“Perhaps because it announces his involvement.”
So lost in thought he’d taken them on a route near the great hall, Draken realized they were approaching guards stationed there. He grimaced under his hood, dropped his chin to hide his face deeper in its shadow, and started to turn back.
“Hie! Present yourself.” Quick footsteps strode his way.
All his mother’s effort for naught. The Guard would escort him back to the dungeon and the King would kill him quicker rather than later so he could not escape again. With a sigh, he pulled his hood back and faced the kings’ guards.
“It’s the Brînian,” one of the guards said, his tone sharp.
They said nothing of Osias. He glanced around. He’d faded into the walls again. Damned useful, that. Maybe with all his magic he should have learned how.
Draken started to back away. The Guard followed quickly. He hurried after Draken, his hand on his sword hilt. Two other guards closed in as well. “Stop. We’ve been searching the palace for you.”
“It’s him, all right,” another voice said down the hall.
Trapped.
“Truth? I’m honored,” Draken said dryly. He’d only been gone long enough for a bath and meal. His last of either, he supposed. He stiffened, readying himself for rough hands on him again, readying himself to fight. He knew he should go quietly. It wasn’t dignified, after all. Just let them do what they would do—
“Come. This way, Your Highness.”
They closed ranks around him, though none touched him. They took him toward the guest corridor and, to his surprise, one of them opened the lacquered blue doors and stepped back to admit him. Was this a concession of freedom or just a prettier prison?
He walked through to find Halmar and the other szi nêre flanking the door. They nodded to him as if nothing were amiss, as if the Prince hadn’t tried to execute him, as if Draken hadn’t spent the better part of the day in a dank cell watching a boy tortured to death. Halmar shut the door behind him as he entered.
It was a gracious, comfortable room in the Monoean style, with thick hangings flanking the windows, luxurious upholstered chairs by the fireplace, and a comfortable, sturdy dining set. Instead of frescoes, the walls held tapestries depicting Monoean heroes: Olyss, Cabe, and the martyred battle maiden: Aydra. Seaborn rested in its battered scabbard on the table next to a flat wooden box with black hinges. A scrollbox, perhaps
Prince Galbrait was at a window, his hands gripping the sill. Aarinnaie stood quietly at his side, her arms wrapped around her middle. Tyrolean had his arms crossed over his chest near the hearth. He wore all his swords. Setia curled in a chair staring into the guttering fire. The sun was slanting its final rays through the tiny leaded panes of glittering glass and the room was cold.
Tyrolean’s frown eased, but only slightly. “Your Highness. You’re back.”
“Where is Osias?” Setia asked.
“Made himself scarce when the guards found me.”
Prince Galbrait turned and strode toward Draken. He was unnaturally pale but for two bright spots on his cheeks. His shoulders remained stiff and tight. He moved like a career soldier with a score to settle.
But Aarinnaie pushed past him to throw her arms around Draken’s neck. “Where’ve you been? Are you all right?” She set him back from herself, her hands on his shoulders, and stared up into his face.
“Well enough,” he answered.
Her nose scrunched. “You smell … good. That’s odd.”
Draken ignored that, setting her gently aside to strap his swordbelt around his waist. Some of the tension in his body eased as the scabbard bumped his thigh. He gazed at the young Prince, eyes narrowed. “Where is your father, Prince Galbrait? I need to speak with him straightaway.”
Galbrait shook his head, his pale lips a thin line.
“The King has gone missing,” Tyrolean said.
Draken raised his brows. “Sorry?”
“The Queen, as well,” Aarinnaie said.
“I’m in a cell for half a day and you lose the King and Queen?”
Galbrait strode toward the table, his body still tight. He undid the latch on the scrollbox and beckoned to Draken. “And we received this.”
Severed hands from a man rested on a velveteen cushion. A ring with a skystone set in interwoven gold and moonwrought encircled one forefinger. The royal heir’s ring. The wrists had been dipped in molten metal for caps and the skin heavily waxed, so that it flaked from the ring. Calluses from swordplay marred the skin between the thumb and forefinger.
