“Korde has surely damned us, then. If the ships leave we’ve no prayer of catching them, not with the Trades behind them,” Tyrolean said.
“Nor can we warn Brîn,” Halmar added.
Osias shook his head. “We must get to the docks and try to stop them somehow.”
Draken looked down at Galbrait’s still form, breath barely moving Setia’s hand resting on his torn body, and he thought of Aissyth. His cousin-King had held the safety of Draken’s people in his dead hands. “Aissyth was going to reverse the orders.”
Sikyra pushed closer. “Galbrait yet lives, the rightful King. He can stop the orders. Kill me for him.”
Aarinnaie shook her head. “My Lady, no. That’s not what I meant—”
Sikyra ignored her. “Please. Draken. Let me do this for him. For you.”
He stared at her, incredulous. “For me?”
“For your people. For all the people.”
Gods, do not ask this of me. He shook his head, wordless.
“You must. Please, Your Highness.” She stepped closer and looked into his face. Concern and age lined it. “Let me do this thing for you, for all I have not done.”
“Your death is no small thing,” Draken said.
“I am small compared to the Crown Prince, to the King, to the entirety of your people,” Sikyra said.
The words escaped before he could stop them. “Not to me.”
She drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes glistened in the torchlight. A wavering smile crossed her lips. “Aissyth once saved my son, Draken. The least I can do is return the favor.”
Draken blinked several times, drew a sharp breath. Again words escaped him without his meaning to speak, as if whatever god owned this cruel jest had taken possession of his tongue. “You’re certain of this?”
She reached up to touch his cheek. Her hand was cool, smooth. “I’ve known no truer thing since I heard your first cry.”
He eased a breath from his chest and looked down at the Prince. Osias knelt by him and felt for a pulse. “If you do this thing, you must do it quickly.”
Sikyra spoke again, softly, so that maybe only Draken could hear. “Let me help you this one time. Revive Galbrait. Help him stop the war between your nations.”
Your nations. None were his, not by rights. No amount of magical approval from the gods made him anything but he was: a half-breed ex-slave bastard with more blood on his hands than a Monoean sadist.
A pall of silence held reign in the tight, bloody tunnel. The only thing breaking it was the rasping, weak breath of the dying Prince.
He gave his mother a look, maybe pleading, maybe vacant, if how he felt was any judge. She’d taken hold of his arms, her hands slim but strong on his biceps. He pulled free gently, turned, and thrust Seaborn into Galbrait’s chest before he had more time to think about it. Seaborn flared in his hand, shedding cruel godslight over dirty, strained faces. He wondered if any of them were breathing. He certainly could drag no air into his aching chest.
He turned back to his mother. His eyes stung, cold sweat prickled his back.
“Aissyth spoke true. You deserve more. You always deserved more. You’re a good man, Draken.”
He just stared at her, unable to speak. She couldn’t be further from the truth, but even he wasn’t dishonorable enough to dissuade a mother’s delusion of his son’s worth at the moment of her death. She deserved at least that.
She reached out and straightened Elena’s pendant around his neck, looked at it. “This is your Queen?”
There was no air behind his answer: “Aye.”
“Your lover?”
He swallowed. “She is with child.”
A tremulous smile flitted across Sikyra’s lips. She squared her shoulders. “Now, my son.”
His stomach twisted painfully, every part of him screaming to stop, not do this. Draken took her by the shoulder to brace her, met her eyes. She gave a little nod and reached up to wrap her fingers around his wrist. How could he think of killing her? But his arm was already pushing forward. The point made a little wet sound as it split her flesh. Seaborn slid inside her chest, fitting there as if she made a new, clean sheath.
“Life for life …”
Her lips parted. His hand tightened on her shoulder as her weight leaned into the blade. She blinked, her focus slipped away, staring into some unfathomable darkness beyond, and she slumped against him.
He swallowed back the bile and closed his eyes. Someone … Halmar … pulled her away gently, leaving Seaborn in Draken’s hand, glowing with magic through the blood. Scrolling lines crawled across the blade as the magic took hold, and then faded just as quickly. Elena’s pendant lay cold against his chest; Seaborn weighed heavy in his hand. He felt the ghost of his mother in his arms, heard the echo of her voice in his ear.
