And … a daughter. He had a daughter. Though perhaps he didn’t anymore. She could be dead. Small thing to kill an infant … Bruche made a warning noise low in Draken’s throat. Draken had to keep shoving his mind from gruesome speculation to the topics at hand.
Aarinnaie wore a plain ensemble: a loose tunic over Brînian-style trousers and barefoot. The fabric was black and the long sleeves undoubtedly hid her throwing knives. Draken fingered one of his own but didn’t take it out of the sheath. Bruche had insisted he go back to wearing bracers with knives at all times. Even well-loved Princes have enemies.
Indeed. Lesson learned.
Aarin tossed her long braids over her shoulder. Someone had redone them, again binding up most of the loose strands. The slaves cast her odd looks as they served wine. They had to chase Tyrolean as he paced around the room to get him to take a cup.
“The city will rebuild, after a fashion, but there was more damage than I originally thought,” Aarinnaie said. “Some of the buildings burned from the inside, making the stone walls unstable. There have already been collapses. Additionally, gangs of bandits are here from the upper woods. Sundry peddlers have filled the market.”
Osias leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Not his customary stature. The past two days he and Setian had passed in the city, speaking to priests and citizens. “As well, swindlers dress as priests and try to steal ‘donations’ for victims.”
“They’re not very successful,” Setia added.
Draken sipped the wine. It was cold and fruity. It slid down his throat and soured in his stomach. “No one is much interested in religion at the moment. Anyone killed?”
He meant from more than just collapsing buildings.
Aarinnaie shrugged. “Not today.”
The day was young. “Ty? What word?”
The Captain still hadn’t sat down, but roamed the room, his horned swords on his back, knives bristling at his wrists and belt, hand resting on the hilt of another broadsword after the fashion of Seaborn. He wore the striped green tabard, fishscale, and cloak of an Escort officer. There were few trinkets to pick up and he touched nothing, mostly examining the stone floor. Draken couldn’t tell if he was listening or lost in his own thoughts, but he looked at Draken quick enough when he said his name.
“The Lord Marshal is dead, Your Highness.” This time there was no hesitation and his gaze was steady on Draken’s face. If he hadn’t known how to properly deliver bad news two days ago, he had learned since. Plenty of practice.
Draken smoothed his face into blank regard. “What happened?”
“They were apparently on their way from Brîn and were attacked on this side of Reschan.”
Truth, she had been at Brîn when Draken had left for Monoea. He couldn’t fathom that she’d stayed, nor that Elena had left Brîn and traveled without her. On the one hand, he had learned Elena had left double-blinds to conceal her movements all over Akrasia. On the other he couldn’t fathom that she had actually traveled largely alone to Skyhaven in the mountains.
“They killed every stripe in company, left most of the servii to report what happened. They limped in this morning and sent messengers to the Bastion. The company was most of the upper officers, but for the city barons and a few third and fourth ranks.”
Even Aarinnaie didn’t move or speak, recognizing what a blow this was.
“I suppose it was too much to ask that the Ashen have actually given up.”
“It wasn’t the Ashen that did it.” He glanced at Aarinnaie.
She hissed a breath. “Khissons.”
“The rebel faction you were tracking back in Brîn?” Draken cursed, then cleared his throat. “Any sign of the Ashen generals? That Priest, Rinwar. Galbrait?”
A round of shaking heads. They had vanished during the night of chaos in Auwaer. Draken knew he’d be running across them again. He rubbed his chin, eyed Tyrolean.
“Apparently we’re in need of a new Lord Marshal. I think it’s time you take a turn, aye, Tyrolean?”
Tyrolean’s lips parted, probably in protest. Draken just looked at him. At last Tyrolean blinked and bowed his head. “As you say, Your Highness. I still plan on traveling with you.”
“As you say,” Draken echoed him with a dry smile. It actually was appropriate. He very well might be riding to war.
Aarinnaie sighed. “I can’t talk you out of this?”
