“Release her,” Draken came forward a step but stopped as Ilumat’s sword edge neared his daughter.
“Ilumat!” Elena, panicked.
“I’m trying to bring her to you,” Ilumat said. “This sundry is trying to steal your daughter.”
Draken growled. “I can’t steal what’s already mine.”
Elena came closer, pushing through her guards, her arms out. “Give her to me, Ilumat.”
Ilumat snarled, backing a step, the Moonlings clearing for him. His blade neared Sikyra’s little wriggling body. She shrieked for Draken. The war cries faltered, silence spreading outward from those who could see what was happening in the tight little clearing of Escorts and Ashen, though tussling and fighting was breaking out further out in the crowd. Rinwar shouted Ilumat’s name, but now desperation tinged his voice.
Elena’s face hardened. Grief and the confusion of war and her fury with Draken had surely blinded her to Ilumat’s lies and betrayal, but whatever fading trust she might have clung to vanished. Her hand closed around the sword at her hip. She was in no better position than Draken was, couldn’t get to Ilumat before he could disappear into the Ashen, and he could use Sikyra as a shield. But she didn’t move. Instead she cried out: “Tyrolean!”
It was then Draken realized Tyrolean hadn’t stopped moving, shoving through Escorts and Ashen alike, coming from behind Ilumat. He whipped his twin blades from their scabbards on his back, ducked through the crowd and struck, slipping one of his thin blades between Ilumat’s plate and kilt, stabbing straight through to the kidney, and then deeper, twisting the blade with a grunt. Then he shoved back and swung low with the other blade, sharp Gadye steel slashing the fine leather boots, hamstringing Ilumat.
The world seemed to halt, broken by a guttural, astonished grunt. Ilumat twisted his pale face toward Draken as he stumbled to his knees. Sikyra cried out, leaning for Draken. He lunged forward to catch her with his free arm, grabbing her up from Ilumat’s failing grip. She cried out again and her tiny fists clutched at his shirt. He pulled her up to his chest with one arm, warning away the others surrounding them with Seaborn. Ilumat toppled to his side, screaming until he had no breath.
Sikyra’s face pressed against the join between Draken’s shoulder and throat. No one was coming at him and all he could think of was the tiny body in his arms. He dropped Seaborn and his arms tightened around her, his fingers cupped the back of her head. He pressed his face to her hair. “I have you, Kyra. I have you.”
Ilumat moaned at his feet. Aarinnaie shoved forward, brandishing a knife.
“He’s already dead, Aarinnaie.” Tyrolean caught her and pulled her back. He bent his head to hers and whispered something. She struggled only a moment before relaxing against him.
Draken backed away, still holding Sikyra. At last he kissed her hair and lifted his head. There were noises of fighting, scuffles breaking the line between Akrasians and Monoeans, but it all soon faded again.
The Moonlings made no sound as they watched, but the world faltered into Abeyance. Sikyra froze in his arms, feeling featherlight, insubstantial. Draken grimaced. The Moonling’s power of the Abeyance. He tried to shake his daughter, but knew it was for naught. He stared around desperately. The Moonlings could kill or take anyone in the Abeyance. It was when he heard Setia’s voice he realized: the Moonlings weren’t moving either.
“It’s all right.” Setia ran at the Moonlings as fast as her legs could carry her.
Everything wavered again, making Draken’s stomach flip. She bore no weapon in her outstretched hands but power flowed, a light emanating from her. Weaker than Osias but the same sort of silvery light. In concentric circles the world took a breath and came back to life. The circle of Abeyance spiraled on Setia, now standing among the Moonlings. None of the tribe moved, held prisoner between place and time. The rest of the crowd shifted back into movement and life. Amazement at the frozen Moonlings spread through the soldiers and servii.
Draken raised his voice. If he spoke now he’d put off the inevitable. He purposefully didn’t look at Elena. “Aarinnaie, chain the Moonlings and take care to do it well.”
She was still staring at Ilumat sprawled on the ground. The white chain with Elena’s pendant had twisted around his neck as he had writhed in the mud. Blood had poured from him, but he lay still. She pulled free of Tyrolean. Her voice shook but she nodded. “Aye, Khel Szi.”
