Exile (6 page)

The Lord Marshal turned to Osias. “My Queen’s habit is unkindness to unbidden strangers. The Mance owns certain privilege, of course. But see you do not insult Her Majesty, for retribution will be swift and sure. Magic will fail inside her receiving chamber, and in other areas you must obtain permission before working it.”

Draken, aggravated from staying silent and ignored, pulled against the bindings on his sore wrists, but they held firm. “How long must we wait to see her? I’d like to get out of these ropes as soon as possible.”

“Silence, until the Queen bids you speak,” the Lord Marshal snapped.

Setia edged forward. “Why do you hate Draken so, my lord?”

The Lord Marshal turned to her and took a moment to study her. Draken found himself watching her as well, intrigued. She was hardly his ideal, but Setia had an animalistic sensuality, as if her loose clothes concealed a body well suited to the pleasures of the flesh. Osias glanced at him as if he knew what he was thinking. Draken frowned. He likely did.

“I care naught for him one way or another. I care only for my Queen’s will.” Reavan’s voice was dangerously low, as if Setia had challenged him to a duel. He spun on his heel and stalked away.

He hides his passions poorly, Draken thought. But Setia’s question was a good one.

“Why do they think I’m a pirate?” he whispered to Osias. Akrasian navy men knew about Brînian piracy, of course, but to leap to that conclusion right off made no sense.

Osias shot him a humorless grin. “You’re Brînian, aren’t you?”

And then there was no more talking because they were entering the Queen’s inner chamber.

Chapter Five

D
raken’s stomach turned over at a waft of blood within the throne room. At one end, a white metal chair, thin as scroll-paper, glowed like a full moon in a starless midsummer sky. Draken wondered how it bore weight and why the Queen would keep something so flimsy as a symbol of her power, and then he realized in wonder: moonwrought. He’d seen examples up close of the metal mined in the Akrasia outlands: a small blade, light as sunlight in his hand, trinkets, jewelry. The Monoean King wore a chain of the stuff. But never anything so large and priceless.

More impressive, an elaborate display of at least a hundred swords, knives, axes, and other foreign weaponry crowded the walls. Many gleamed like freshly cleaned teeth, as white as the throne itself. One short, evil-looking blade was stained dark to the hilt, though. It had been fresh from killing when it had been hung, because blood had run down the black wall.

Draken realized with a jolt it was still wet. Blood dripped from the sword in a never-ending stream, pooling on the floor and disappearing into a crevice. What devilry worked here? He gestured with his chin, eyebrows lowered, to Osias, who frowned at it.

Lord Marshal Reavan genuflected to the throne and made a sharp downward motion with his hand at Draken and Setia. Setia knelt. Draken took a reluctant knee as the Escort behind him kept her sword point close to his back. Osias moved to place himself between them and the throne. Reavan turned his attention back to the moonwrought throne as if the Queen would materialize there.

Draken stared up at the Mance’s silver hair, bright despite the gloom. A pale light followed him, leaving a faint, dusty trail in the air. Gods, I’m dizzy with hunger, he thought. Seeing things.

“Captain Tyrolean informs me we have visitors, Reavan,” said a voice as smooth as molten iron, though it held the clarity of authority as well.

The comment came from the doorway through which they’d just come and they all turned to look. Draken saw a female-shaped silhouette, but the broad man who came before her attracted his interest first. He bore the lined eyes of an Akrasian and the suspicious disposition of an oft-challenged bodyguard. He kept to within five feet of her. When she waved him off, he retreated to stand in the doorway, scanned the room, and settled his gaze on Draken. The pointed hilts of two swords stuck up like horns from sheaths on his back. Formidable weapons, but Draken wondered how he drew them without stabbing himself in the palms. His green tunic bore two diagonal white stripes. Twisting around to keep his eye on him pained Draken’s stiff, exhausted body, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the newcomers.

“I’ve brought you a Mance, my Queen,” Reavan said, sounding amused. He walked toward her and bowed over her hands, lifting them to his forehead. Simple affection between a royal and her familiar, but it lacked warmth.

She didn’t reply. Osias, having turned to face her, touched his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “This audience honors me, Queen Elena.”

She stepped out of the glare of the doorway and walked toward the throne. A black gown draped her narrow form in shadow. Draken had the immediate impression she’d be stunning if she smiled, but she didn’t seem the smiling sort.

“Mourning does not become you, my Queen,” Reavan said. “Throw it off so we may begin anew.”

“Sevenmoon, Reavan, do not chastise me before my guests. I shall mourn Father until Sohalia as is proper.” Her easy tone didn’t match her taut expression. She moved, a hiss of silken skirt, and she walked past them toward the white chair. One leg crossed over the other as she sat, and she shifted a little as if preparing to settle in. The throne didn’t flex under her weight.