Draken swallowed, noiseless, and willed the bile down. Think, Drae. Think.
Clean, even cuts. Done on a block, likely with a sword. Some ruddy rebel bastard had gone to the trouble to make a statement with these hands.
Death, he’d seen. Blood by the buckets. Screams and the feel of his sword slicing flesh. He had just watched Grym torture Soeben to death. But this formal presentation of brutality sickened him far more.
Draken forced his voice to sound calm, as calm as he could. He had no idea how well he succeeded. “That is Prince Aissyth’Ae’s ring. But are we certain these are his hands?”
Galbrait stared at the hands and nodded slowly. “I gave him that scar, just there, on the fourth finger. We sparred before …” His voice caught. “Before he left.”
Draken gentled his tone. “Was there a scroll accompanying this? A message of any sort?”
Galbrait let the lid of the box down gently. He shook his head. His white face had paled further, if possible.
“Tyrolean, see to a drink for His Highness, will you?”
Tyrolean moved to a low table where wine was laid. He poured two goblets, and pressed one into the Prince’s hand and another into Draken’s.
“Do you wish privacy?” Draken asked.
Galbrait ’s gaze slipped to Aarinnaie’s face. “They may stay.”
Tyrolean set the pitcher down with an audible clink after filling his own cup and downing it, his back to the room.
The wine was as cool as the room but warmed Draken’s stomach. “Are there any other royals in residence whose safety should be secured?”
Galbrait blinked. “Um. It’s awkward, but your mother—”
“My mother, aye,” Draken said. “I’ve a feeling she can look after herself.”
Aarinnaie blinked at Draken, speechless for once.
Galbrait nodded but kept his attention on his goblet. “I know Father trusts her as an advisor, but I don’t know her. She was kept apart from us until the attack on Quunin on the coast.”
Draken wondered what the Prince’s opinion of the attack was, but now wasn’t the time to ask. “I don’t know her either, Galbrait. Don’t worry about offending me. And yes, Aarin, my mother is here and we’ve met. We’ll discuss her later.” He stepped closer to the young Prince. “Have you any idea who took your parents? Who sent this?”
“Lord Rinwar comes to mind.” Galbrait said. “If Aissyth’Ae is held nearby in Wyndam or down in Newporte, this could have been done and the box sent since the attempt on Father’s life this morning.” His gaze flicked up at Draken again and his face creased.
“I cannot stomach the cruelty of it, to take a man’s hands,” Aarinnaie said.
“I doubt he’ll be needing them,” Draken said. “He’s surely dead.”
She shot a worried look at Galbrait, obviously thinking little of Draken’s blunt tone. “You can’t know that, Khel Szi.”
“No. He’s right.” Galbrait swallowed down his wine and set the cup down. “It is old custom, since before our time. They will keep his head to parade about. They wouldn’t give up the proof that my … that the Crown Prince is dead. But he must be. I only wish I knew who is at the root of this.”
Draken went back to the box and looked at the hands. Steeled himself and touched them. They were cold and stiff under his fingertips, but he couldn’t tell if it was rigor or simply the effect from the chilly Trade air. The wax kept him from telling anything f
rom the skin proper, making it difficult to place the time of amputation. He closed the box and latched it.
“My sense is we should assume this delivery was planned to coincide with my arrival,” Draken said. “I’d wager the plans to abduct the King and Queen were supposed to happen a little later.”
“Why do you say that?” Galbrait asked.
“Because spacing them out induces the most terror, as if troops are circling your position and hemming you in. Every time you think you’re getting a handle on it, something else happens. Your father’s little execution scheme today may have just bumped the schedule.” If so, what was next?
“It must be all planned,” Galbrait said, sounding defeated. “Killing Aissyth’Ae. Mother and Father …”
“Which means there’s more to the plan,” Aarinnaie added grimly.
Draken nodded. “They’d never go to all the trouble of abducting your parents and killing the Prince without the throne as the final goal. So if they’ve got the King and Queen, what is next?” He paused. His mother said the rebels wanted him on the throne.
