“Damn you, Osias. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. What of Setia?”
Draken found he was able to pick out pale eyes within the bright form. Peaceful eyes, no storm. Just light. SEEK HER. WE WILL SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN.
A silvery, fiery arm reached toward Draken. He steeled himself against shying away. This was his friend. His good friend. Perhaps the best he’d ever known.
Osias’s hand was warm as it took his. Solid. Draken met those eyes, startled, and felt the thousand souls staring back at him. Despite it all, Osias’s beautiful face was at peace. The last of the wind whooshed upward. The sky cleared to let Khellian shine down, clear and pure, untainted with hatred and blood. The moon-storms were gone.
A breath later, so was Osias.
* * *
It took until daybreak to reorganize the troops to march on the city. Stricken by the transformation of Mance into god, they milled about until Aarinnaie and Draken took them under firm hand. His horse had fled along with many others. The tora ponies remained, including Osias’s mount, a squat, solid mare. Draken reluctantly took Bumpus back, who greeted him with bared teeth.
“How long until they start tattooing themselves with Osias’s moon and painting their skin silver?” Draken asked Tyrolean.
“Doubtless as soon as this business in Algir is done,” Tyrolean answered.
“And you, Ty?”
“I rely on all the gods, my lord. And their chosen defender.” A grin quirked his lips.
Draken snorted. “I didn’t do much but almost get killed by Korde. Osias did all the heavy lifting.”
“Do not underestimate the distraction of your death. I watched what happened. Korde didn’t mean to kill you, he meant to enthrall you. But I think he couldn’t enter your skin and stay. Whatever magic the other gods have given you, it repelled him.”
“I feel like I was run over by a thousand horses.”
“The healing was terrifically violent. But you didn’t wake. Korde fair feared your death, so much he ignored the rest of us, even the army marching on him. It was then Osias was able to attack.”
“Why would he fear my death?”
“I think not even he would go against the Warrior-God and the Mother. Perhaps he was realizing the fight was done.”
“But ours is not.”
“No, my lord.”
Draken spent the rest of the ride deep in thought until they broached the broken wall. Ashen guards stood bravely at the gates but Aarinnaie had them cut down without quarter. Galbrait protested and Draken silenced him with a glare.
He had never seen so much as a painting of Algir and nothing prepared him for the cold, sprawling filth that was the second busiest port in Akrasia. It was all hard lines and dim greys, streets teeming with hardened indifference, even to the hundreds in Draken’s new army. People simply gave them wide berth and carried on.
The custom of tattooing the eyes was less prevalent here, or maybe it was a more sundry population. The usually pale, smooth Akrasian skin was reddened and rough, lips cracked and eyes lined with deep wrinkles rather than the black tattoos.
Monoea had to split the difference between Brîn and Algir on its approach to Akrasia, and ships usually chose Brîn with its closer access to the more populated parts of the country and longer port season. After days of plodding along on Bumpus, Draken could see why. Not only was the overland distance a hardship, but the Grassland was rife with wind, rain, and mud to plod through. He couldn’t imagine travelling all that distance in a caravan of goods.
“Unlikely we’d see ships in the Rineguard Straits as of yet,” Tyrolean assured him, snugging his cloak round himself closer. “I expect we will find yet an iced-in port.”
Draken rubbed his hand over his face, bristly with fresh beard and chilled without the mask. The iridescence in his eyes shielded him from the light of day. He picked out the sun glaring through a thin spot in the clouds, gazed up at it for a long moment, and returned his attention to the scene around him with no halo on his vision, no spots. Just clarity.
While organizing the troops after Osias left them, Aarinnaie must have warned them about his eyes because the servii and others carefully didn’t stare. She kept quiet command of them and he left her to it. He drew up as they rode, not by her, but by Galbrait.
The Monoean Prince had grown a scraggly, thin beard while in captivity. Draken wondered that he hadn’t noticed. He only knew the Prince had been shaven before, a young man’s face kept smooth for courting, in Monoea where he’d welcomed Draken as emissary. The pale ruff softened his features and its sparseness made him look even younger.
