Emissary

by Betsy Dornbusch

  Forty-nine great Everbloom trees had been planted thirty paces apart around the outer circle, trunks bigger than a man could reach around. Intricately carved gates, old enough to have been magicked before it was outlawed, and tall stone walls fronted the estates of Landed fortunate enough to live on Temple Ring. Narrower roadways, all paved in well-repaired greystone, led from it. They were dwarfed by King’s Lane, the wide promenade that led to Ashwyc City.

  Today it was oddly empty. Draken realized that a crowd waited further down on King’s Lane. He blinked at the flower-strewn cobbles. Hundreds of nobles had gathered to greet their procession. As they rounded the Ring and came into view, a wave of cheers washed over them. Draken’s horse tossed his head and snorted at the roar.

  Galbrait shot him a grin. “I’d have told you but it was supposed to be a surprise. Not my idea …” He bowed his head, quite formally. “Welcome again to Monoea, Khel Szi of Brîn. Welcome to these Seven Cities. Welcome to Ashwyc Palace. We await you most eagerly.”

  We? Not the King? No wonder it had taken two days to arrange.

  Galbrait spurred his horse into a prancing trot and a fresh, higher pitched cheer rose up through the nobles. More hothouse flowers were thrown before the Prince by dozens of giggling girls of marrying age. He surely was a favorite among them. The racket only slightly dropped when Draken urged his horse onto the lane. More flowers rained down, smothering the stone road before him. He lifted his chin and sat very straight in the saddle, the cold air sweeping his bare chest and inked face. His sword hummed against his thigh, as if it wanted to be freed of its scabbard. But drawing now would be an insult at best, worse: a death wish. Especially if the damned thing glowed like one of the Seven Eyes.

  The last time he’d been here, they’d dragged him down to a prison ship in chains, shivering under a moonless night sky. He’d been too deep inside his grief and shock to feel frightened. Today, welcomed like the Prince he was, his insides wound into a sickening knot. The reveled greeting only made it worse. His szi nêre moved to flank him, drawing close as if knowing he needed their guard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw ladies leaning to speak to each other; others waved to him. Lords mostly stood quite still, examining him and his party. He could only imagine what they thought of this enemy Prince in their midst: bare-chested, scarred, bejeweled and painted up like some ruffian warlord.

  Gold-peaked towers flanked the great gates of Ashwyc City, the stone and wood iron-banded to repel magicks.

  Osias urged his horse closer and lifted his chin, indicating the rusting iron straps. “Superstition,” he mouthed. His black moon tattoo stood in stark relief against his silvery skin and the grey air.

  Tyrolean drew up on the other side of Draken, though he kept a pace behind. Draken nodded, slightly relieved at having his friends flanking him.

  The gates hung open with an honor guard of perhaps two hundred soldiers in rows, faceless under full helms, every blade bared. This didn’t alarm him; it was a typical Monoean greeting to display their weapons, a silent promise of protection rather than attack. Their swords and armor shone dully, reflecting the stormy skies.

  How would Aissyth do it? Draken wondered. Slit his throat? Beheading, so his head will have its own niche? Or would he let Draken’s flesh rot from Galbrayth’s Gate?

  His horse’s hooves thumped over the big moat bridge along the outer wall—he’d never seen the bridge raised and wondered if it could be—and then inside, over another narrower bridge crossing the stream that used to run by his own cottage.

  Hardy grass spread out on either side of the road, looking like an immense parkland interspersed with growing fields, pockets of trees, and clumps of cottages. On the windward side the land ended in a low wall at the cliff. But he turned inland, instinctively looking for his cottage where it sat tumbled over with flowers by the stream. It had been small and poorly placed, but it had been theirs. Not just anyone was granted land inside Ashwyc Palace City walls. It had been his cousin’s greatest sign of acceptance, as much as he could do for Draken without causing a scandal.

