Grym shouted something indecipherable, and one of the Ashen snarled back at him. Draken growled and reached for Seaborn. His fingers closed on the familiar leather as hands pulled him back. Draken’s arm arced in a strike, holding Seaborn with only three fingers. The flat of the sword crashed into the guard’s bare head so hard it nearly made the sword leap from Draken’s hand. The other Ashen yanked on his other arm, drawing a sharp groan as his shoulder protested.
Draken swung the sword around and the flat caught the Ashen on the arm. Just a shred of a hesitation before the Ashen reached for his sword. It was enough. Draken wrenched free of him, his arms flying up into a high guard and bringing the sword down. Seaborn skipped off his armored shoulder to cut through the flesh of his neck.
The Ashen toppled. Sparks flew from the brazier as he fell into it. He was too busy dying to care.
Strength and certainty surged through his veins. Draken spun to advance on Grym, who cowered, brandishing his knife. Draken smacked at it with the flat of his sword. It clattered away. Grym shrank back. Draken grabbed him by Elena’s necklace and pulled him closer.
“Where is Prince Galbrait? Is he dead?”
“I-I don’t know. They took him—”
“Liar!” Draken pressed his blade under Grym’s chin. The sadist stepped back again, but Draken followed, the need for answers and the lust for blood warring in his veins.
“I finished with him and they took him.”
Draken narrowed his eyes. “Finished what?”
“Reminding him of his duty.”
Duty? Via torture? Draken blinked and Grym tried to step back again but ran into a bench pushed out of place to make room for the big table. He fell back, hard. Draken followed with his sword, piercing through bone and chest, blood-scent filling his lungs.
He drew a breath and coughed. It seemed to echo in the still room. Grym lay sprawled on the bench, a heavy weight dragging down the end of Draken’s sword. He pulled the blade back with a sucking sound, grotesque against the overwhelming silence. Then he reached down and pulled Elena’s necklace from around Grym’s dead neck and laid it over his own.
Smoke laced the smells of carnage. Had he truly managed to kill them all? He blinked again and turned slowly. Red-hot brands and iron pokers had spilled onto the stone floor. Fire licked at draperies, lit by the toppled brazier. The air was quickly becoming choked with smoke.
He cursed and strode to the servant’s door, worked the latch and yanked it open, but wasted no time in going back to search for keys to the shackles. They had fallen under the table. He bent, wincing as he rested his bad arm on the table to steady himself.
Tyrolean eyed the carnage after Draken unchained him. “You didn’t exactly talk your way out of this one, Your Highness.”
“Talking is overrated.” He picked up Galbrait’s sword and slung the belt over his shoulder.
“And the fire?”
“Let the place burn. I know where Galbrait is. Come.”
Tyrolean and Draken kept their swords at the ready. Draken felt naked in the wide corridor leading to the Throne Hall. He ducked in a back way, into a servant’s side room to a little used stairwell that led to the nursery quarters. He used to come through here on errands as a young slave and marvel at the soft beds and toys—actual toys for the young royals. He felt now as if the ghosts of the dead Princes might linger, drawn to happier, safer times.
The narrow, winding servant’s stair led away from the primary living quarters into a small private room that had been used to stage meals and events for the Princes in their private quarters. Draken had spent enough time there as a young slave that the room felt odd without the bustle of kitchen-maids and footmen. But empty it was, and had been for a long while, if the dust and cracked windowpanes were any indication. Draken frowned. He never recalled seeing the Palace in such disrepair.
Tyrolean’s bemused voice broke into his musings. “Not here.”
“No, curse it. I thought he would be.”
“I suppose there’s no chance you’re leading us any closer to escape?”
“Galbrait is King. The Ashen want to make a puppet of him. I cannot leave him to that.”
“With all respect, Your Highness, why not? I’m here to protect you, not rescue beleaguered foreign Princes.”
“It is the gods’ will he should rule; his line goes back through the ages.”
“I recall you arguing once against such a qualification for yourself.”
Draken sighed, impatient. “If Galbrait dies, his line dies with him, and that is going against the will of the gods, or so Monoeans believe. I don’t think even the Ashen dare to spite them.”