“Where are they meeting? Where are they taking my daughter? It is time to tell all, Galbrait.”
“And if I do not?”
Draken was tired, so weary of talking. He drew Seaborn. “Speak now or scream for a sevennight.”
“She isn’t what they say. She isn’t important like they say—” A flick of the sword cut off his words, sliced his bottom lip. Blood welled. Bruche was that good, and despite his name, Bumpus’s plodding stride was smooth.
“She is my daughter. Right now that makes her extremely important to you.”
“At the flame tower.”
For a brief, soul-freezing breath, Draken thought he meant the tower at Seakeep. But he realized he had not studied Algir much beyond the broken wall, its harried, chill-bitten people, or the keep rising on the hill, an indulgence of long-ago wealth on the flat coastline. The tower rose as high as the keep from this vantage, yet it was further away through the city. Blackened stones climbed into the sky, its flame lonely and thin against the grey skies. The sight struck him as odd. Important, somehow. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before.
“There is no way to take all these soldiers inside,” Galbrait said. “It’s walled … a small courtyard. A flame tower. Nothing else.”
Draken narrowed his eyes. Anything Galbrait said could be a lie at this point. Or means to entrap him. “How do you know?”
“The priest Rinwar told me. It’s not meant to hold more than a dozen people at once. They might not even be there anymore.” Galbrait was already trying to talk him out of it.
“Or they might not have arrived there yet. We shall see.”
A rearguard trotted alongside Draken, turning his head, maybe looking for Aarinnaie. Before he could press ahead, Draken asked him, “What is it?”
The rider frowned at him, his brows drawn in. Bruche held Draken’s impatient tongue for him. He must have recalled Draken had recently been his commander. “Troops behind, my lord. I need to find Princess Aarinnaie.”
“Troops … Ours? The Queen’s?”
“Led by Lord Ilumat, my lord.”
“Go back and watch them for us. Report when they breach the city.” He spurred his horse ahead to his sister. “Your husband rides behind us.”
She twisted back to look then frowned. “Won’t be much help, that one.”
“Worse than that. I fear he’ll try to stop us. Will you stall him? I’ll ride ahead.”
“With who? You need me.”
“I have Tyrolean and Galbrait.”
“Three against—”
“No more than a dozen. Galbrait said the firetower is small.”
“And you believe him?”
He held a moment before speaking. “I’ve nothing left but to trust him, Aarin.”
“You need me.”
Draken had a bad feeling things would coalesce here in Algir, in this strange grey city of icy cobbles and apathetic faces. “These men need you. Algir needs you. We don’t know where things stand with the Ashen, how many ships will come. They could raze this city in a day if they have three ships worth of men. Right now we only have these servii and the others you brought to defend her.”
“And you need time.”
“Aye, to fetch Sikyra. I’ll get her and ride hard for the Queen. Meet me at her encampment. We can turn the troops back over to her command there.”
“You mea
n to return Kyra … Draken. No.”
Bruche hushed him with a deep rumble. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t start that argument, or take Aarinnaie’s side or lie his way through. He could only pretend she hadn’t spoken. “After, we’ll sort what to do about Ilumat. I won’t let you languish with him.”
She scowled. “I can take care of my own problems.”
He gave her a grim smile. “I know you can. I’m proud of you. If I haven’t said it before.”
She cleared her throat. “Don’t start now.”
“To the Queen, then, as soon as you are able.”
A long breath passed. Another. She turned her head forward and gave a crisp nod.
Draken didn’t have to gesture to Tyrolean or Galbrait as he rode ahead. They both emerged from the lines of servii to join him. The firetower was close enough he imagined he could smell the wood burning, the smoke rising off great flames alerting ships to shore.
And it struck him.
The fire burned.
Why would it bloody burn if there were no ships coming?
He kicked his horse into a gallop.
* * *
City planners must have been at work here early in the creation of Algir. The streets ran blessedly straight. Too straight, with few cross roads for block after block. The one he took led them askew from the tower. At this rate he’d have to ride straight for the harbor and take his chances with hordes of landing Ashen.
