For Draken’s part, he took his turn at guard and spent time in the aft cabin muttering over maps of Akrasia with Tyrolean and Bruche, working out where the Monoeans would land, which town they’d attack first, and how to best stop them. He also had ordered the prisoners given less water than the first day. Bruche thought it best to keep them weak and half-sick and Draken agreed.
Galbrait relieved Draken’s worries; he emerged from the cabin the next morning with his back straight. A line of stitches marred his head, bruising spilling out from the wound like mud stirred from the bottom of a clean stream. His torq with the skystones glinted in the morning sun. He’d scrubbed his hair and body clean. Despite his lack of fine clothes, he looked every inch a Prince.
Or King.
Draken held back while Galbrait waited quietly to get their attention. They noticed him, in small groups at first, and edged his way. A couple bowed their heads to him but stopped when they saw no one else did.
“You know who I am. You might know I am the last of my line. Our country is in revolution and they killed the rest of my family, tried to kill me.” Galbrait paused. “You were on your way to an unauthorized attack. Do any of you know where your orders came from?” A rough silence, broken only by a couple of coughs. Several heads dipped, not out of respect but to avoid the Prince’s gaze.
Do you think they know? Draken asked Bruche.
I think they won’t tell, the spirit replied.
“It matters not. I have the blood of kings running through me, and though I wanted none of you, here you are.”
“It’s why there’s a rebellion, that arrogance,” someone called from the back of the group. “That and your father’s.”
“My lord father is dead,” Galbrait said, “and it was a rebel sword that did it.”
“Tam’s right,” another called. “Arrogance!”
“Silence.” It was a low shout but it carried through the crowd and rigging noises and the roll of the waves. Draken had a deal of practice at being heard at sea. Heads jerked toward him.
“Whatever it is, it is done,” Draken said. “Kneel.”
They stared at him, incredulous to a man.
“Kneel or I shall throw you over myself. You all swore to his father once, my cousin. He is dead, and Galbrait is his heir. Kneel.”
They stared some more and then the early ones who’d dipped their chins to Galbrait dropped to their knees. Faces red, muttering, the rest slowly followed suit. Galbrait waited, staring down at them, silent. At last he looked at Draken. Bruche groaned. The lad looked as if had no idea what to do or say next. But he spoke.
“I own you by blood and birthright. Do you swear yourselves freely to my service as well?”
There was a mumble of agreement. Draken studied the faces to make sure they were all at least pretending to pledge to Galbrait. His fingers twitched, anxious to find an example of what happened to those who disobey. But they all asquiesed.
“Our people have carried war to Akrasia’s shores. They have attacked the Prince of Brîn in these efforts, nearly killed him, and me. Despite this, my cousin has twice drawn me from rebel swords and Ma’Vanni’s embrace.” Galbrait turned to Draken and knelt, moving slowly and stiffly. “I pledge myself to Prince Draken, who gave me new life. I am no King, nor Prince. Not any longer. I am a soldier, if he’ll have me.”
Silence. The Ashen stared at him in shock. Then a rumble of anxious dismay rose up from them.
Draken stared down at the bright head before him. Even the waves seemed to go quiet in the wake of this news. His body tightened. He didn’t want this, another slave to the whims of the gods. Damned bloody fool.
Draken, use him. He just swore to you. You can use him to stop this war on Akrasia.
How? He’s just given up all claim to the throne.
He can’t disavow his own blood anymore than you could. When the time comes, I have a hunch his loyalty will be very valuable.
Gods curse him, Bruche was probably right.
Draken laid Seaborn on Galbrait’s shoulder, hating himself as he said the words, “Rise and welcome to my service, Galbrait of House Khel.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Anchoring at Khein was rough, hardly the fair bright waters and peaceful skies of his exile landing. Draken glanced up at the grey skies and a couple of drips snuck past the hood of his oiled cloak. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “It was raining when I left, too. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the gods are displeased with my being here.”