He heard a cough, looked up. Halmar laid his mother gently down on the floor.
“Father?” Galbrait, his voice whispy, but he was moving. Breathing. Tyrolean knelt by the Prince and spoke lowly, something Draken couldn’t hear.
Draken stepped back, looked fruitlessly for something to clean his sword of his mother’s blood as if it would cleanse his soul of it.
Aarinnaie moved to his side and wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Be easy, brother,” she whispered. “You did as you must.”
Everyone watched Galbrait, but Draken stared at his mother, limp on the floor. Halmar started to lay a cloak over her; Draken shook his head. It was no use now. The ugliness of her death was locked into his mind’s eye.
Galbrait sat up with Tyrolean’s help and looked around at the carnage. “What happened?”
“You died. Draken brought you back,” Aarinnaie said.
Galbrait blinked at her, and then turned a narrow-eyed gaze at Draken. His hand traveled over his middle, where the wound had been. “What? How?”
Draken ran his hand over his forehead and hair. It was sticky with sweat and worse. He needed another bath, badly. “We don’t have time for this. Galbrait.” He did his best to gentle his tone. “Your Majesty. Your father is dead. You are King.”
He waited for the news, and all the meaning it carried with it, to sink in. Galbrait gaped at him. No tears, no anguished cry. Whether he’d loved his father or not, the Prince knew it wasn’t the time. “Mother?”
Draken shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Galbrait started to climb to his feet. Tyrolean grabbed his arm to steady him. “Be easy. You’ve had a shock.”
Galbrait shook loose, passed a couple of moments swaying, and swallowed when he saw Sikyra laying dead behind Draken. “Your mother died as well.”
“We must go,” Draken said. “Down to Sister Bay.”
“To the Bay? No, I have to go back to the Palace, to, to …” The Prince swayed a little again and this time didn’t shrug off Tyrolean’s arm under his. “To take command.”
“First, Sister Bay,” Draken said firmly. “Your Father ordered warships to depart for Akrasia. You’re the only one who can stop them now.”
“He …” Galbrait shook his head. “I cannot. I must get back to the Palace. The Ashen will go there.”
“No one has breached Ashwyc since it was built.” Despite his trying to arrange that very thing today, Draken had no time to argue with a Prince who had brought a stubborn streak back with him from the dead. “Tyrolean, see to the Prince, will you? This way.”
He turned, looked down at his mother once more, fixing her features into his memory, swallowed hard, and walked on, sword out, ignoring Galbrait’s protests.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Newporte’s crooked buildings trapped the unseasonable chill alongside the scents of trash, rotten fish, and stale cooking odors. Every nose was red and snuffly. The poorest city in Sevenfel, her narrow streets were mostly pedestrian, clogged with the usual Tradeseason crowds. Pavers and cobbles had buckled from the constant freezes and thaws. It seemed someone was always tripping in front of Draken. He kept compulsively glancing toward Sister Bay,
scanning the fog-clad waters for the Bane and for Monoean warships setting sail. But he could make out little through the low-hanging haze.
Galbrait didn’t help matters. They’d stripped him of his bloody shirt and wrapped him in a serviceable, fairly clean cloak from one of Rinwar’s dead guards. It covered his torq but couldn’t hide his obvious impatience, which lent itself to the haughty manner of the Landed. He shoved between the people and kept close enough on Draken’s heels to trip over them. The rest of their little party looked ragged and battleworn, even Osias, though they’d managed to wipe off the worst of the blood.
“This is madness,” Galbrait said. “It’s too late. It must be. We spent half the day fighting already and now this,” he gritted his teeth and edged between two women dragging stubborn goats, “We’ll never make it in time. And why would they listen to me anyway? The King is dead and—”
Draken lifted his hand to his mouth. “Shh.” Tyrolean glanced around to see if they’d been heard, but the people were all muttering among themselves, taken by their own concerns.
Galbrait gave Draken a look, abashed, wounded.
Draken relented, quietly. “You’re our best hope.”