“The same as I can’t talk you out of going with me.”
#
For a sevennight of hard riding, Draken watched the trees pass, thickening in trunk and foliage, encroaching on a road that narrowed to a dirt lane and finally to a path. The ground was flat; the only relief in a hard slog. A full cohort of ten servii walked ahead, slashing back foliage to allow the horses through. Three more cohorts of full rank Escorts, Draken, Aarinnaie, Osias, Setia, and Tyrolean, plus Halmar made their group nearly one hundred.
“By the map, it would be quicker to cut to the grasslands and ride hard along the woods rather than stay in the trees,” Draken had said.
Osias shook his head. “Too dangerous. We’d need three times as many servii. Bandit bands and horselords are fearless and defensive now that the country is in upheaval. Apparently some Ashen escaped that way and killed the wrong people.”
Draken had forbidden wagons to accompany them on the advice ofTyrolean, who had been born in the Skymarke Lake region and told him real roads were impossible to maintain and traverse. Without much supplies, every third day they had to stop to hunt hares and small foul to feed themselves. While Draken’s battered knee relished the time off his horse and his body craved rest, his mind went dangerous places when idle. By the ninth day when the earth started to drop into the valleys containing Skymarke Lake and her river, he was nearly mad with impatience.
The trees relented abruptly at the edge of a valley. The path widened, switching back across the hill leading down to Skymarke Lake. The water spread out before them, glittering in the midday sun. Little structures encircled it, docks stretching out onto the calm waters. Fishing boats dotted the surface, marring the perfect reflection of the mountains and clouds in its azure depths. He didn’t need a glass to see across to the Agrian Range, a collection of rolling mountains easing ever higher into the sky. He could fair see the tops of each one, hard edges softened by trees. These mountains didn’t make him feel anxious like the mistclad, stony Eidolas. Instead a gentle breeze, fresh scents of woods and water, and the soft lap of the lake on the shores soothed his anxiety.
Bruche moved his hand to Seaborn’s hilt. A slight humming vibration resonated up his arm. Magic here. The air is thick with it.
Draken turned his head one way and then the other. The narrow lake was long enough it curved away out of sight at either end. How would they ever cross it? “Are we at the center of the lake?”
“No, Highness. We are at the upper end, fair close to where it spills into River Skymarke. Not half a day to Skyhaven,” Tyrolean added.
Draken nodded and watched as Halmar and three Escorts started down the path first, then pushed on to follow. His knee ached, his thighs chafed from being too long out of, and then abruptly too long in, the saddle. With all the damage and healing his body had gone through in the past several sevennight, he wondered yet again why his old injuries remained.
The gods remind you you’re getting old, my friend.
Draken snorted. Too old for this business, to be certain.
The business of saving the crown, who also happen to be your family, belongs to you alone. Age is your smallest barrier.
Aye, it seems to be the way of it. Too many duties seemed to belong to him, only. This was one he couldn’t resent. His family—he hadn’t let himself think of Elena and the child in those terms until this moment—was held captive by people who took them for their own gain. The old resentment rose. He had told Oklai he intended on freeing her people. He did intend on freeing all the slaves. But she had to know it would take time. He thought of thousands of sundry slaves,
turned out of their homes or demanding wages. The economy and social structure of Akrasia would collapse. Though there were parts of slavery of which he highly disapproved, he couldn’t deny what would follow might be fair worse.
Tyrolean was right. The switchbacks into the lake valley were packed dirt and easy and quick for horses’ hooves. Setia had scouted ahead on her sturdy pony and waited for them lakeside but were impassible for wagons, gazing at the water and moutains beyond. Osias smoked his pipe next to her, letting his horse graze and have a drink. At lake level, the path widened enough to accommodate three wagons side by side and their group was able to ease into organized cohorts rather than the vulnerable single file they’d endured in the woods. Everyone let their horses get a drink and went on. The servii fell behind and voices rose in cheerful, easy chatter.
