Exile (17 page)

He slid his hand under her silky hair and pulled her closer against his chest. Her breath feathered against him. “Of course not,” he said. “One time or many, it’s always the same. Terrifying. You’re all right now, though. Safe. I will keep you safe. We all will.”

Her hand found his. She ran her fingers over his arm and hand, over the scar from the brand. He stared hard at the ceiling, trying not to tense. Maybe she wouldn’t notice how mottled it was.

“You don’t seem afraid to die,” she whispered.

If she only knew. “I’ve already died. What’s once more?”

“You mean your wife.”

Not just her. He had lost too many soldiers and friends to count, especially in the early years of the war, when they’d all been young and inexperienced. Osias had been right. He was well acquainted with death. “And others.”

“The only person I’ve ever lost is my father, and I didn’t even have the good grace to grieve for him properly. I’ve been too afraid, because his loss meant my gain...” her voice trailed off.

Hence the lengthy mourning Reavan had complained about. “You were afraid to take the throne.”

“Aye. Silly, isn’t it? I was raised to rule, from the moment I was born. I was trained to perfection, and yet I falter. It was only once I wore the crown that I realized you don’t inherit wisdom with it.”

Draken lifted up on one elbow and cupped his jaw on his palm. “And everyone expects perfection of you.”

Her laugh was brief and brittle. “Quite the opposite. They pray I have not learnt well so they can gain power through me.”

“All people in power are surrounded by false sycophants.” Then he cursed himself for trying to mollify her with a platitude. He had no idea how to relieve the worries of a Queen. “I’m sorry. It’s no help at all.”

“Just having you here is help enough. I need someone I can trust. Tyrolean says too little, and Reavan...I don’t know what he’s about these past weeks. My father desired marriage between us, but he is not the one for me.” For the first time she paused. “After you follow Aarinnaie, you’ll come back?”

The tinge of desperation to her voice touched him in unexpected, uncomfortable ways. “I’m only going because I must.” Gods, he couldn’t fathom living in this white city, penned in by a magical wall and the black stone Bastion. And how would he find Lesle’s murderer if he was? This might be his only chance at it.

“It’s just...I need to know you’re truly with me, even when you’re not.”

“I understand,” he said. “I don’t know what to do but tell you I am.” He could not reassure her further, torn as he was between wanting to escape Auwaer to chase down Lesle’s murderer and a healthy fear of that very thing.

She sighed. “Others will use your absence to plot against me.”

He rolled over onto his back, away from her. Even in the dark he sensed she needed some space. He hesitated, wondering if she wanted to discuss names. He must tread carefully here. “Of course they will. But you’ll keep them at bay, as you did before I came.”

“I fear it, not for myself, but for the people. Despite what they think, I would sacrifice much for their safety—my position, even my life. But to do so would pave the way for the Brînian Prince—” she moved her hand to his lips though he did not speak— “No. Do not defend him. You know he is cruel and he plots against me. To do nothing is perceived as weakness, and yet if I fight him, the fragile peace my father built could fall into war. How do I proceed?”

He choked back a laugh. “You’re asking me?”

“You alone tell me what you think, unencumbered by your own self-serving designs.”

He thought of all she did not know about him. “How can you know that about me? I’m a stranger to you.”

“It is exactly why. You are different than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Draken said nothing. He could convince her how right she was, but he couldn’t find her assassin, much less Lesle’s, if he were stuck in one of Reavan’s cages.

“See? Even now you do not try to convince me of your value and worth, but let me draw my own conclusions. Reavan talks ceaselessly, filling my head with his words rather than my own. Tyrolean gives me a reproachful stare and trots off to temple to pray. You tell me what you think and then you are quiet.”

His pleasure and gratitude at her admiration surprised him. He couldn’t help but say the words she wanted to hear. He pulled her close. “I’m your Night Lord now. Sworn to you,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ll come back, Elena.”

She nodded against his chest.

He lifted his head to look at her face closely, searching for distress. When he found resolve, he impulsively kissed her. Her eager response and passion overtook him again. He tried to treat her tenderly, knowing only a fool would consider their lovemaking simply pleasure after she had confided in him. After, as they slipped into sleep, he wondered why he so suddenly did not want to leave her. He was grateful he’d pacified her fear with his commitment, but his longing for revenge against Lesle’s killer warped his promise into something that felt ugly, like deceit.