  He sought the familiar—the Everbloom with the broken top, the other with the old swing, and the three Spindle Trees … His heart clenched. The cow yard was empty but for weeds. A few flowers scrabbled a living at the base of the stone foundation. Nothing was left of his life here but a burnt out shell, a chimney, and blackened tree trunks jutting crookedly into the air.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The cutstone Palace walls, towers, and battlements were built on the highest cliff of Sevenfel, which grew from the lower cliffs as if shoved up from below. Draken didn’t need his glass to know that bowmen lined the battlements with giant longbows more than sufficient to reach his location at the base of the cliff. More niches of death marred this face as well, though in the misty gloom rolling overhead, shadows concealed their occupants. Draken noticed his szi nêre and Tyrolean looking all around and followed their lead. He wasn’t supposed to have been here before. The great stone towers with their golden domes atop the sheer cliff walls was such a feat of astounding, enormous architecture, few newcomers could resist staring. Some claimed it was the largest castle in the world.

  Draken listened carefully as Osias passed beneath the cliff in case these bones would clatter at him, but the winds had kicked up too fiercely to hear. The cliff face and stone walls were as grey and forbidding as the soldiers who guarded it. Even the golden parapets were dulled by the clouds rolling from inland.

  The roar of water grew as they crossed the ground at the base of Ashwyc Cliff. The river started higher, well past the Palace on gently sloped ground, and tumbled over the cliff into sizable freshwater pools. Draken stretched in his saddle to peer ahead, shading his eyes from the rain with a hand at his brow, but he couldn’t see the river beneath the falls for the trees surrounding it, much less the bridge. A stinging rain began to fall. Everyone pulled their hoods up. Conversation fell off.

  The horses walked through the vaporous gloom, mists wavering ahead like banes over Sohalia fires. Hooves echoed on the bridge, and then the carriage rolled over, nearly soundless. They started the long path upward, well-paved and walled as it crossed the easy end of the cliff and back again to nearly level ground.

  Draken tightened again, seeing the familiar open maw of the gate into the palace proper. Spears stuck down from its mouth like jagged teeth, released by a wheel-and-weight system engineered by some long ago King. The Palace bridge was made of ancient slabs of blackened flagstone backed by more iron and wood so old it was petrified to stone-hard. The top was worn smooth by generations of hooves and boots and rough weather. An enemy ram would have to break through the stone as well as the iron and wood, providing they could build another bridge over the steep-walled river. Draken had only ever seen it up once, during the Decade War.

  Inside the keep, Draken dismounted as a groom took his horse’s reins. The cold air made his landing painful on his bare feet, though the szi nêre didn’t seem to notice. Aarinnaie emerged from her carriage, lifting her skirts and letting Galbrait hand her down. For a moment she just stared upward at the walls and the castle, her hand resting on Galbrait’s forearm. Then she blinked and took her hand back, turning her face toward Draken. The rest of the Monoean guards filed in under the gate. There was little sound but horses stamping and snorting in the wind. Galbrait had ceased his polite chatter and stepped away to speak to the guards at the great doors.

  A dull clang, as if someone had rung a broken bell, echoed against the castle walls. Every head turned toward the gate. Draken’s hand went to his sword and he turned, blood surging. The ringing turned to a rusty, stressed clanking as heavy chains protested movement. Aarinnaie moved as if to flee; Draken intercepted her. The steel spears of the gate crashed down.

  “What is this?” Draken said to Galbrait. He kept a tight grip on Aarinnaie’s arm.

  Galbrait spread his hands. “There was some talk … it’s for your safety. And ours. Brînians are not popular in Monoea, this you
must know.”

  Draken narrowed his eyes. Tried to breathe. Think. This made no sense. “You didn’t think to warn us?”

  “We didn’t think you’d come if you thought you would be locked in.” Galbrait stepped closer. “Your Highness, please believe me. You are not a prisoner here. Indeed, you are very much the opposite.”

  Draken’s nostrils flared as he exhaled. The gate had only been closed once in his lifetime, but he couln’t argue that. His gaze flicked upward. No flag indicating court was convening. Perhaps because of the rain? It was dripping off his drawn hood.

  “Are we for Court, then?” he asked.

  “No. Father wishes to speak to you privately. Please. Come inside.”