Draken frowned. A relaxed lot, aren’t they?
The magic eases their worries.
I wonder that it’s not a purposeful defense on the part of the Moonlings. He halted his horse and raised a hand. They slowly halted too, and turned their horses to him to listen. It took several breaths for the servii to catch up.
“We are about to enter the erring’s lair. You all know what I am about here You all have sworn to die before seeing the Queen and Princess remain captive.” He stared around at them all. Eyes, lined and otherwise, met his steadily. He drew his sword. The blade flashed—whether by trick of magic or sunlight, Draken didn’t know. But some few hands sought weapons and backs straightened. When he urged his horse onward they fell into proper rows. The servii hurried along behind to keep pace with the horses. Almost at once a scout ranging ahead returned to say he’d seen Moonlings in the woods up ahead. A full war party awaited them with spears.
Draken gave a grim nod. He had expected nothing less.
#
Draken pushed to the front of the servii and his szi nêre, ignoring the frowns of Tyrolean and Halmar. “I have come to see the Queen.”
They stared, and then one stepped forward, his slashed skirts rippling about his knees. His spear ribbons had been colorful once, but now had faded to dull greens, blues, and the rarest red. The sharp end of the sweat-darkened wood was stained black a third of the way up with old blood.
“I am instructed to accompany you, Khel Szi.” His gaze didn’t waver off Draken’s face. “We have known for some days of your arrival. You will enter alone, though you may keep your weapons. Her residence is a short walk. Queen Oklai will greet you and take you to her.”
It was the best he could hope for. He swung down, keeping his face turned toward the horse so his wince when his bad knee took his weight wouldn’t be readily evident to the Moonlings.
“Drae.” Aarinnaie dismounted and strode forward to catch his sleeve.
There was nothing to say. He leaned down and kissed her brow, then pulled his arm away. He looked at Setia and Osias. They both gave him slight nods. Then he turned and walked toward the Moonlings, his soldiers and friends silent behind him.
They had to cross the river by bridge. The other side was treed, though not as thickly as the Moonling woods. The path was dry, packed dirt with log steps to accommodate the slope. Even so, occasionally his knee twinged deeply and threatened to give out. He grabbed at a sapling once. It supported his weight enough to get his balance and then snapped in his hand.
Gradually, log buildings with intricate thatched roofs appeared amid the trees. He paused to study one. It was a war scene, sophisticated and horrible, with actual spears woven in to depict the killing of large men by smaller Moonlings. Some of the thatch was dyed red for blood. Another paid homage to the gods with a Sohalian night sky, bleached golden moons hanging amid a dyed blue sky.
Oklai met him on the path, studied him with her face set, and led him to an open air pavilion. Inside refreshments and wine were set out on a glossy wooden table low enough Draken had kneel to reach anything on it comfortably. She gestured. “You must be thirsty.”
“I drank from the lake. Where is the Queen?”
“With the babe.”
He eased a breath from his chest. That didn’t mean she yet lived. “Take me to Elena.”
“Why would I grant you this favor?”
“Because I come in good faith, leaving my soldiers behind. Because I rousted Akrasia’s ememies and will hunt them to the shores. Because I hold at least a thousand of your people and even now my servii range over Akrasia and Brîn, ordering that every single Moonling be safely interred until our Queen is free and our peoples are allies once again.” He let a cruel smile play on his lips. “As you asked, they are slaves no more.”
“Small difference, slave to prisoner,” she hissed. Her guards shifted. Fingers tightened on spears.
His eyes narrowed. “As the Queen is a prisoner. Take me to her.”
“You intend on taking her home?”
“I intend on seeing how well she and the child fare, and then you and I will decide what to do.”
Bruche remained silent, locked down, not so much as a thought trickling into Draken’s consciousness. They’d gotten a hunch that the Moonlings might be able to hear their communication, or sense his will, or something. Draken could feel his presence, always, and right now Bruche’s will was coiled tight. If … when … he burst forth it would be a dangerous time to be near Draken.
