent made him look up.
“Elena.” The name unwound from his lips without bidding, without thought.
She let the tent flap fall shut behind her, her dark eyes on him. She didn’t reprimand him so he didn’t offer a correction, just straightened, his clean shirt in his hands. Her chill gaze left him struggling not to cringe. He knew how he must look to her: an aging and battered man, scars lacing his dark skin. Rough. Corrupt. Heathen.
“You lit no lantern.”
“I don’t need it. The gods gave me darksight. I can barely stand the glow of the moons.” He pulled his shirt over his head, trying to hide the slight tremble in his hands.
She glanced behind her at the open tent flap, admitting only the faintest moonglow. Elna, perhaps, or Khellian’s crescent. “The moons are irregular. Not as many shine in the night sky.”
“That’s because I killed two of them.”
“No wonder they curse you. I understand you brought a prisoner.”
“My cousin. Crown Prince Galbrait of Monoea.” He dried his damp hair, taking the time to sort his words. “He claims Sikyra lives. He claims to know where they’re taking her.”
Silence. “‘They’ who?”
“Moonlings. A trade with the Ashen for land and autonomy. They are transporting her somewhere to give her to the Monoeans.”
El
ena lifted her chin. “They want to make certain she is dead? This makes no sense.”
“No. They want her on the throne. She bears royal Monoean blood—”
“She is sundry.”
“Aye. Monoeans aren’t nearly as picky about mixed blood as Akrasians are. Besides, they want her magic. My magic. And maybe yours. I expect the Moonlings mentioned what you did to Skyhaven to the Monoeans.”
Elena hissed a breath.
Draken hurried on before she could accuse him of some further wrongdoing against their child. “They believe she has magic. I’ve seen no evidence of it but she is very young. And maybe you passed on Truls’s magic as well.” Who lurked in the corner, his silhouette sharpening as Draken said his name.
“You believe she lives now.”
“I had my blade at his throat. He knows if he’s found false I’ll kill him straightaway. He’s young. He doesn’t want to die.”
“I’ll have it out of him.” She turned to go, cloak snapping behind her.
“Elena!”
She turned, her queen’s mask lacquered into place.
“Your Majesty, I know him. He’s far out of his depth. The Ashen used him to kill his family, promised him a throne, and stole it back from him.” He didn’t know if it happened just like that, but he needed a simple story to keep the Akrasians from torturing and killing him. “Bring him. We’ll talk to him together.”
“Do not presume to advise me.”
A hesitation, during which he beat down the urge to snap back at her. “This is a respectful request, my Queen. I think I can get the information from the lad well enough, and perhaps secure his help against the Ashen.”
“How will you do that?”
“Point out the many ways they have betrayed him.”
“He betrayed you, as I understand it. Giving you over to that priest, nearly killing you.”
She was much better informed than he’d realized. “He betrayed me at the sword point of his countrymen. Not his choice.” A complete untruth, but he needed the lie for now. He had to keep Galbrait from harm. “Treating him well will garner his trust and respect. We need that trust if we’re to find—”
A raised voice, sharp in anger, cut him off. Aarinnaie. Elena turned and ducked from the tent. His mouth pressed into a hard line, Draken followed. Someone gripped her arm—some Akrasian in clothes too fine for a battlecamp. Someone whose combed and oiled black hair he recognized with a cold heart.
Easy, Draken.
“Ilumat. Unhand my sister.”
“My wife, you mean to say.” Ilumat did as he asked but spun on him. Obviously Draken’s presence was known to him. Draken wished he’d had the same courtesy. “I merely asked her to dine with me.”
“Demanded, more like,” Aarinnaie said. “As if I could tolerate your disgusting presence for even a moment—”
“Manners, my sweet,” Ilumat said. “We are in the presence of the Queen.”
“Aarinnaie is fresh off a long road,” Draken said. The only thing keeping his temper was Bruche, chilling his arms and legs so that he couldn’t lunge at the fop without tripping over himself. “I’m certain exhaustion is affecting her tone and judgement. Perhaps tomorrow she will be better company.”
At his pointed look, Aarinnaie turned and went into the tent. Draken eased a breath. “You wish to speak with Prince Galbrait, Your Majesty?”
His words had the intended effect on Ilumat. The lord’s brows fell. “Galbrait, here? Did he turn on his people then?”
Wouldn’t he like to know.
Aye, he would.
“I’ll have him brought to my tent,” Elena said. “Come along, Draken.”
Draken groaned inwardly. She sounded like she was directing a child. But he followed, Ilumat trailing along. Draken wished for Osias and said so when they reached the privacy of her tent. Elena nodded to a young sundry Moonling slave who looked vaguely familiar. Fortunately, only a few cutwork lanterns flickered from hooks on tentpoles. Draken didn’t think Elena would appreciate his wearing the mask.
The tent wasn’t for sleeping, but for making war. A stack of rolled maps rested on a wooden folding table, weapons hung on a rack, and a cushioned chair rested on a low dais covered with rugs. Two Escorts flanked the dais, their dark eyes following Draken as he entered. Draken didn’t have so much as a boot knife on him since the Queen had caught him at his ablutions, so he ignored them.
