Emissary

by Betsy Dornbusch

  Osias’s magical Voice had forced Bruche to move and maybe diverted the arrows, but it certainly had blown his cover. Every Moonling, bane, and Akrasian within a morning’s walk knew a Mance was in their midst. Even the Ashen had heard it. Those in the fortress would know as well, and be forewarned of the bane. They might just think it had possession of the man climbing their wall. He sped up, rubbing his fingers raw on each handhold, his healing scratches sending tiny cracks through the stone.

  He looked down between his boots to see several Ashen trying to climb after him. The first reached the baneshadow, paused, and tumbled back within the span of a breath. A smarter Ashen started climbing well to one side but the bane fingered out its limbs and caught him. The Ashen was partially concealed within the baneshadow for a few breaths only to emerge, legs and arms pumping futilely against the air, as the ground sucked him back down.

  Bruche said something but Draken paid no attention as he stared down in morbid fascination.

  Another arrow glanced off Seaborn’s scabbard on his back, thudding against his armor and urging him to resume climbing. A direct shot could pierce the thick, boiled leather molded to his back. Where’s Osias’s glamour? Their bloody aim is getting better. Smoke drifted up to his lungs and shouts to his ears. He dared a glance over his shoulder. A tent was aflame. He squinted through the dark, searching for stealthy shadows amid the siege camp. Galbrait, Aarinnaie, and Tyrolean were supposed to be stealing among the tents causing as much havoc as possible. Nothing but darkness broken by a few small spots of fire. The damned moons had all gone to bed.

  He heard a shout from above, and the squeal of straining rope. Osias and Aarinnaie had carefully chosen his line of ascent in order to avoid any pots of oil slick or the direct aim of arrows. He had to get close enough to let his servii know he was here to help.

  Harsh voices filtered down: “Got a climber.”

  “Gimme a breath. I’ve got him.” The creak of a bow.

  “Damn you, I’m a friendly!” Draken shouted up, his voice hoarse with Bruche’s influence on his movements and the strain of climbing.

  He made it up two more stones. Arrows pinged the wall around him and another thumped his bracer. He growled softly. Osias was supposed to glamour him enough to keep arrows from hitting him. Maybe he’d gotten too far from him. He lost his grip with that arm and it swung down to his side; fortunately he had good toeholds. His arm hurt like a poker had pierced his wrist, a hot rush of blood cut through Bruche’s cold, and bigger cracks sent chunks of grey rock tumbling down the wall as it healed. But something was wrong … he glanced down and his stomach turned. The feathered shaft still stuck from his arm. This time the flesh had knit around the arrow. He cursed. Below another Monoean tumbled off the wall. The screams continued as he hit the ground.

  From above, a mystified voice: “It’s a Brînian, sir.”

  “Hit by an arrow. Might not be one of theirs.”

  Draken breathlessly cursed their stupidity. Since when had Monoeans and Brinians ever been friendly on any battlefield? His lungs strained for air as he reached the top. If they chose to shove him back over, he doubted he could manage to cling to the stone. But hands actually reached forward and pulled him over the side. He moaned, the most he could manage, as their grip wrenched the arrow within his healed wrist. They tumbled him over the side of the battlement and four Akrasian servii, dirty and stinking without a stripe of rank among them, crouched around him as a flock of arrows sailed overhead. His sword was an uncomfortable lump against his back and one of theirs was an even more uncomfortable pressure at this throat.

  “Why are you here, pirate?” He spat the slur.

  Draken shifted his good arm. The servii’s blade tightened. He couldn’t help saying: “I’m no pirate.” But he added in a forced conciliatory tone, “Just showing you something, friend.” He reached up slowly and tugged on the chain around his neck. The pendant was wedged beneath his armor. One of the servii reached out and tugged, hard. Draken cursed inwardly, hoping they didn’t break it. But he didn’t speak as it came free.

  The servii stared, then the pendant thumped down to his armored chest as if it had burned her. “Your Highness!” Hands reached to help him to a sit. He shrugged free of them and eased back against the wall. His shoulder and knee hurt and the arrow stung in the newformed flesh. He reached over and snapped it between his thumb and two fingers, winced, and then swore aloud as he started undoing the bracer. “Seven bloody gods.”