Or with that trick you pulled on the Monoeans. Hardly keeping with their intent of your new gifted ability of healing.
“Not every weather event hinges on your decisions, Khel Szi.” Osias shook his head. “That was Korde displeased with me.”
At least the moons weren’t blood red. “I’m the one who cut your fetter, remember?”
Osias chuckled low. “I know you resent the gods’ favor, Draken. But it is far worse to be out of it than in.”
“Tell that to Bruche, who isn’t getting his ‘well-deserved rest,’ as he likes to put it.”
It is well deserved. What it isn’t, is happening.
Osias gave him a slight grin as if he’d heard the swordhand speak. He’d relaxed more the closer they got to Akrasia. Never mind that they were still a whole country away from Eidola. But then, perhaps he wouldn’t be going back there.
“Do we really need to go ashore tonight?” Aarinnaie huddled under her own cloak.
“They’re starving and dehydrated. We need to get everyone off the ship and onto land. There will be provisions enough at Khein for all.” He glanced back at the Monoean soldiers sitting in rows in the stinging rain. This was the third day of it. The Monoeans, weakened from their dumping into the sea, harsh sun, and days without proper food and water, were already getting sick. He wished for Thom, who could manage them with barely a blink of his one eye.
“Who will guard them while we go?” Galbrait asked. “What if they take over the ship and run? We should bring them.”
Draken regarded the young Prince. What had he been doing in the Norvern Wildes for all these years? Not learning to care for his people, that was certain. Did he not recognise how poorly they were?
“Most of them are too weak to walk over to the rail to take a piss,” he said dryly. “I think Joran and the ship are safe enough from mutiny.”
“We have greater concerns, Your Highness. Khein is a well-known stronghold. If the Ashen fleet came this way—and it’s likely they did or at least dropped some soldiers here—it could be under siege,” Tyrolean said.
“Or worse,” Aarinnaie added, as if it needed to be said.
Osias stared out at the dark shore. The forest sprung from the ground like a living shadow, leaves and branches wavering in the rain and breez. “Ashen might fill those woods. We wouldn’t see them until they were upon us.”
Or Moonlings, eh? Bruche said.
And their Abeyance, Draken answered.
Even they wouldn’t dare use it against you.
Draken wasn’t so sure about that. He hadn’t forgotten Parne, nor the reports of animals killed along the border. Things here could have gotten very worse in his absence.
That thought didn’t make the trip from ship to shore any easier. Draken and Tyrolean fought the sea with their skiff oars until Draken’s shoulders ached. Bruche had to numb his bad one with cold to carry him through. Sickening swells pitched and rolled the narrow skiff. Everyone was tense and wet by the time Tyrolean jumped out to haul it to shore. They gathered under the thick tree canopy to talk.
“I can find us the road, but Draken is right. We need him to get into the gates of the fortress.” Osias looked all around, walked a circle around the little party, his head up, listening. Rain pattered the ocean. He gleamed in the dark, his silver hair slick and shiny.
Setia had her arms wrapped around herself, holding her cloak tight about her, but her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air. All Draken smelled was damp, bu
t he felt a trepidation he thought he’d left behind in Monoea. “Let me guess. You sense Moonlings.”
Osias nodded, still staring all around. “Just watching. For now.”
Draken wished for horses a short while later as the thick, wet foliage clung to his cloak. As they made their way through the woods the rain eased and a bit of moonlight broke through the clouds, revealing their strained, dirty faces. Every now and then a big leaf overhead would dump a load of water onto some unsuspecting head. Draken finally drew Seaborn with a growl and started hacking away at the foliage. The rain eased, leaving soupy humidity in its wake. Draken sweated fiercely, but kept on. The physicality of cutting his way through the woods kept him from bolting up to the main road to Auwaer to seek out Elena. But first bloody things first.
Ooo. Techy.