  Privately … before court? Or in lieu of it? Their trunks were already being carried into the servant’s entrance well aside from the formal one. Cognizant of the others watching, he guided Aarinnaie up the grand steps and out of the wet. The others followed in a tight knot. The steps were great slabs of white stone, reputed to have been part of a dowry of the Felspirn Princess. They sloped toward the middle, shadowed by grey grime that no amount of scrubbing could wash away. Draken flexed his hands as he climbed them. He had scrubbed them until his fingers bled on more than one occasion.

  Inside, twin fires on opposite walls warmed the great entrance hall. One immense set of steps led to a rabbit warren of corridors and other steps. Another led to the grand public halls, the ballrooms, and Court. Draken knew them all, the servants quarters, which direction to the kitchens, how long it took to run a message from the King’s study to the Queen’s private chambers.

  Swords and knives and shields strung with enemy colors hung high up on the great stone chimneys. A similar display filled the wall behind Elena’s throne. There, magic kept blood dripping from one blade eternally. Here, the weapons were simply pieces of metal and wood that enemies had gripped as they’d died or surrendered. Draken rested his fingers on Seaborn’s hilt. It might very well soon hang among the others, and Akrasia and Brîn would surely make war over it. My blade, he thought, his jaw set. Men might take it away, but the gods only awarded it once in a generation. Others were caretakers, not owners.

  Servants waited but none of them relinquished their cloaks; despite the fires the air was damp and chilly.

  Galbrait pulled Draken aside. “These guards will take the others to guest apartments, and I will see you to Father.”

  Aarinnaie gave him a sharp look. “It has been a long journey, Your Highness. Surely Khel Szi will be allowed some time to rest.”

  “A long journey means a long time for my father to wait, and he is not a patient man.” A faint apologetic smile flickered and faded. “On Monoean soil all live by the whims of the King, not the Prince.”

  Whether he meant Draken or himself by the word Prince, Draken didn’t know. He glanced about to see what Osias thought of their being separated but didn’t catch his silvery head among the others crowding the hall. Had he wandered off? Setia stayed close to Aarinnaie.

  “It’s all right, Aarin. I’ll go see the King and return to you soon.” He didn’t look at Galbrait to see if he gestured to reassure her. “It’s why I’m here, after all.” He dropped into Brinish. “Halmar, the szi nêre stay with the Szirin.”

  The words hung heavy on the air. If he were walking to his death, he wasn’t going to drag his szi nêre along with him. Halmar met his gaze and dipped his chin, a slow gesture of respect and assent.

  Satisfied, Draken turned with the Prince and walked down the long familiar corridor. They were almost certainly headed to the solarium, a feat of glazed horn windows and lush, indoor gardens that flowered in Frost and went to foreign heat-loving ferns during Trade Season. The King had liked to break his fast there sometimes but Draken had always thought of it as more the Queen’s space. He smelled the earth and damp well before he saw the doors, and underlying it, an acrid smoke. His steps slowed without his meaning to.

  Galbrait reached the doors ahead of him. “Just in here.”

  Draken entered and Galbrait closed the door behind them. The Prince stopped at the door. Draken’s eyes narrowed. Blocking it. Galbrait gestured him on.

  Draken stepped onto the paved path, examining the gardens, expecting damage, but only one section was truly gone and plowed under. The undergrowth, though … blackened corpses of plants curled against the ground under the larger ferns and small trees of the solarium, though he could see more sky then he’d recalled from before. The scent clogged his lungs. He coughed slightly and looked up, wishing for a clean breath. Condensation ran down the panes of horn and dripped from the leading.

  “It was burned once before. You would have been a child then. You might remember.”

  Draken’s attention snapped forward. King Aissyth stood on the path before him, several strides away. The king looked much the same: blond hair gone to mostly grey, beard concealing the recessed chin none of his sons inherited, thin lips pursed in a frown, eyes that had always watered at the corners. He wore a sword on his hip, as plain and useful as Seaborn, and chainmail peeked out from under his loose robes.

  “You wear a sword in my presence?” Aissyth asked.