“No. You’re the only one who does that.” Tyrolean’s lips twitched in something like a grin. “How is it you think we’re going to rescue Galbrait? He’ll be under significant guard.”
Draken barely heard Tyrolean for the footfalls outside the heavy door. He lifted his hand to his lips to silence the Captain. Muffled voices and boots on stone passed by the door. After they were gone, he lowered his voice and met Tyrolean’s gaze with a frown. “It’s a concern, truth.”
Maybe the Prince was too injured from torture to keep under heavy guard, which would make getting to him simpler but all the more difficult to rescue. Hauling an unconscious or injured charge through the Palace unnoticed would be damned impossible. How would he get there with Ashen clogging the corridors, much less get Galbrait back out? Maybe he’d just have to drag him out the bloody window … He stopped to think a moment. Of course.
“We’ve no hooks, I’m going to have to do this freehand.”
Tyrolean arched a brow, which served to make his lined eyes only seem more elegantly expressive, despite the dirt and blood splatters on his cheek. “Do what, Your Highness?”
“Use a servant’s passage way to get to the King’s quarters and then get Galbrait to climb out the window.”
“Won’t they find you?” Tyrolean shook his head. “How do you even know where to go?”
“I know every bit of this palace, moreso even than the royals. I was a slave here. Truth, no Landed or Minor Ashen would know the passageways like I do.”
Tyrolean opened his mouth to protest; Draken shook his head. “I want to keep you in reserve should I be captured.”
All was black night outside, and still cloaked in fog too thick for the Eyes to penetrate. At least they had decent cover. Draken drew his blade and tapped the pommel against the hornpane window, spreading the crack. A horn fell to the wiry, thorny shrubs below, about a man-and-a-half of distance. Beyond, the sky was rapidly losing its glow as the sun retreated before the nightly onslaught of the Seven Eyes.
Tyrolean went to guard the door as Draken worked on the window. The cracks spread to the sill and glazing. He gingerly pulled the thin pieces away and set them on the floor. It took a little time, but it cleared a big enough opening for Tyrolean to climb through.
“You go down. I’ll go to the King’s quarters. If he’s not there, I’ll come down.” Draken paused, sheathing Seaborn to give himself something to do. There was much he could say in this moment, or nothing. He chose the latter. “Do not wait too long on me. You can make the Bane by dawn.”
Tyrolean held his gaze for a long moment, and gave him a nod. “Aye, Your Highness.”
Draken felt the same relief he’d always felt in the Captain’s presence; they were soldiers together, first. Lies meant nothing next to the blood they’d spilled together. He pushed through the concealed door into the passageway that led to the King’s quarters as Tyrolean climbed down to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Like the staging room, the passageway was dingy, unlit, and dusty. He shook his head. Since when had the servants quit using it to serve the King unobtrusively? Had the knowledge of the passageways faded with slavery? He had a moment’s fear the door leading to the king’s chambers would be barred, but the hidden wooden panel slipped open and caught on a rug that hadn’t been there when he was
a child.
Beyond that, the King’s chambers hadn’t changed much. The grey misty light from the windows, the Eyes faintly glowing through, shone in on the room. Drapes the color of dried blood shadowed the raised bed. Several chairs surrounded a cold hearth with an opening taller than Draken. A desk with a couple of scrolls and a scattering of gold coins took up the nearest corner. A weapons rack hung open and empty. The doors to the outer chamber were open, as well as a narrow entry to a dressing room. All lay silent and still.
Despite the shadows and walls concealing his view, Draken had no instinct to search the place. It seemed empty. A breath pushed from his chest, fueling a whispered curse. He turned to go, starting to sheathe Seaborn, then thought better of it. He swept the gold, enough to feed several families well for a sevennight, into his hand and opened a drawer in the desk, hoping to find more. A small scratching noise made him look up. Seaborn was in his hand before he realized.
Another scratch, and then silence. An animal, perhaps; a rock-rat sniffing out crumbs. But he eased forward just the same, unable to not hope.