Do you even feel the rain, Bruche?
No. But I also do not taste your wine nor feel the soft thighs of your Queen.
Draken considered this. And yet you know when I am injured.
Aye, when it lasted more than a few breaths. Your balance alters. And there is the screaming …
Very funny.
I’m not being—
A waft of something drifted by. Sh! What is this?
Draken stopped hacking to listen. Everyone around him stopped as well. There was a change in the atmosphere of the woods. He strained to take it in with all his senses. “Do I smell smoke?” he whispered.
Setia lifted her head to sniff the air, nostrils flared. “Aye, smoldering in the wet.”
Aarinnaie looked around, her eyes wide. “It’s too quiet.”
“No animal sounds,” Galbrait said.
That’s what he was doing in the Norvern Wildes. Communing with animals.
Draken ignored Bruche. Doubtless his station in the Wildes had made Galbrait a decent tracker.
“There weren’t any before. That’s one of the ways we know Moonlings are near.” The Abeyance had no sound. Maybe Moonlings carried it with them wherever they went. Intriguing thought, but it didn’t answer their immediate questions about what was causing everyone’s unease. A lifetime of living in danger had taught him those instincts were rarely wrong, and he was surrounded by people who were skilled at detecting and eliminating threat.
He looked at Osias and tipped his head.
Osias moved soundlessly to one side, disappearing into the forest. Setia went the other direction.
Galbrait bounced on his heels. His voice was low. “I can scout, Your Highness. I spent ten years tracking in woods.”
It had been a long sevennight, Galbrait moping and unsure, spending much of it resting. The scar across his head was a sharp, red line punctuated by black thread. That he felt good enough to offer … “Go. Do not tarry, nor engage anyone you see.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He slipped off ahead, fleet and silent as Setia.
“You didn’t let me go,” Aarinnaie said, her arms crossed.
“He can manage to look without killing whatever he finds” Draken retorted.
They walked on for a time, until Galbrait returned to them, shaking his head.
“No people. But there’s a road, I think.” As he gestured, a body thrust itself through the brush. It crumpled onto the ground between Draken and Galbrait, leaking blood from several gashes. Everyone but Aarinnaie and Draken grunted in alarm. The lined, bloodshot eyes stared. Bloody spittle stained his lips.
Draken drew his blade and scanned the woods. Nothing. Galbrait stared down at the dead man, his lips parted. Tyrolean, Halmar and Konnan encircled them, swords out, eyes on the forest.
An Akrasian who didn’t die well. Pity. Bruche didn’t have one shred of sympathy in his tone.
There’s no such bloody thing as dying well. Draken nearly jumped out of his skin as Osias reappeared. He nodded to Tyrolean and frowned at the dead man. The moon tattoo distorted as his brow furrowed. “Recently dead.”
“Very recently.” And they had made enough noise that this man’s killer had to know they were there. He glanced at Osias. Draken had met his first bane in these woods. It had tried to force him to kill himself. What if this poor sod was the same, only the bane had succeeded?
Osias met Draken’s eyes and shook his head. “He didn’t do this to himself,” Osias said. “Nor did a bane make him.”
Setia knelt by him. “He’s still warm.”
Draken shifted closer to study the dead man under the bright moonlight filtered through broad, dripping leaves. Runoff splashed onto the man’s face. Draken tugged at his neckline, pulled up his bloody shirt, checked the man’s belt. He shook his head. He didn’t recognize him. If he was part of a Khein cohort, he wore no mark of rank. “Civilian.”
“Maybe a Moonling killed him,” Aarinnaie whispered.
“No. I don’t think so.” Moonlings had the Abeyance. No need to waste strikes other than the killing sort. He lifted a limp hand. There were slashes down the back of the forearm. “Defensive cuts. The man was in a fight.”
Aye, but what are the odds he drops right into the middle of our group? This is a message.