  “It is not a simple sword to set aside lightly, Your Grace.” Sometimes he wondered that the gods had not compelled him to keep the blasted thing on him all the time. But what Aissyth didn’t know—

  “No, I suppose it is not.” The King studied Draken head to toe. “Well done. I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  “But you knew I was coming.” He felt a bloody fool standing before his king, barechested, painted, Elena’s moonwrought pendant hanging in plain view.

  “Interrogating Yramantha proved very educational.”

  “She told you who I am.” Yramantha, interrogated. Odd choice of word. She must be dead.

  “And she told me of your involvement in the plot against me.”

  Draken coughed. The smokey scent made his eyes sting. “What involvement? I haven’t been here since well before Sohalia last.”

  “The rebels mean to put you and your magic,” his watery gaze flicked down at the sword on Draken’s hip, “on my throne.”

  He stared. Shook his head. “That is ridiculous.”

  “Nevertheless, she was quite clear. It was then things started falling into place. Lesle’s murder. Your complicity after a lifetime of bearing my faith. Your parentage … why my royal cousin would ever let a man like your father touch her. Your surviving exile …”

  “Yramantha tossed me off her ship at Khein Bay with naught but the rags on my back,” Draken said. “I didn’t kill Lesle and I’ve long suspected my father of rape. Your Grace, I never asked for this sword or the magic—”

  “Do not lie to me! I know you covet my throne—”

  “I already have one bloody throne I don’t want! Why in Khellian’s name would I want yours?”

  Thunder rumbled overhead and shuddered through the sheer horn windows. That seemed to stop Aissyth, but only for a breath. “The magic you used to kill Lesle has corrupted you. You think you can control it but it controls you. It craves life. Power. And it’s found it in you. It’s made you a living, breathing heresy and you must die before it takes further root in Monoea.”

  The finality in those sacrilegious words sent a chill through Draken. There was no guiding Aissyth out of his tangled web of reason. “You brought me here to kill me.”

  The King drew his sword. “It’s a sight easier here than in Brîn. And killing you in self-defense needn’t ruin relations between Akrasia and Monoea.”

  Draken’s hand shifted to his sword, but he didn’t draw. “And if I fail to fight back? If there is no self-defense in my death, only murder? Execution?”

  Aissyth advanced. “My son is standing witness. He will back up my claim.”

  Draken made the mistake of glancing back at Galbrait. He was stoic by the door, his face a mask of judgement. The King swung in that moment, slicing Draken across the chest. He gasped as fire lit a path through
his skin.

  This was it, then. A few moments of pain and it could end.

  But Elena flashed through his mind. Rain running down her cheeks like tears, throwing her arms about him, the swelling of their child under his hand. Her whispered plea to return soon …

  In an instant his sword was in his hand and blocking the King’s next strike. The longer blade clanged against Seaborn and jarred Draken’s arm. He winced as the wound on his chest started to knit. The big paver shifted beneath their weight. He stumbled back. He would have thought it his imagination had the King not done the same. Excellent; unsteady ground plus an expert swordsman bent on killing him.

  He unclasped his cloak as he switched his balance and strode forward two steps, meeting the King’s next challenge. He had no armor, no way to block but with his sword. The King struck and he barely caught it on his crossguard, then shoved back as hard as he could. Awkward and not as powerful as he wanted, because the strike had been high-line. Still, it threw Aissyth’s arm up and made him stagger back. Draken pressed again, taking advantage of the King’s unprotected middle.

  Seaborn sliced through the robes and into flesh. Draken followed the strike with another, pure muscle memory and trained habit. Blood gushed from the King’s throat. He gaped and crumpled, robes furrowing around him. His sword thudded into the dirt to the side of the path and crushed a flowering fern.

  Galbrait shouted and rushed him, but a blue guard hidden in the foliage reached Draken first. Moving on pure energy, no thought, Draken slashed hard at the only vulnerable spot in his light armor. The man’s head tumbled off Seaborn and blood flowed as the big form crumpled.

  “Life for life.” Draken barely breathed the words but he felt the air shudder slightly. It was enough. He turned to face Galbrait, chest heaving, sword on guard, voice a low growl: “There. Your father lives.”

  Three more guards emerged from the foliage. The King moaned. Galbrait leaned back on his heels and his wide eyes shifted to his father, lying behind Draken.