***

“You must rouse, my lord.”

Draken heard the words well before it registered they were directed at him. He rolled over and lifted his hand to guard against the candlelight flickering in his eyes. “Aye?”

His voice was a breathy whisper. He’d been pulled up from deep sleep as abruptly as he’d fallen into it. Limbs weighed with lead, he was very warm all over. He peeked out from under his arm, but wavering light and tousled hair obscured the features of whoever had woken him.

“She’s gone.” Elena lowered the candle.

She? Ah, Aarinnaie. She’d escaped, as planned.

Elena sat next to him and took his hand, held it between her own. The light of six moons shone through the beads in the windows, leaving jagged stripes across her pale face. The previous evening came back on him with startling, teeth-rattling clarity.

“You slept,” she said. A slow smile touched her lips. “You must have needed the rest.”

“I did. Thank you,” he said, trying to force his voice into some semblance of normal responsiveness. He stretched and stared up at the beamed ceiling. Plaster had been spread between white-washed beams, creating a miniature landscape of peaks and valleys. It was unexpectedly ordinary, like any ceiling from home.

“What are you thinking?”

With no real reason to hide from her, Draken said, “Of home, I suppose.”

“Brîn. Do you miss it?”

Brîn. Right. “I suppose I rather do.” But in such a short time he’d found himself bound to this strange place and its strange collection of peoples. And what ties did he really have left to Monoea, beyond that of familiarity? Draken turned away from the thought. Of course he had to find Lesle’s killer and try to get back home. He didn’t belong here.

She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed the ruddy brand there. “This looks recent.”

“The skin is tender and irritates easily,” he said, glad he’d prepared a lie.

She leaned down and kissed his cheek. He put his arms around her. She smoothed her hand over the stubble of his beard and pulled free of his embrace.

“I’ve gifts for you,” she said, crossing to a low table. “As Night Lord, you command my stronghold at Khein. Six thousand servii. I sent word last night they now answer to you.”

Draken blinked at her as he climbed from bed. “I don’t know what to say, Elena, I—”

Mindless to his astonishment, she lifted a white chain and brought it to him. “My seal. Should trouble find you, produce this. It will prove you are Night Lord and my voice in my absence.”

At the end of the chain, reflecting distorted moonlight as it spun, hung a flat, round pendant. Draken walked forward and caught it in the palm of his hand. Elena’s image was impressed into the moonwrought, and Akrasian script encircled the edge of the disc. He flipped it over to reveal the spiraling coils of a decapitated snake. Elena lifted the chain and placed it around his neck. It hung long on him, the pendant dropping to the bottom of his breastbone, easy to hide under a tunic. The cold metal glowed moonlight-white against his dark skin.

“Only one of my Escorts wears my seal,” Elena said. “Only you, Night Lord.”

Draken stared at her for a moment before inclining his head, defeated and pleased at the same time. “Thank you.”

There was a knock at the outer door.

Elena called out, “Reavan, come.”

Reavan slipped through the curtains from the sitting room. There was no pause in his stride, but he looked unhappy as he took in the scene: Draken wearing Elena’s seal against his bare chest, the Queen’s hair tangled from lovemaking. Draken resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to claim her out of spite. But, recalling her resentment of her courtiers, he stepped back, granting Reavan a nod.

Reavan did not return the courtesy. “Again, I must urge you to reconsider, Your Majesty. You don’t know this man. You cannot trust him.”

“Draken has proved himself to me.”

“This sword is your crown-right!”

She lifted an eyebrow at Reavan. “You’re the one who suggested I give it to him, if you recall. How was it you so eloquently put it? ‘You might as well give him Seaborn and the whole damned kingdom at this point.’”

So the whole damned Lordship had been planned? Since yesterday, at least. None of this made sense, though. Reavan, as much as he hated to admit it, was right. She barely knows me, he thought, and she cannot trust me. But he was once again caught in the mechanations of his betters. A familiar feeling. So was remaining silent even as his insides clenched.