“Tyrolean, see to these Ashen, will you?”
“Aye, Your Highness.”
Tyrolean called out a command. All around them, Escorts and servii moved. More space was made. Draken knew he should fear some trick, but he trusted the Akrasians were as sick of the foreign invaders as he was. At last he turned toward Elena.
Elena stared at him, face inscrutable. She held out her sword, pointed at the ground. A servii took it. Escorts closed around her and Draken, stepping over Ilumat, where his lifeless body lay limp nearby, his mouth open, eyes staring. “Don’t speak of Ilumat. He is dead. Don’t let his life and mistakes make more trouble for you. Leave that bit to me.”
“You’re commanding me?”
“Advising you. Offering help.” Draken swallowed hard, remembering her as she wielded a sword against Monoeans when she was pregnant with Sikyra. How had he ever doubted her? “This was very well done, my Queen.”
She stared at him, right in his eyes, as she hadn’t done since they’d first seen one another again. A marginal nod. Then her gaze dropped to Sikyra and there was no more putting it off.
Draken reached down in the pouch at his belt and pulled out Sikyra’s horse. A couple of Escorts raised their swords. Draken showed them and then gave it to his daughter. She chortled, smiling into his eyes. One of her hands clutched the horse, the other tangled in his sleeve. A leather band tightened around his chest as Elena stepped closer. He had to force himself to hold his ground, though every instinct told him to take his daughter and run.
His scarred hand closed over her tiny perfect one, pried it from his arm. “Easy, love.”
Elena was close now, close enough to take her.
He kissed her curls. “That’s it. Your mumma is here.” He pulled Sikyra’s grip free and gave her to Elena. Sikyra turned to look at him, panicked, eyes wild.
“Sh.” He rubbed her arm, the one clutching the horse. His fingertips brushed hers. The band tightened. “Sh. I’ve much to do. Go on now.”
Sikyra looked up at her mother, studying her face the quiet way Elena studied most things new to her. Her face crumpled and she tried to push away from Elena. “Fa!”
Draken stepped back because if he didn’t he would snatch Sikyra back and die for it. As badly as he craved the release of death, he craved his daughter’s well-being more. He couldn’t let her watch him die.
“Take her away.” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. “She doesn’t belong here; nor do you. I’ll mop up this mess, if you’ll allow it, Your Majesty.”
Wasn’t that what he’d been doing all along? Mopping up? Ever since he was a child slave scrubbing steps dirtied by royal boots.
Elena patted Sikyra’s back ineffectually. “And then?”
He bent to pick up his sword. “And then I’ll take back Brîn.”
It was the best he could hope for. He strode away, Sikyra’s cries puncturing great holes in his heart no magic could heal.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
All around them servii and the few Brînians were taking the Ashen captive. Draken heard them invoking his name to do it. He didn’t care. Whatever worked.
Draken ignored them and walked through to his sister. The horsemarshal she was speaking to snapped to attention. She turned, brows raised. “Sikyra?”
“With her mother.”
“Draken, no.”
“You have my condolences on the death of your husband.”
Her lips parted, then shut.
“If you’re finished grieving, will you fetch Galbrait?”
Her brows climbed. “Aye, my lord. Or are
you Your Highness again?”
“Khel Szi. Bring the Prince to me.”
A smile quirked the corner of her mouth and she ran off to do his bidding, body slight but fleet through the hardened soldiers. Many of the Ashen looked mystified, or they craned their necks to see him even as the servii and horsemarshals herded them into tight groups at sword- and bow-point. Others spat in his direction, betrayed by the image created by his betters, hating him for taking command of them. Draken shook his head, wondering what they had been told of him and wondering if he should be glad he didn’t know too many details. Too many people lost this day. Half his blood-comrades, gone. Alive, after a fashion, but lost. Bruche rumbled his agreement, feeling Sikyra’s absence keenly alongside Draken.
Aarinnaie came back, dragging Galbrait by the elbow. Draken studied him. The Prince faltered, leaned back a little. He still had the instinct to run. It hung on him like a thick mantle.