As if managing the one he had wasn’t trouble enough.
Everyone fell quiet. The fire snapped on damp wood, emitting a puff of black smoke. Halmar’s bracelets clinked as he shifted his hand to rest on his sword-hilt. Aarinnaie broke the silence at last. “With the King missing won’t rebels just march in here and take the throne?”
Galbrait snorted. It was half-hearted, but Draken was glad to hear it. There was life in the lad yet. “Ashwyc has never been taken. It’s impenetrable.”
“Unless they’ve already got people on the inside,” Tyrolean met Draken’s eyes. “As they obviously did at home. You’ve got to admit, this is frighteningly well-executed so far.”
“There’d still have to be a bloody lot of them to take the palace.” Draken set his cup down, the wine forgotten, and leaned against the table, his back to the box, his arms crossed over his chest. “But it makes sense. They need Ashwyc. They need the throne proper. No point in taking the King otherwise. He may well be a trade coin.”
“We must fight this, but my brothers …” The bump in Galbrait’s throat sharpened against his skin as he swallowed hard.
“Aye, Galbrait. It falls to you.” Draken glanced at Tyrolean. “A friend of mine once told me it is honorable to fight in the light, not from darkness. You have that chance, here, now. Take the throne. You relinquish it to the King and no one else.”
“And they will come and try to kill him. It will further draw out the rebels.” Tyrolean nodded. “Very clever, my Prince.”
Galbrait was silent for a breath. Two.
Draken gave him a level look “Your father would die to keep the throne in the succession.”
“Is it so important it remain in the family, or is it about keeping it out of the hands of the rebel Landed?” Aarinnaie asked.
“Both,” Galbrait said without hesitation—a history lesson driven into every Monoean. “Only a strong King ordained by the gods will keep the Landed and Minors from ripping Monoea apart.”
Draken nodded. It seemed simple enough, but competition between the Landed and Minors was so ingrained in Monoean culture it propped the country up better than peace did. The entire economy was based on it. Inequality drove families to give their sons and daughters to the army and navy or to make names and coin for themselves in trade. It drove people to better themselves, as it had him. But that tension required a King as ballast.
“Then you must sit the throne as regent, in lieu of the King and the Crown Prince,” Draken said. “It’s the only way to draw the rebels out and end this.”
Galbrait ’s eyes widened. “I cannot.”
The gods chose his family as royals and then let it come to this? No. Too cruel, surely. But he felt dragged into their schemes even as he spoke. “You must. Your father is gone. The Crown Prince is dead. You’re the only one of your line here.”
“There’s you,” Galbrait pointed out.
“I am a second cousin and a bastard, and disowned. It cannot be me.” He sat down and laid his arm on the table: the kindly uncle. “Galbrait. If you want your Father back, you must bring the rebels to battle. The best place to do that is here, where you have a measure of control. You can trap them here and kill them all. You have a chance to end this.”
Galbrait pursed his lips, looking abruptly like a petulant child. “But how? They won’t just come here because we call them.”
“No. They won’t. We must devise a ruse.” But what? He couldn’t count on Galbrait coming up with anything. He was still a boy really, no real perspective, no older than Soeben Rinwar had been. And look where idealism and stubbornness had gotten Soeben. A boy, dead before his time, and …
Draken narrowed his eyes at Tyrolean. “Once we gave Gusten VaKhlar’s body to his father, our enemy, and made him our friend. Do you remember, Captain?”
“I remember you bargained well with that death,” Tyrolean said. His expression was set, hard.
“The gods know me and yet they chose me,” Draken reminded him.
Tyrolean spread his hands. “I said nothing of it.”
“You didn’t have to.” He turned to Galbrait. “Have Soeben Rinwar prepared to be moved. A carriage and your best horses, something worthy of the dead son of a Landed family.”
Galbrait shook his head. “Move? Move where?”
“I’m taking Soeben home,” Draken said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Draken had to reassure himself Galbrait still had command of the palace, and the only way to do that was to get the Prince out among the courtiers and sitting on the throne. A few important Landed believed to be loyal were rounded up to see him placed there. Draken held to the background, despite Galbrait’s protests. Enough people knew who he was, and he’d only serve as a distraction. Rinwar was noteably not in attendance, though he had been invited. None wore ash on their foreheads.