“Aissyth’Ae—”
“Is dead,” Draken said through gritted teeth.
Galbrait winced. “We don’t know that. And we don’t know if the Landed’s battle commanders will accept my orders any more than they accepted Father’s.”
Gods, had he taken no truth from those gilded, waxed hands? But Draken couldn’t get into that out on the street. His patience ran out. “Aye, it’s a point. You’re certainly more hindrance than help to me at the moment.”
“You can always kill him again,” Aarinnaie suggested in a syrupy tone.
Her upset from the tunnels seemed to have dissipated in the open air. Or maybe it was pure bravado. Whichever; he appreciated her steady hand. He couldn’t manage another panicked royal at the moment.
Galbrait frowned, but he stopped talking.
Tyrolean pushed closer. “We’ve followers.”
Draken nodded. He’d left the watch to his szi nêre, and had guessed as much since Halmar had bid Konnon to drop back several paces as rear guard. “Keep close, Aarin.”
She gave a haughty sniff, but did as he asked. Konnan and Halmar brought up the rear, and Osias strode ahead to take the lead, Setia at his heels. Maybe the Mance could suss out the best route or something.
“You, as well,” Draken muttered to Galbrait. “You’d make a pretty prize.”
Galbrait snorted, his hand shifting to his sword hilt. “I’d like to see them try.”
Draken returned his attention to avoiding errant cobbles. Invading Rinwar’s house and killing masses of guards, not to mention dying and being brought back to life, seemed to have unreasonably emboldened the young Prince. Draken hoped there wasn’t a heavy price to pay for that audacity later. Of course, with the gods in command, tarrifs on confidence always ran high.
And magic as well. The memory of his mother dying in his arms stabbed at him. His blade slipping through her flesh, her warm hand on his cheek and her weight slumping against him, her last breath whispering between her lips. His stomach twisted. Gods willing, he’d already paid his due.
Draken looked for the tall cargo lifts and masts marking the harbor and cursed softly; it was easy to get turned about in Newporte. He wondered if there was a straight road or alleyway in the whole damned city. Just there … he led them down an alley, the stink of food cooking and ales brewing assaulting them as they passed. Aarinnaie wound her scarf around her face. Just as well. He didn’t want her challenged and she might well be, foreign and slight and bristling with enough weapons to turn heads. He’d hate for her to hurt anyone.
The alley ran long and in the correct direction. He wondered if it were better to stick to it as long as he could or rejoin the crowded streets. Alley, he decided. It was quicker and they could likely best anyone who attacked.
“Heed, what is this?” Galbrait slowed his pace.
A wagon with a broken axle blocked the alley. About a dozen people stood around it, using it as an excuse to take a break and gossip.
“Go back, Khel Szi?” Halmar cast a glance over his shoulder. Their followers, a few youngish dockside toughs, hadn’t dared the alleyway yet.
“No. Through. We’ll have to move the bloody thing.”
Truth, it’d be a service. The wagon blocked most of the narrow road, too. He tried to shove between the edge of the wagon and the corner of the building, but couldn’t fit. The people around it stared at him, quieting. For a moment surprise took him. Newporte was used to foreign traders eating, drinking, and whoring in town. He’d rarely been stared at down in the city. But then he recalled his face had been inked again and his cloak parted to reveal his bare chest and expensive moonwrought pendant. He doubted he looked a typical trader, even in Algir on the Hoarfrost in Akrasia, where many rich Brînian traders anchored at port during Tradeseason.
“Need help?” Galbrait asked them affably.
The people gave him blank, confused looks.
Draken thought about what they were seeing. Obviously well bred, lordly features, body broadened by good food and strength training, cheeks blooming with good health. He’d slipped into his noble persona as easily as throwing the stolen cloak over his shoulders. He wore it well. Draken wondered if he’d ever radiate nobility as Galbrait did. Royal blood might run through Draken’s veins, but it hadn’t been instilled in his body and manner. Still, the men and women by the wagon must be wondering what a Landed must be doing down in Newporte with a foreign party.