“You are the rightful King of Monoea.”
Galbrait’s wry humor faltered. “So I am told.”
“These men need their King.”
His face darkened. “They’re traitors.”
“Aye. As their King, and from your actions, you are a hostile invader in Akrasia. I should put you to the sword. But because of our familial blood, I am willing to make terms.”
Galbrait blinked at him. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “What terms?”
“All may leave freely from Algir to Monoea by your will and mine, except for nobles and commanders who you will execute as traitors and our prisoners of war. I trust these terms are acceptable.”
Galbrait’s brows twisted. “They are …”
“Fair generous,” Draken supplied.
“Yes. Why?”
“Because it’s much more valuable for Akrasia to have a strong King on the Monoean throne than a dead one at my feet.” Gods, he hoped he was doing the right thing. The lad was green as Newseason buds.
The nobles and commanders were culled by Galbrait and brought to Draken personally. All in all he made Galbrait execute forty men in front of the other Monoeans. There were more in Akrasia, but Elena had troops to deal with them. Rinwar was last, staring up at him with a hard face marred with ash and bruises.
“You are the savior of magic and chosen of the gods,” he said.
“And you are a ruddy fool.” He soon was a dead one. Draken had the bodies carted to the sea.
The next exhausting day was spent sorting the injured from the able-bodied, and the enlisted servii from the previously baneridden and sending them back to their stationings and homes, if their homes even existed anymore. Geffen took command of her troops back from Aarinnaie.
Tyrolean offered to take the Moonlings to Auwaer. Draken exchanged grips with him and let him go, not knowing whether he would ever see him again. “You deserve better than serving a rough prince of a decrepit, defeated coastal city full of pirates.”
“Aye, Your Highness.” A smile quirked Tyrolean’s lips. He bid Aarinnaie goodbye with a stiff bow.
She put her fists on her hips. “Ilumat was my kill.”
Tyrolean lifted his chin. “And yet he was mine, as well, Princess.”
She scowled but, wonder of wonders, she didn’t snap back at him.
Tyrolean glanced at Draken, who suppressed a smile and gave him a nod. Aarinnaie stood for a long time, watching him disappear downland into the greening Grassland with his prisoners.
I expect we’ll see him again soon enough.
Draken ordered a horse the next morning, and went to the paddock to collect her, a fine mare. Bumpus munched new grass with the others. “Make sure he comes along and is treated well.”
The servii nodded, his confusion plain. He moved a little closer to the ugly pony, who snapped at him. “I’ll, er, see to it, Your Highness.”
“I am called Khel Szi.”
Aarinnaie was waiting for him at the tent they’d taken over. He finished throwing things in his pack and checked that his blade was loose in its sheath, not really paying attention to her.
“I came here by Reschan.” She lowered her head, then lifted it, back straight.
That got his attention. “A fair distance out of your way from Khein. Why?”
“To pave the way for you when you came home to Brîn, like I said. It took some doing, but—”
“Doing? Doing what?”
“Fighting. Killing enemy. We gave them a chase … or thought we did.”
“Instead you just followed them here. Aarinnaie, I spent two sevennight wondering where you were. I thought you were killed or worse.”
“Worse than killed?”
He gave her a look. “You do seem to attract banes.”
“There are no more banes.”
Exasperated: “But there were then!”
She shrugged. “Right. Well. Now you know. And now you can ride hard for Brîn, aye?”
“Why are you only telling me now?”
“I knew you’d be annoyed so I put it off.”
He groaned and looked at Setia. She smiled at him.
With the weather fair clear and shed of the Kheinian servii, they were able to make good time. The few breaths Draken had held Sikyra in his arms should have faded into almost a dream. Instead the memory became sharp as a dagger that stabbed deep whenever his mind wasn’t filled with logistics, fighting, feeding and leading his meager group of Brînians home. He had no idea what he’d do if he had to rout the Monoeans from Brîn and passed most of the trip worrying about that. At night though, the memories of his daughter’s voice and soft hands plagued him. He told himself she would be safe and happy with Elena. Raised up a proper Princess. All to no avail.