  “Be easy, Your Highness. I’m a medic,” one of the servii said. Her hands were gentle as he pushed his fingers aside and worked the laces. Underneath the arrow tip poked through the paler skin on the inside of his wrist. Blood streamed from it though the skin had closed cleanly around the arrow. The servii blinked at it.

  “Push it through,” Draken said.

  Her gaze flitted to his.

  “Do it.” He gritted his teeth.

  She shoved on the broken end as quick as she could, but a breathy cry still escaped Draken’s lips as the arrow widened the hole in his skin into a broad gash and then came through with a rush of blood. Draken tried to breathe through the pain but his head whirled. The stone beneath him rumbled as the flesh knit.

  He opened his eyes to three pairs of widened, lined eyes of the servii. “Aye. I can heal myself. But that’s not why I’m here. Take me down to your comhanar.” He realized he was using Brinish but the one who’d held the blade on him must have understood because she rose and offered him a hand up. She was tall and stronger than she looked for her rather narrow frame, her eyes outlined in thick, graceful curves. “This way, Your Highness.”

  He followed her to the ground on a wide staircase with a rusted railing. Fresh pits for bodies smoked in the bailey. He paused. “What’s this? From a fight during the seige?” How long had they been holding siege anyway?

  “Scouts,” she said shortly, also in Brînish. “The Comhanar can explain better than I.”

  Alongside the cloying smoke the reek of rubbish and human waste rose as they strode to the inner wall. A metal-strapped wooden door hung open under the arched gatewayleading into the inner fortress, so security didn’t seem too formal an arrangement, even under siege. However, passwords were apparently required and Draken’s servii guide didn’t know them. Odd thing, passwords at an inner gate that wasn’t even locked.

  To guard against banes gaining admittance.

  That must have been it, because they had been a longtime threat in the Moonling woods. There was a consultation with the guard at the gate, who stared hard at Draken.

  Draken shifted from foot to foot, thinking of his friends, his sister, out there at the mercy of a few hundred furious Monoeans. Inside the walls he couldn’t hear a thing. He glanced at the sky, just lightening with earliest dawn. No moons remained; it was as if they were playing the old game of Blind-See, in which children pretended not to see the other do the most outrageous things until they couldn’t pretend any longer.

  The guard pushed past the servii who had brought him down. “The Queen’s token. May I see it?”

  Courteous, but not subservient in the least. The other guards were watching closely from behind, hands resting on weapons. Draken shoved down his anxious impatience and pulled the pendant from around his neck. He didn’t like handing it over to some guard without even a stripe on his tabard. But the servii guard met his gaze steadily.

  After a slight hesitation, Draken held it out. “How long have they kept you in siege?”

  “Two sevennight.”

  His brows raised. Two? That meant they had arrived well before Draken had left Monoea. It confirmed that more troops had arrived in his absence, but not how many. He had half a dozen other questions ready to spring from his tongue, but he’d just have to ask them of the commander again. Maybe he should just draw his sword but this lot was too jumpy. Even so, they hadn’t disarmed him, so he needed to respect that decision in kind by not drawing. Besides, knowing Seaborn, it would just do its ordinary-ni
cked-up-sword routine right when he needed it to be magical.

  The guard held the pendant up. It spun, catching the torchlight, the Queen’s image blurring with the headless snake on the back. Draken felt lighter without it, and not in a good way. The pendant and its expensive, thick chain was handed off and disappeared into the darker inner fortress.

  After waiting several moments with no return of his necklace, Draken couldn’t hold back any longer. “You know, I’m actually rather in a hurry here. I have people outside.”

  “There are a lot of people outside,” the servii guard said.

  Not nearly as many as you might think. But that was something to take up with the comhanar.

  Apparently the pendant was evidence enough that Draken might actually be inside the fort that the Comhanar herself came down to see. She wore armor, her lined eyes had deep circles under them, and tight lines splayed out from her mouth. Grey tinged her black hair. She held the pendant in one hand and stared up at Draken, who had at least a head of height on her. Then she took a knee. “Your Highness. It’s an honor. And a surprise.”