Draken jerked his chin without waiting for an answer to Galbrait’s friendly offer. Halmar and the other szi nêre shifted forward. They braced their brawny bodies, blood-stained but stinking no worse than the locals, against the wagon and shoved.
It moved only a hand’s width before snagging on more heaved cobbles.
“We’ll have to lift it, Khel Szi,” Halmar said.
Draken scanned the faces. Most were ruddy from the cold. Noses ran and a few of them coughed. “Who owns this wagon?”
A paunchy man with narrow shoulders shifted forward, rubbing his sleeve across his veined nose. “S’mine …” His bemused, rheumy gaze flicked over Draken and he settled for, “my lord.”
Draken was used to such examinations from a lifetime of being the only citizen with dark skin at court. This time he was bare-chested, speckled with blood, face ink likely smeared. He spoke before Tyrolean could jump in with an admonition to address him as Prince.
“We’ll need your help,” he said to the gathered people. “It must be lifted and moved to the gap in buildings there.” He directed them with his bloodstained fingers until he felt they had sufficient manpower to move the thing. “No Ty,” he added quietly in Brînish. “Watch the Szirin.”
Tyrolean nodded. Aarinnaie’s hood and scarf hid the scowl that was surely there. A few questioning gazes went her way; doubtless the locals thought her a stolen whore or some other slip of trouble. Galbrait gave Draken an unreadable look, but climbed over the wagon in order to join the Monoeans.
They shifted into position, no one questioning. Others cleared the road so they’d have space to work. Together they heaved, grunting, shifting the awkward burden back from the entrance to the alley. Even the wheels on the working axle didn’t move easily. After what seemed to take the whole bloody day, they got the wagon out of the way of the alley and most of the road. Someone brought out a flask. Harsh on the throat but everyone had a swallow. To do less would be the height of rudeness. As Galbrait drank, his collar separated to reveal the skystone torq about his throat.
The man next to him stepped back, blinking. “Your Highness. I didn’t know or I would have given you proper respect.”
Draken suppressed a curse.
“I’m on an errand for the Crown, one that requires my obscurity. I trust you will keep my presence secret?” Galbrait forced another smile. The people murmured
amongst themselves. The man nodded, gaping, then backed another step and dropped his chin.
The Prince handed the flask back to its owner and turned to go. Draken nodded to the men and strode after him. The others hurried to catch up. Aarinnaie stayed quiet, but she kept close on Galbrait’s heels.
“I’d have given the man with the broken wagon a coin to have it repaired, but surprisingly, I forgot my purse.” Galbrait glanced at Draken, who gave him a perfunctory nod.
“Money won’t buy your way out of a battle,” Draken said.
“Not always, no,” Galbrait replied.
“Do you think they will stay quiet?” Tyrolean asked Draken quietly as they broached anther alley.
He snorted. “No. We must hurry before their tales catch up to us.”
They were still so far from Cold Bank. If people learned of Galbrait’s presence in Newporte, they could do anything from mob him admiringly to attempt abduction. At best, they’d slow their progress to the docks. Draken strode on, suffering the terrible certainty they were already too late.
#
Draken could barely see ten steps ahead. Fog from Sister Bay closed around them, blurring Newporte’s dirty edges, smothering some of the foodstuff and rubbish reek with sea scents, and seeping against Draken’s bare skin with an icy breath. He wished he was able to buy a woolen tunic or cloak, but like Galbrait he hadn’t brought any coins to his battle with the Rinwars.
This close to the water lapping against the piers, the fog swirled and shifted like live things watched them from within it. They found a dockmistress at one of the ferry piers. The woman was pale as whitecaps with raw spots on her cheeks from the chill wind coming off the Bay, and she didn’t rise from her bench inside its protective shed. A big shapeless cloak was tied under her chin. She clutched it closed, but it didn’t hide her fever-tremors. She sniffled at them and frowned.
Draken frowned, too. She ought to be abed. He thought of the snuffling wagon owner and the other coughing locals. Was the whole of Newporte ill? “Coldest Tradeseason I can remember. Everyone’s got chest-rot.”
The woman nodded and pulled her cloak about her a little tighter. She asked in a croak that set her coughing, “What is your need?”
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