“Here.” Tyrolean gestured to an alleyway that ended up something more like two roads over, but it looked closer to a direct shot at the tower. They trotted on, the ponies surefooted over the road cobbles. When this was done, if he survived, he’d retire Bumpus, bad attitude and all.
“You’ll live the life of a king, mate.” He patted the pony, who flattened his ears.
Galbrait snorted softly.
He considered checking further on at the port first, to see if thaw had actually allowed ships in. “You’re certain the meet happens here?” he said to Galbrait.
“Dead certain.”
Oh, he’d be dead all right, if he weren’t. Still, the tower seemed too quiet. No guards at the gate. Draken frowned and dismounted. Bumpus had his strengths but carrying him into battle wasn’t one of them. Tyrolean moved ahead of him and creaked one open. All three of them froze. Draken’s back itched with alarm. But all remained quiet within.
I don’t like it.
The lack of guards? Bruche gave an inward shrug. Maybe not so odd. It is just a firetower and the port is quiet this season.
There should be people here. Moonlings. Monoeans. If they are exchanging the princess shouldn’t there be guards around her?
Maybe it’s a small operation. Less attention drawn can mean less risk.
Draken grimaced. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. His daughter should be surrounded. Ashen should have materialized the moment they approached the gate. Moonlings should linger at least. They had much to gain from the exchange. Land and autonomy.
Unless they had already been there, and used the Abeyance to escape.
They would have killed or captured you were it so.
Galbrait had spoken truth. The courtyard was really only big enough for a few horses and men, with two open stalls to his offhand. The tower rose stark and steep on his swordhand. The wooden door hung open. Odd with Newseason just coming on, though the wall cut most of the bitter sea winds. Draken pushed his cloak hood back down and peered upward for movement or light. Nothing. No arrows in the slits, no candlelight glimmering between shutters. Certainly no child’s lonely cry. Hooves beat the ground outside the tower gates. He turned, listening. Several riders ran by. His darksight caught flashes of green against the night. He cursed low. “Horsemarshals.”
“We knew they were coming.” There were very few times Tyrolean, a First Captain in said army, referred to his own army as “they.” The words dropped a block of ice into Draken’s gut. They were so few against two armies who wanted them dead. Even if Aarinnaie managed to keep command of the Kheinian troops, they might flee back to the Queen at their first chance. He could hardly blame them.
“Bar those gates, Galbrait.” Draken strode ahead, Seaborn gleaming in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing it. Bruche then, working in smooth tandem with him, wordless.
You’re welcome, mate.
Draken shoved the door open to find exactly what he expected: nothing. He swore in all three of his languages. Tyrolean strode about and returned to his side, pale face carved into hard planes of frustration. Galbrait was already backing away from Draken.
“You lied. She isn’t here. She was never bloody here.”
“They told me. Korde himself told me …” Galbrait stopped. Realized his mistake.
“Korde lied to you,” Tyrolean said.
Draken ran for Bumpus and threw himself on his back, gathering up his reins. Galbrait and Tyrolean barely swung aboard their own mounts to follow before he’d put the gate behind him. Bumpus laid his ears back at Draken’s kicks, but he broke into a gallop, a real gallop. Draken recalled little of the ride back, flashes of building and road, the great broken wall rising ahead, the rolling gait of the pony.
Movement around him stopped. All sound faded, leaving a silent pressured void. Everything lost its sharp edges. He kicked Bumpus on, not questioning why the pony still ran. And then he was through the gates and the chaotic world swept back over him, voices and his pony’s hooves and his own heartbeat.
His Kheinian troops were there, gathered around the jagged break as if to protect it. And he realized they were protecting it; they’d known but couldn’t reach him in time. Aarinnaie bolted toward him on foot and looked up, her hand on Bumpus’s neck. The pony didn’t so much as flinch.
“I kept Ilumat out. But Moonlings.” She was gasping with breath. He couldn’t stop to think why. “Taking Kyra … We stopped. The world stopped.”