But what could such a message mean? He studied the man anew. Dug through his pockets again, his vest … he pulled out a flat envelope of leather. He had to tug a bit and the corner tore. It had been sewn into the man’s vest, stitched to keep it in place.
“That’s a messenger packet,” Tyrolean said.
“I thought the dead man is the message.” Draken turned it over in his hands.
“A foe would have already slit our throats,” Aarinnaie said.
“But a friend would just talk to us, aye?” He opened the leather packet, which took some doing because it was folded into an intricate locking pattern. He couldn’t do it without tearing a perforated piece of the leather.
“It’s so they know it’s been looked at. It can’t be opened without tearing.” Draken looked up at Tyrolean, who shrugged. “Aye, well. I designed it.”
A slight grin slipped through as Draken pulled the parchment free. It was in Akrasian, and the few words he did know was no help. He handed it over to Tyrolean, who frowned as he read. “It’s in code, but it amounts to news of a siege at Khein.” He looked up. “Your fortress is under attack, Your Highness. You’ve lost over a hundred servii.”
He eased a breath. A hundred wasn’t so devastating to the thousands who held the fortress. Demoralizing though.
“Where was the message headed?” Galbrait asked.
Draken looked at him in surprise.
See Draken? There’s hope for the lad yet.
“To Auwaer, I expect,” Tyrolean said.
“Long hike, that,” Draken said. “His are boots and clothes for walking, not riding. Besides, the Queen and her First Captain might still be at Brîn.”
“We’ve been gone some sevennight. Long enough for her to move.”
The thought slammed through him: If she lost the baby, moving wouldn’t hurt her.
Be easy. You do not know the cause, or if she isn’t still at the Citadel. The baby may be born and well. No use guessing.
Bruche was right. I had missed you, but not for being the voice of reason.
I have my moments.
“All right. First we had better see what the siege looks like at the fortress. We still have the Monoeans to feed and water.” Maybe the village was still sound … likely not, if it were overrun with Ashen.
“Soldiers who will likely turn back to their masters once they see who has the upper hand,” Galbrait said. He rubbed his hand over his face.
“You’re their commander. They will follow you if you order them.” Draken spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel. He rose and directed Aarinnaie and Tyrolean to get as close as they could to the fortress to find out the condition of the siege. Osias offered to find Setia and take her on a quick scout for Moonlings. They could reconverge at the skiff.
“Galbrait, with me,” Draken said.
“Where are we going?” Galbrait said.
“To see how far
the siege extends and count the enemy. Quietly now.”
Draken led him out and around from where he knew the fortress to be. He hadn’t actually ever seen it; he’d been redirected by a couple of Escorts the last time he’d been this way—his arrival in Akrasia—and he hadn’t been back since. But he’d studied the maps and there was nothing for it but to lead as if he knew what he was doing. They moved along the road but kept to the trees in near silence, thank whatever gods might have taken them in their favor. They weren’t noticed by an Ashen scout walking ahead. His grey armor made gentle clinks and made him appear ghostlike in the moon-dappled woods. Draken raised a hand and Galbrait had the good sense to fall still.
It’s only one. Kill him. Cold started to fill Draken’s sword arm.
Hold. They’ll know if he doesn’t come back.
They might not, if they are so many. Perhaps he’s the lad who killed our runner.
I don’t think so. The Ashen was just a scout. And someone will surely miss him.
And, if they were stealthy enough, they could follow him. He let the scout get well ahead. Galbrait gave him a look but Draken ignored it. After a bit he glanced back. Galbrait ghosted through the wet woods nearly as well as Aarin-naie. The damp quieted their movements but perhaps the Norvern Wildes had trained Galbrait up even better than Draken thought.
The Ashen led them near to the direction Draken had been taking, though they went closer to the fortress than he’d planned. He heard the rumble of voices, but they were low, at-ease sounds, not the voices of people in pitched battle. He relaxed slightly. He hadn’t known what he was coming upon.
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