A huddled form cowered in the corner behind the big bed, arms wrapped around up-drawn knees, chin tucked to chest. Faint moonglow lit blond curls.
“Galbrait,” Draken whispered.
The Prince wedged his long body deeper into the shadowed corner, if possible.
Draken tied the bag of coins to his belt and knelt on his good knee. After a hesitation, he reached out to lay his hand on the Prince’s shoulder. Galbrait trembled under his touch. Gods, what had they done to him? “Galbrait. It is Draken. Show me the damage.”
The Prince lifted his head. One eye was so bruised it had swollen shut and that cheek had been sliced deep enough to need stitches. The cuts still oozed blood and it had dried stiff along his hairline. He relaxed his grip on his knees enough to let Draken see his bare chest bore similar cuts, deep enough to bleed well but only through flesh, not scoring bone. Not life threatening, unless swordrot set in. He needed treatment soon, a salt bath, alcohol, and stitches. He wouldn’t meet Draken’s gaze.
“I’ll take you out of here,” Draken said.
“I cannot … I must stay.” Galbrait shook his head.
Draken ignored that. The internal bar on the door had been removed; the more sophisticated lock had been smashed and disabled by a hard blow. He didn’t dare test it, but he’d lay good rare it was barred securely from the outside. He heard soft voices in the corridor, the shifting of someone in leather boots. Guards. He cursed under his breath, pulled the inner doors shut to muffle their voices, and returned to Galbrait. As he approached, Galbrait shuddered and dropped his head again. Damn, the slightest noise had him cringing.
“Look at me.” Draken tried to steel his voice to calm. “What did they tell you?”
Galbrait’s good eye blinked and skittered from Draken’s intent gaze. His voice was dull, flat, the words rote. “My brothers are dead. My family are all dead.”
“I’m not dead, cousin. I am here, with you. What do they want from you?”
Galbrait blinked and looked up at him. His voice strengthened, but also sounded more desperate. “Not me. They want you to be King.”
Alarm breathed on the back of Draken’s neck. “Ashwyc is taken, and when news spreads, Sevenfel will erupt. Prince or King, you cannot stay here. You must come with me.”
Galbrait swallowed. His shoulders came up as if the motion pained him. Seaborn’s light betrayed the ligature marks above his torq. Grym had nearly strangled the lad. “I can’t. Don’t you see? I must take the throne, even … even …” A strangled cough cut him off.
Draken cast about the room for water, wine, anything. A tray on the low table by the hearth. Maybe from last night. He strode to it, poured out cold red-tea, and brought it back. Galbrait didn’t reach for it. Draken lifted his hand and pressed his fingers around the cup. “Drink.”
The Prince coughed as he tried to swallow it down, and gagged a little. But he drank. “I cannot leave the Palace.”
“Just for a little—”
“No. A King has to be here. You know that. You can’t make me go or there are no more kings.” His eyes were wild, his voice frantic.
“Be easy. That’s just legend. I’m taking you to help you, aren’t I? Together we’ll get Monoea back,” Draken said, though the shreds of an idea were occurring that had little to do with the Monoean throne. “But we cannot do that cowering in this corner.”
Galbrait licked his bottom lip and winced. It was cracked, stained crimson from the bruising and the red-tea. Fresh blood trickled down his chin.
“Are you a child or a man, Galbrait? A coddled Prince or a King? Here, now you decide which you shall be.”
Draken dragged his thumb over the loose bit of leather wrap on his sword grip. The metal pommel warmed against his hand. He couldn’t allow Galbrait to sit the throne as a puppet. He couldn’t leave him here. The city would erupt with him gone and presumed dead, but it would give the Ashen remaining here something to deal with.
The Prince pushed his shoulder against the wall, as if he’d like to disappear within the stone. Tears slipped from his good eye, glinting against his cheek in Seaborn’s unforgiving light. He drew a shuddering breath. It whistled faintly in his chest. But he didn’t fight as Draken pulled him to his feet.
“Can you still climb the walls as you did when you were younger? Can you escape the City?”