  “Rise. Your name escapes my memory.” He should know, but it had been long days and nights at sea and battle.

  She got to her feet, nimble despite the grey tinging her black hair. “Commander Geffen Bodlean, Your Highness.”

  “How do you know it’s me, Commander?”

  “I saw you once at court, before we knew who you were, before I was commander at Khein.” A slight smile flickered across her face and he wondered if her commission here had been a demotion.

  Paranoid, are we?

  Just realistic.

  Some in Akrasia thought him some sort of savior sent by the gods, but he knew he had plenty of enemies, too, as well as suffering from the rampant prejudice between the races. The rare Akrasian would readily accept a position under a Brînian, Prince or no. The rare Akrasian would accept a position under a commander of any other race.

  “You look a little different, but not so much off your father that I wouldn’t recognize a Prince of Brîn. How may I help you, Prince Draken?”

  “I’m here to help you, actually. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  She gave a crisp nod and held out the pendant to him. “And get you a bite to eat. You look like you could use it.” She guided him under the archway and through a courtyard sizeable enough to graze horses in. A few muddy mounts were loose and nosing puddles and sparse grasses. At the entrance to the main building, a rough stone monolith, its size belied by the walls outside, Draken bent to remove his boots out of habit.

  She stopped and shook her head. “It’s not necessary.”

  Mud tracked the entry hall and the corridor already. He straightened and followed her. “Has it been raining much?”

  “For bloody days. But I can’t complain. We need the water with the siege. Here we are.”

  A fire burned in the hearth of a monastical, small room. A few fat-burning torches stank in their brackets. A broad table sat in the middle, surrounded by a haphazard collection of chairs, and a couple of auxilory pieces of furniture rested against the far, windowless wall. Maps covered the surface of one end of the table and the other had what must be her personal array of weapons: a naked sword and two knives, a fine Mance-style longbow and a heavy quiver of arrows. Several muddy boots had rested under the table lately.

  Draken frowned. “You disarmed to meet me?”

  She gave a small bow before crossing to a sideboard. “Only proper. Drink? We’ve wine. Not very good, but there you are.”

  “Thank you.” He took the cup and sipped. She was right. It was tangy and sour on the tongue as if it had gone off. But he was thirsty so he drank.

  Besides, it’s your fortress. It’s your wine.

  Indeed it was. He looked around again at the dingy room. “I think I’ve neglected you here too long.”

  She shrugged, though he barely made out the gesture under her full armor, molded metal plates over leather. It had been a nice suit once, but now the firelight picked out every ding and scrape in the dulled metal. It had been a long time since it had seen oil or paint. “It’s been ten Sohalias since the last Night Lord died and Khein has always been an afterthought.”

  “At the moment, you are not, though.” Down to business, then. “Do you realize there are far fewer Ashen outside these walls than they would have you think?”

  She frowned. It was a few breaths before she answered. Draken passed the time finishing his goblet of awful wine.

  “We knew they had too many tents for the numbers of troops we actually saw, but we sent a scout out a sevennight ago and there’s been no word back from him nor from Auwaer.”

  “Yes. That. We found him dead of several knife wounds. Recent. He apparently didn’t get very far.”

  Geffen cursed better than a Dragonstar pirate. “Tann was my Lieutenant Seneschal’s brother. Say nothing for now, if you please, Your Highness.”

  “Of course. I don’t know who killed him, but …” Should he tell her all of it? The Moonlings’ anger with him? His trip to Monoea, the battle on the sea, and his prisoners? The Monoeans’ plans to put him on their throne? She waited, her brow falling in the wake of his silence. No. Not all. “Someone dumped him on us. We believe … my friend Lord Mance Osias believes, they may have magicked themselves away. I think it only could be Moonlings. Are you friendly with any?”

  Geffen frowned. “None in particular. Why?”