Galbrait wore a fine court jacket, loose about the neck to keep his torq in plain view. He looked very young to Draken, standing on the dais, but he composed himself well.
He was honest, to a point. “My brothers are dead, and their wives and heirs. My father is missing, feared abducted …” He looked around at all of them and let that sink in, as well as the unspoken next leap that the King was dead. “My mother-Queen is quite indisposed.” Better to let them think she was languishing in grief rather than separated from her head at this point. It might reassure nobles not in the know and draw out rebels who knew he was lying.
“There is no one left but me. I will resolve these issues as best as I am able. Do not fear. Your Prince, despite rebellion and attacks, is still with you.”
His gaze slid to Draken’s face, and then he seated himself on his father’s throne.
The Landed rattled their court swords in their metal scabbards—typical, benign approval, but plenty of lips bent to whisper in ears, as well.
Tyrolean leaned toward Draken. “That went fair well. Perhaps it is a sign we are in the right on this.”
“The day is not ended. We still have to see Rinwar.”
#
“Absolutely not, Aarinnaie.”
“But I’m the best choice to go with you. No one will suspect me.”
Draken shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Not for me.” She growled softly, nostrils flared, fists clenched. Setia, standing just behind her holding her cloak for her, shied slightly. As well she should. Aarinnaie’s anger was a palpable thing. And Aarin had a point. Truth, she had once singlehandedly killed two well-armed Escorts, had survived a battle full of rabid Banes, had saved Draken’s life more than once. She could defend herself well enough. But everything in Draken wanted to protect her, keep her safe.
He tried again. “We can’t both go; Brîn might be left without an heir.”
Aarinnaie scowled. “So let me go in your stead. You’re the Szi; I mean nothing to our people and even less to these.”
He hadn’t wante
d to tell her this. He could guess her reaction. “I, ah. Left instructions that you were to take my place on the throne should anything happen to me.”
That silenced her. But only for a moment. “Oh, Draken, you didn’t.”
“I did and Elena agreed. You’re not even supposed to be here, remember? And I’m supposed to be dead by now. I need someone with Khellian’s blood to succeed me or Brîn reverts fully to Akrasia. That would start civil war, as you well know.”
“I won’t … I can’t! I’d be no good at it and, and I’m female … and … and I don’t want to.”
“Time to grow up and drop the spoiled façade. You’re as allied with Elena as I. She would accept you and make the people follow. And Brîn must get over their unfair female inheritance rules at any rate.” He shot a glare at Galbrait, which admittedly the Prince didn’t deserve.
Galbrait bowed his head, cheeks flushing. Monoea allowed both sexes to inherit equally, though some men thought women too prone to delicacy and illness to lead Landed families. The King was one such man. However, Aissyth had three sons and a bevy of grandsons, so his views were—had been—moot for the next couple of generations.
“Stay here and protect the Prince.” Galbrait’s brows raised. Draken ignored him. “And put on something appropriate. You can’t fight in that gown.”
“Please, Szirin,” Galbrait said. “I could use a friend at my side.”
That did it. She fair fluttered her lashes at Galbrait and acquiesced to Draken with barebones courtesy. The gestures were so opposite Draken reckoned one was a ruse, but he couldn’t figure out which, nor why. She disappeared into her rooms to change, Setia at her heels. With Osias still missing, Setia had little to do but return to her much earlier role as lady’s maid.
As Halmar reapplied the ink to Draken’s face, Draken asked him, “How long do you suppose she’ll stay mad at me?”
“Szirin leans more toward revenge, Khel Szi,” Halmar answered in his rumbling voice. Konnon and Galbrait chuckled low. Tyrolean, however, did not, and said nothing as they mounted and rode behind the golden carriage carrying Soeben.
“She’d drive you mad, Ty,” Draken said. “I wouldn’t wish her on an enemy, much less my best friend.”
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