Galbrait’s lips twitched in pain as he got to his feet. “There’s a gate … in the woods, inside a springhouse. Leads to Kordewyn’s park. It’s quite hidden. Only opens from this side.”
Draken wasn’t surprised. The royals wouldn’t leave themselves with no escape from the Palace City. Since discovering the doors, he’d wager a half-dozen such gates existed. Draken strode to a wardrobe and tossed him a shirt. “Get dressed. It’s cold.”
Draken cracked the transluscent horn panes, pulling them free of their leading, which tore aside easily enough. Galbrait pulled his father’s shirt on, buckled on his sword brought by Draken, and slung a cloak over his shoulders. He edged down the wall, holding onto the stone with his fingertips. Draken held his tongue despite the painfully slow pace. He’d closed the shutters over the broken window. Let the bastards wonder where the Prince had gone, at least for a few breaths. They needed every stride of a head start they could get.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The fog was starting to dissipate, letting the Eyes shine their cold light into the alleyways and streets of Kordewyn. It was active, but quiet. Everyone was wrapped in cloaks against the damp chill as they hurried to their destinations.
Grand merchant houses with shuttered windows presided over deep vaults piled high with gold and coin. Draken had heard once that a Wildes pelt trader had a vault so overflowing that he’d buried his cheating wife and her lover alive in it, to suffocate and die under the weight of all that gold. Despite abundant witnesses and an alleged drunken confession, the pelt trader was so influential no one had ever bothered digging them out.
The city gates were open but still well-guarded. Draken watched them from a distance, thinking of their followers from before. The last thing he wanted to do was alert the city that the Prince … the King … was wandering Kordewyn at night.
“Draken.” It was the first word Tyrolean had said since they’d met him at the bottom of the Palace wall, darted across the grounds, and stole through the woods to the gate in the springhouse.
He looked at Tyrolean and shifted his hand from his sword hilt to tuck a thumb in his belt. A stiff expression concealed Tyrolean’s worries; Draken matched it. Galbrait looked like a broken horse. His shoulders sloped under the King’s fine shirt and cloak, his blonde hair still matted with blood, his bruised face tipped to the ground. Occasional shivers took hold of his body. Shock, maybe. In a day the Prince had lost his King, his family, his dignity under torture, and his throne. Draken reached up and pulled the Prince’s hood up. Galbrait didn’t lift his head.
He thought what to say to comfort him but came up empty. The torq was hidden by his cloak and the bruising concealed his identity well enough—King Aissyth would barely have recognized Galbrait if he’d still been alive to do so.
The thought sent a wave of impatient anger through him. What in Khellian’s name was Draken to do with the Monoean Crown Prince? Was he to stay here and stop this bloody revolution when all he wanted to do was set sail for Akrasia, for Elena, and spare them the coming war? He cast a resentful glance skyward, but Khellian hadn’t appeared, and wouldn’t until Zozia had passed the zenith during Trade. The war god never gave Draken any answer but killing, at any rate.
Then he had the same disconcerting thought as before. It lit a fire of nervous doubt in his belly, something that made him feel as if he might split in two. There was a way. He could use Galbrait … he still needed the Prince to save Brîn and Akrasia.
“Are you well, Your Highness?”
Likely Tyrolean thought Draken was about to lose it, go mad or worse. Draken sighed and tried to look in control, since he couldn’t manage Princely at the moment. Manic worry felt like the slithering of a bane through one’s veins. Succumb once and he was fair vulnerable ever after.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Come.”
When they reached the guard, he gave them a tired look and then straightened with a frown. “You’re Brînian.” His eyes narrowed. “And Akrasian. What business had you in Kordewyn so late at night that you’re skulking through the gate now?”
Draken held his temper with some difficulty, gripping his belt rather than letting his hand stray to the hilt at his side. His fingers bumped into the bag of coins tucked between his waist and the leather. He pulled it out, digging within, and drew out a gold King. “I’m rather in a hurry and my business is my own matter.”
“And who’s that?” the guard gestured with a sharp jerk of his chin at Galbrait, still huddling in his cloak.
“My guide.”
Emissary Page 29