“And what reassurance do you give me in exchange for this visit?”
“I have given it. We have not attacked.” Yet. He held his temper in check, though more than anything he wanted to draw his sword and cut the supercilious smile from her face.
His words did it well enough. The smile dissipated like smoke from a guttered candle. “This way.”
She turned and led him up a path that wove between trees. Her guards encircled them, keeping off the path and grips tight on spears. Draken did his best to pay them no mind.
There was another pavilion, closed on two sides by woven twigs and shaded beneath the thatched roof. The air was warm and filled with quiet woodland sounds. Leaves rustling. Birdsong. Somewhere off in the woods someone laughed softly. And then a gentle, breathy coo, much closer.
Draken’s heart tumbled in his chest.
The Moonlings stopped. Oklai gestured to the building. “You may have some time. If you fight us, you will die. These are my conditions.”
“I have no intention of fighting you, only to take my family home.”
“That will take more talk. Freeing my people. Great reparations.”
Indeed it would, since the Moonlings were traitors. “Then why are you allowing me to come at all?”
“Seeing them may persuade you in our negotiations.”
Bruche coiled tighter. Draken walked forward. His eyes took a moment to adjust. But he recognized Elena’s gasp well enough, her voice curving around his name, breathlessly.
She took shape from where she stood in the corner, her arms up, cradling their child. Her figure was slim, willowy once again, her gown draping over the slight swelling in her middle betraying where their child had been so recently.
“Draken.” Breathless.
He strode forward and caught her gently, pulling them both to his chest, carefully in order to not crush the babe. She laid her head against his arm, the baby cooed again, and he drew a breath into his tight throat.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m recovered. It was not a difficult birth.”
Birth … “The child.”
“Your daughter, Draken.”
He set her back to look at the babe. Black whisps of hair edged out from beneath the blanket. A tiny hand crept from beneath her blanket as her blue eyes locked on Draken’s. Her lips parted and she made that noise again. It struck him deeper in the heart than any sword.
“Our daughter is well. Fair strong.” Elena’s eyes brimmed but no tears spilled. Draken laid his hand on her shoulder, his fingers sliding up to curl around the back of her neck. She shuddered under his touch.
He tore his gaze from the baby’s to h
ers. Pressed a kiss to her lips, to her brow.
“I didn’t believe you were here,” Elena said. “I thought it a trick. Oklai says she won’t allow us to leave.”
“Us … and me?”
“She says you may come and go as you wish. But not me. Not the baby. Please, you must find a way.” “You fear they will kill you.”
“No. Her. They take her from me and bring her only to feed. I’m sorry. You tried to warn me. You tried to tell me they were against us. But when the Monoeans attacked I didn’t know what to do. I shouldn’t have run, but she is so young. Not two sevennight old. I couldn’t find a wet nurse, nor anyone I trusted to take her away. When Oklai offered her protection here, I thought … I thought …” The words choked to a stop. “I have failed our people.”
“No. Auwaer is freed. It wasn’t all on you, Elena. It never was. You’ve never let me help you enough.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder.
“I am Queen.”
They didn’t have time for this. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“You must.” She glanced beyond him, then tipped her head down to look at their child. “Hold her.”
Draken dropped his hand from her shoulder and took his daughter. She settled lightly against his chest. Her eyes, a moment ago staring so intently, closed. She sighed and pursed her lips.
“Now take her away,” Elena whispered.
Draken blinked at Elena. “You said they won’t let me.”
“They will soon have worse things to worry about than a Princess babe.” Her face fell into the hard planes of a Queen with a distasteful duty. “Back away now. Take her.”
He obeyed without thinking. Bruche had filled him, not hard and fervent as he expected, still contained. But there. Dangerous.
Elena lifted her delicate hand between them, forefinger pressed to thumb. A small flame flickered there. Draken blinked at the spark of Mance-fire. “Elena—”
Emissary Page 43