Reaven’s lips whitened. “I was regretably sarcastic, Your Majesty. My sincerest apologies.”

“None necessary. Indeed I owe you my thanks for your recommendation.” She held his gaze steadily. “The sword, Lord Marshal.”

At last, Reavan held it out to Draken. As a gift, it was hardly a thing of beauty. Its scabbard was dull, dented metal. The hilt and guard were scratched, the grip wrapped in sweat-stained leather. Part of it was coming loose. It whispered from the scabbard reluctantly, as if it were an ill fit. From what Draken knew of swords, it seemed a serviceable enough blade. The edges were clean, sharp, and glared under the candlelight like it was pure moonwrought. If so, it was worth more than Draken could earn in the Black Guard in a lifetime. But its monetary value alone couldn’t have Reavan so incensed at giving it up. The Brînians and Akrasians considered the sword important for some reason, and Draken would have to find out why.

“Thank you, Queen Elena,” Draken said, wondering what use it would be to him since he was a poor swordsman at best.

“See you do return, Draken,” Elena said. All trace of their earlier intimacy had disappeared. “I’d hate to have to send Reavan after you.”

Chapter Twelve

A
gentle rain cooled the day. It was the first rain Draken had experienced in Akrasia, and it reminded him of newseason at home, only cleaner and clearer...rainier smelling. He adjusted the cloak of his hood and stretched one arm forward to pat his horse on her damp neck. She was the bay mare he’d stolen from Reavan and his First Captain: his prize by right, Elena had said. Draken took it mean she’d forgiven him for killing her First Captain, and he hoped the gesture had slipped beneath Reavan’s notice. Elena had provided them all, even Setia, with fine mounts, and had waved them off from the early morning cold of the Bastion courtyard. Reavan had not been present.

Someone had spent the past days sewing. Draken’s attire bore his new personal banners, a Brînian black field with the green Akrasian Moon sigil cut with four narrow stripes, designating his rank as Night Lord. Elena’s pendant bumped against stiff leather armor buckled tight under his shirt. The knives he’d chosen from the armory were encased in new arm braces that covered the top of his hand to the crease in his elbow. Moonwrought mail sleeves protected his upper arms. The entire get-up felt damnably awkward and he’d never before worn such wealth. He wished for his old sweatworn armor that had molded to his body.

A thick woolen cloak hung from Draken’s shoulders and draped over the rump of his horse the way Tyrolean’s did. While the captain’s cloak was plain Escort green, Draken’s black cloak had been adorned with two green stripes across each shoulder to the hem, as well the moon sigil on his back. He kept the hood up against the rain.

Before leaving, he’d washed in Elena’s tub and shaved the beard from his face with a straight blade. His hair had locked into braids in prison and he hadn’t had the chance to shear it off. Men wore their hair long here, at any rate. He ran a hand over it ruefully, knowing without looking it was lightly edged with gray. He looked away from Tyrolean’s pristine black tail.

“I hope you’re secure in your plan,” Osias said lowly, as they dismounted for a short rest near a stream picking its way through rocks and reeds. The horses stretched their heads toward the water.

“Do you still have her trail?” Draken asked Osias, watching Setia speak to her horse. It snuffled and bumped its muzzle into her shoulder.

“Aye.” Osias leaned against a boulder after cupping his hands in the stream for a drink. “She moves quickly, though.”

“Good. The faster she goes, the faster she’ll get to whoever the instigator is.” Draken eyed Tyrolean, who stood with his back to them, and lowered his voice. “I’ve a problem, though. I’m no swordsman, Osias. I was in the navy bowranks, not the infantry.”

“I’ve been thinking on it.” The Mance’s smile was as grim as his answer was inscrutable.

Draken sighed. “Out with it, Osias. Tell me what it is.”

“Let me see your sword,” the Mance said, and Draken drew it.

“It’s pure moonwrought, very rare in a blade,” he said at length, handing the sword back to Draken, who slipped it into its sheath. “Strong and well-balanced.”

To Draken it felt mostly awkward in his hand. He could whack away with a sword but he’d had barely preliminary instruction before they’d discovered his natural talent with the bow and redirected his training.

The Mance didn’t speak again right away, and when he did it was to ask a question. “Do you still want to go home?”