* * *
The gates of Brîn were open the morning they arrived and they were taken into quiet custody with no questions asked or answered. He found himself looking for Comhanar Vannis, though he knew the man was long dead from the Akrasian coup. He sat on a bench where directed, quieted Aarinnaie’s protests, and leaned on his knees, bent in fresh, surprising grief. A small hand found his: Setia’s.
They were given soldiers who took them straight to the Citadel.
The city displayed the same dichotomy. Same worn edges and rusted gilt, but battle scars from artillery marked buildings and military traffic had dug unrepaired ruts into the cobbled roadways. In the first market square they passed, several gallows at the far end hung with the dead. He stopped his horse to study the scene.
“Ashen and Akrasians and traitors,” the guard said.
“Aye, I see.”
When Draken turned his iridescent eyes on him, the Comhanar swallowed audibly but held his ground. It must have been more than just well-honed courtesy. Rumors of the Khel Szi’s odd eyes had made it to Brîn.
The Citadel walls were clean of heads and blood. It was quiet, the same as before, as if hundreds of people hadn’t died here.
“Lord Khisson will see you now,” the guard said when he recovered from his shock.
At least Khisson wasn’t calling himself Khel Szi. But then, the guard didn’t call Draken by that name either.
He hesitated on the steps, and Aarinnaie stiffened next to him. The dead were hard on his mind. But well-trained servants bowed their way into the domed great hall. No one was present. Draken released a breath and gazed up at the familiar designs, the colorful tiled floor, the dais with the throne and the table of honor draped and ready to receive Akhen Khel, its resting place when not in use. The only aberration was a smaller chair placed beside the throne. It looked well-made, ornate, and newly painted. The colors were bright and rich next to the faded, rubbed opulence of the throne.
“I’m strangely glad to see it all still standing,” Aarinnaie said.
“Strangely?”
“I used to hate this place.” She twisted her marriage bracelet. They hadn’t found the key on Ilumat’s person, nor among his things or with his servants. They hoped to find it here. Otherwise Draken wasn’t sure how they’d get it off her. Blacksmit
h, he supposed, but there hadn’t been time.
The far doors opened and a rustling announced an entrance. Draken turned, holding Bruche from shifting his hand to his sword. Khisson entered first, followed by his wife, two sons and a young daughter, and advisors. He stopped several paces before Draken and studied him, unabashed.
The invasion and ruling Brîn hadn’t treated Khisson well. His scars and wrinkles had deepened, and he’d let his hair go grey. He walked with a staff in one hand. It thumped the ground at an odd rhythm next to his bare feet, supporting a distinct limp.
“My lord,” Draken said at last.
Khisson used his staff to lower himself to the floor. One knee only. But the gesture was clear. The others behind him followed. “Khel Szi.”
“You’ve apparently done well in my absence.” He offered the man his hand. Khisson gripped his forearm and Draken helped him up.
“A matter of perspective, Khel Szi.” Khisson studied him closely, especially his eyes. “You’re alive. I’d heard, but it’s another thing to see you.”
“I trust you’ve noticed a new moon in the skies of late.”
“Aye. Bright as shined moonwrought, that one.”
Draken nodded. “Brîn still stands and the invasion is over. How did you take her back?”
“Brînians are a resolute and faithful people.”
“I never doubted it.”
“As they never doubted you. I invoked your name and they routed the bastards.”
“Well done, my lord. You’ve served Brîn and now I am in your debt.”
“We had a deal. It’s all I want.”
“Aye. We did. And I’ll pay it out. But I am still in your debt.”
Khisson searched his eyes again as if not knowing quite where to look and then bowed his head. None of the others present seemed to know where to look. Certainly not at the Khel Szi.
Draken’s heart clenched. Khisson was an ally but he would never be a friend. Draken had a god for one friend, and his only other would probably take his sister to wife and make a new life with her. He had lost all his slaves, his szi nêre, Thom and Va Khlar. Elena.
Sikyra.
Hurt ran so cold and deep through him he knew he would never be without its scars.
Enemy Page 37