  “I’ve reason to believe the Moonlings are interested in me and my … friends. But not in the way of helping us, if you take my meaning.” He still didn’t trust the room, even as enclosed as it was. Perhaps because the Palace at Sevenfel had so many secret passages and hidden doors.

  “Is there anything I can do to help, Your Highness?”

  “Not and live to tell the tale. No. Your duty is to put an end to this siege and accompany me to Auwaer. We can’t kill all the Ashen outside, though. We need prisoners to interrogate.” Suddenly he felt weary. It had been a long night on his feet and a hard climb up the wall. He pulled out a chair and eased into it, reckoning he need not ask permission in his own fortress. “We estimate there are only two hundred holding you siege—”

  “Two hundred?”

  He gave her a grim nod. “Aye. They were clever about it. I reckon they started with more troops and gradually slipped off. I assume they’ve gone to attack Auwaer but I can’t know for certain until we interrogate them. Do you know where the Queen is at the moment?”

  “We received word just before the siege that she’d relocated to Auwaer. I thought it … odd.” This she delivered in a direct tone and met his eyes steadily despite her hesitation. Judgement on her betters’ activities could be a dangerous thing, Draken knew. I fair like her, Bruche said. Draken silently agreed as Geffen continued. “Rumor had it she meant to finish the pregnancy in Brîn.”

  “For once the rumors speak true. There is no word on the child, then.” He did his best to not stumble over the word, but something in her manner had his hackles up, as if she had bad news to deliver.

  But she shook her head. “No word, Your Highness.”

  He looked down at the table. A diagram of the fortress lay on top of the maps. “Here. And here.” He pointed. “These are the primary gatherings of the Ashen. The rest of the tents and fires are blinds. There might be a few troops keeping them up, but they tend to gather close, as people do. I think the leadership is lax.”

  She walked over and leaned both her hands on the table, gazing where he pointed. “It makes sense. If we’re just a stopgap, then they’d send their best people with the army. How many ships? How many troops?”

  “We heard tale of twenty ships. Maybe three hundred soldiers on each galleons. That would be crowded, though, unless they’ve built bigger ones since—” Draken. Watch yourself. “Since I last studied them.” Heat flared on the back of his neck. He resisted rubbing it. How long could he keep the secret of his Monoean heritage? Was it even worth doing? He’
d managed to escape Monoea, he’d chosen Brîn and Akrasia, and he was sick and tired of feeling as if there were always an arrow on his back.

  “We took out their rearguard. Captured fifty Monoean souls. They’re still sitting on my shipdeck slowly starving. And I’ve got Prince Galbrait.”

  Geffen pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “I’m not familiar with the royal family. He’s a son?”

  “The youngest. The King and Queen are dead. It’s our belief the other Princes are dead.”

  Her eyes widened. “So you’ve got the new Monoean King hostage?”

  “No. He’s loyal to me.” He looked down at the map. “Long story. I suggest we gather our people and strike as soon as possible. I don’t want to risk my friends any longer. My sister is out there, as well.”

  “Another long story?”

  He gave a weary nod. “You could say that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Word of Draken’s presence spread through the fortress at an impressive rate. By the time he’d had a quick bite to eat and scrubbed his face and hands, over half his servii and all the officers had weaponed up and stood in neat rows in the muddy outer bailey awaiting his orders. The cold grey of dawn shadowed their dirty faces and as he walked among them, he smelled their deficit of hygiene odd among usually fastidious Akrasians. Sparing water for a protracted siege, no doubt.

  Despite his lack of attention, they were armed and armored well. More than a few had grey at their temples and brows, but that didn’t bother him. It took years to become proficient with the sword, and these servii would probably be very good indeed.

  Besides, pointing it out would be the flames calling the fire hot, wouldn’t it, old man?

  Draken just shook his head.

  Ranks of longbowmen—tall males, all—stood in separate rows, heavy quivers on their backs. At his inquiry, one of them handed over a longbow for inspection. He drew it, ignoring the strain on his shoulder, and found the weight sufficient. “An eye at two hundred, Your Highness, and a heart at four hundred,” the bowman told him with no little pride. “It’s what we’ve got to match to be a Kheinian.”