Elena moved to sit on the chair, her chainmail clinking softly. Ilumat shifted to stand near her. He flipped one edge of his cloak back over his shoulder to show his hand resting on his swordhilt. It was then Draken saw the Night Lord pendant … or the chain to it, hanging round his neck. He’d known, of course. But the air punched from Draken’s lungs as if someone had gotten in a direct shot right beneath his heart.
Galbrait came in chains, shuffling the short steps his shackles allowed. His wrists looked raw from the ropes Draken had used, and fresh bruising stained his jaw. His armor was missing. His undertunic and trousers were sweat-stained and wet to the mid-thigh, leather boots black with wet from two days of fighting his way through the marsh on foot. A ripe, damp odor rose from him. He rubbed his runny nose on his sleeve, and stared around at all of them, looking as stricken as Draken felt.
Elena straightened her back. Ilumat looked at Draken and back at the Prince, eyes narrowed.
Draken, speak.
Draken cleared his throat. “Courtesy would be a good place to start, Your Highness. You stand on the land of this Queen and in her presence.”
With his arms shackled back and his ankles held so close, Galbrait would have to fall rather than kneel, so the Prince dropped his chin. The Escort at his side shoved him down to his knees anyway. Draken recalled grimly the first time he’d met the Queen and been treated thus.
“I come here to help, Your Majesty,” Galbrait said.
“No, you came at swordpoint,” Elena said.
Draken clenched his jaw. Not the way to garner Galbrait’s help. “Tell the Queen who has our daughter.”
“I told you. Moonlings. With their help, Korde murdered the Princess’s Mance escort and gave her to them. Not that I saw it, mind you. I’m repeating what I’ve been told.”
Osias came in, rustling the tent flap, lending a cold white light to the golden flicker of the lanterns. Galbrait turned to see who had come in and the Escort poked him in the side with the grip of his sword.
“Not this gods nonsense again,” Ilumat said.
Of course she told Ilumat. He is his Night Lord.
I’m aware. But he knew what Bruche meant. “What else do you suggest killed six Mance, my lord?”
“We’ve got a Mance here. We could ask him.” Ilumat turned as odd a gaze on Osias as Draken had ever seen. People generally ranged between adoration and repulsion when confronted with a Mance. Ilumat loitered somewhere near haughty.
Osias took a step forward, eyes swirling into storm. “It takes something rather more powerful than an ordinary mortal to kill one of my kind, if you recall, Your Majesty.”
“Like a magical sword?” Ilumat sniffed. “How do we know Draken is not responsible for their deaths, then?”
Should have seen that coming, Bruche said.
“I’ve never quarreled with the Mance. We are allies. I trusted them. I gave our daughter to them for safekeeping.”
“Didn’t work out quite the way you expected, eh?” Ilumat cocked his head.
“Rather like your giving Brîn to the Ashen, Lord Ilumat?”
Ilumat’s face greyed with anger. “Brîn was taken. The Ashen betrayed me.”
“Odd. At the time it didn’t feel like so much a betrayal as an answer to an invitation,” Draken said.
Galbrait was watching with interest.
“Enough.” Elena, irritated as only a Queen can be. “At the moment I’m only interested in the whereabouts of my daughter.”
You can take Ilumat on later. But in the meantime he had to keep between Ilumat and his daughter’s wher
eabouts. Ilumat had every reason to see Sikyra safely out of the way, or better yet, dead.
Draken twisted his head to crack his neck, trying to ease the stiffness. “Galbrait. Do you believe Korde is helping the Ashen?”
“They believe he is.”
A subtle truth. Draken thought fast. “Why did the Moonlings take Sikyra?”
“To exchange her for land once the Monoeans have taken Akrasia. The Ashen want her as Queen in Monoea.”
Queen Elena leaned forward. A subtle difference in posture, but to Draken, who had watched her and admired her, it betrayed a carefully concealed hope. “And where will the exchange take place?”
“I don’t yet know. But I know where I can find out.”
Draken growled under his breath. Galbrait fair knew where they were taking Sikyra. He just refused to say. Playing his game would best ensure his cooperation, but beating it out of him was tempting. Gods, so tempting. “Which is?” Elena asked.
Galbrait lifted his chin. “I daren’t reveal it. I’m young, not stupid. I know my life lies in the balance of your daughter’s well-being.”
Elena drew in a breath, breast rising and falling with finality. “You’ll surely understand if I keep you under guard.”
“I expect nothing less, Your Majesty.”
“If you cooperate, you will come to no harm under my care.” Elena looked at Draken as she spoke. He felt the prickle of … not guilt. But the sort of discomfort from being found out.
Galbrait lifted his chains. “Are these necessary?”
“We shall see, aye?” Draken said. He was in no mood to guard his cousin all night. Nor the next.
Galbrait swallowed, flicked his gaze between the three of them. Nodded.
The Queen gestured to have Galbrait taken back to wherever they were holding him. Draken dipped his chin to her. “If that is all, Your Majesty …”
“Draken.”
He turned back to her, waiting. His shoulders were stiff, tight.
“Is it true you’ve been killing many Ashen?”
“While searching for Galbrait, aye.”
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