“The Abeyance. The Moonlings used it against us.” Draken picked out every detail in that moment. Every useless facet of his surroundings that could never lead him to his daughter. Someone among his troops coughed. Colors: green of the Akrasians, a red scrape on Aarin’s brow, the faint glow of Seaborn still in his hand, an endless field separating him from his daughter. Bumpus snorted and tossed his mane, shaking off Aarinnaie’s touch.
They ran.
Moonlings filled the small downturn in the land, not really a valley, but enough to diminish their stature. They were backed by thousands of grey forms, spreading out across the edges of the Grassland. All was eerily quiet until a baby cried.
Heart twisting, Draken kept on Bumpus to walk through the Ashen and then the Moonlings. They parted before him as crowds had before. Why chilled him. Sikyra was lost. There was no reason to fight a defeated man. All that was left was his walk to death.
Akrasians in green made a demarcation line beyond, bared swords holding back the Moonlings and Ashen, centered on Elena. Ilumat stood amid the Moonlings, holding something… someone … in his arms. A small, sturdy figure shadowed him. Curls laced with silver. Setia, alive. Draken should have taken some ease from the sight. Instead his shoulders tightened.
Bumpus carried Draken closer, his stride unfaltering and quick, for him. “Elena, don’t trust him.”
He heard her intake of breath. It wasn’t from his words. Elena stared at her her … their … daughter. So many moonturns since Elena had put their infant into his arms, long enough Sikyra had learned to walk, could utter words. Her crying died and she tried to twist, to see him. She’d heard her father’s voice.
Draken dismounted, drew Seaborn, and strode toward Ilumat. There was no other way this could end but in Ilumat’s death. Escorts moved in his way, lined eyes narrowed, blades drawn. “Elena! You can’t trust him! Take her.”
Her eyes flicked to him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m taking the child to her.” But Ilumat wasn’t moving.
It wasn’t entirely his fault. Ashen surrounded them on all sides, pressing ag
ainst them, shifting Draken back. He cursed and Seaborn flared, but it was so tight the mob couldn’t move. In that moment of distraction, more cries rose up from behind him, from the city. “Il Vanni masacr.” “Il Vanni masacr.” “Il Vanni masacr.” The godless die.
Sikyra’s round face popped up over Ilumat’s armored shoulder. A pudgy arm and little hand reached out for him. She squealed for him, a desperate sound.
All these moonturns. Sevennight after sevennight of emptiness, of stinging sun and jagged shadows, of empty words and pleas, of blood, and that one sound made his heart fill. It slowed his blade.
“I’ll take her to safety!” Ilumat cried to Elena, moving away from Draken, deeper into the crowd of Escorts protecting them from the Ashen. “Go with your guards!”
“No!” Draken struggled against the wall of Escorts. They slashed but he broke through. The ground rumbled only slightly; their cuts hadn’t amounted to much. He snarled and spun, his sword out to warn them back. But he had no time. Ilumat was moving faster, away, not toward Elena but through the Escorts to the Ashen. Draken’s darksight picked out the priest Rinwar—a bent figure in robes. Draken wondered in a flash if he realized his god was dead. Korde was dead. Long live Osias. The bloody war was won, but not this final battle. Draken used his bulk to shove through, holding his sword up. Escorts backed away as it lit, distracting Rinwar. He was almost close enough to Ilumat to kill him, to take his daughter back.
Someone shouted Ilumat’s name from behind Draken. He didn’t look, but used the opportunity to strike. Ilumat spun, his own blade in his free hand. The motion jolted Sikyra and she gave a sharp, frightened cry, big eyes following Draken’s blade as it came down. Elena screamed. Seaborn stopped a handspan from his daughter’s face, trembling. Khellian’s light flickered along its flat. His arm was so cold he was numb all the way through his chest.
Bruche. Draken gasped in relief.
Sikyra squirmed, shoving with her little hands against her captor’s shoulder. Ilumat’s arm tightened around her. She squalled and kicked. “Fa!”
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