She fixed a steady gaze on Osias. “What brings you to my court, Lord Mance?”

Osias had turned as she walked and he stared at her before answering.

“Trying magic?” Queen Elena did not add a smile to her taunt.

Draken bristled inwardly.

“No, Your Majesty,” Osias answered.

“You show remarkable restraint for one so young,” she said. “Most Mance cannot resist testing the wards in my throne room.”

Osias smiled in a limp attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s been many Sohalias since I’ve been accused of restraint or youth.”

She didn’t like having her words turned back on her. She turned her petulance on Reavan, further setting off Draken’s irritation. “Mance always speak in circles.”

“To the point, Mance,” Reavan said. “Tell the Queen why you’re all here.”

“Draken is here at my will.” Osias reached down and brushed the back of his fingers across Draken’s cheek. The touch sent a funny shiver of appreciation through him. “Setia and I come more by design.”

Queen Elena arched a narrow eyebrow. “You’ve designs upon my realm?”

“Designs upon its protection,” Osias said. “A traitor threatens, and I wish to message this to all the sovereigns of the land.”

Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. “I am sovereign of this land.”

Got something to prove, do you? thought Draken.

Osias inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty, I misspoke.”

“You mean, of course, you intend on informing the Prince of Brîn.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. And the Moonling mother, Lady Oklai, as well.”

Queen Elena’s lips tightened at the name.

Draken shifted, trying to be unobtrusive about it, but her dark eyes flicked to him. An arrow had once penetrated the armor on his knee and it did not bear weight well when kneeling for long. His superiors, even the King himself, had always accommodated his injury.

“A traitor, you say,” Elena echoed faintly.

“I fear a Mance has been at work outside our noble duties.” Osias’ voice faded as Reavan stepped closer.

“As you are, since Mance are tasked with the dead rather than the living,” the Lord Marshal murmured.

“That is a strong accusation, nigh on treason against your own, is it not?” the Queen asked, ignoring Reavan.

Osias acceded with a nod. “Some will think it. But this concerns more than my own kind.” Osias paused and switched tongues to Brînish. “
Fhavla Korde
. Akrasians call them banes.”

Reavan gave an incredulous laugh. “You’ve come all this way to tell us a cradle tale?”

Osias gave a negative jerk of his chin at Reavan’s disdain. “All tales grow from seeds of truth. I saw a bane in the Moonling woods upwards from Khein just last nightfall.”

The Queen frowned. “Your own King sent recent word all is well.”

Osias hesitated before admitting, “I didn’t know. I’ve not been home since Sohalia last.”

“You’re rogue, then.”

Draken detected defeat in the Mance’s tone. “Truth? I’m on a lengthy scouting assignment. I found the bane by accident and thought it prudent to warn you. Perhaps it is best I bolster your perimeter. Should the bane take you, Your Majesty, I fear you could become a puppet under a traitor’s control.”

“I appreciate your concern. However, I assure you I am quite well-defended and we have provisions in place should I be unable to lead.” Elena pinned on an indulgent half-smile. Draken had been right. Even false graciousness changed her entire appearance. Darkness fled and she was beautiful. But she lifted a graceful hand to her throat and her smile faded. “What is it, Lord Mance?”

Draken glanced up at his companion and his empty stomach turned over at the sight of Osias’ eyes swirling to purple again. He twisted his head to look behind himself, though the guard nudged him. But he couldn’t look away. The last time Osias had looked like that, Draken had nearly been killed.

Something whooshed overhead. Draken didn’t quite see Osias move, but he suddenly held an arrow in his hand. He looked back at Setia for a moment, some understanding passed between them because he gave a curt nod, and he turned to the Queen. He closed the distance between them and knelt before her, placing the arrow on the floor at her feet.

“Step back from the Queen!” Reavan said sharply.

Fingers dug into Draken’s bicep and the guard shoved him down. His aching muscles cried out as he hit the hard stone, and again when he thrust himself back in an effort to free himself. A heavy boot on his spine pinned him to the floor. He grunted, thinking, At least I’m off my knee.

Hurrying footsteps brought more Escorts. Boots and cloaks swished by Draken’s face. The doors whooshed closed and darkness enclosed the room, brightened only by distant pools of torchlight. The weight on his back shifted, painfully heavy, digging into his spine. The arrow glowed with faint silvery iridescence on the black floor. How had the Mance caught it with no magic? Or was he stronger than the wards?

Osias retreated to stand between Draken and Setia. He spoke quickly. “It wasn’t Draken, Your Majesty. Let him up—”

Reavan interrupted. “This is outrageous! These visitors are obviously a distraction to provide means for an attack. This is a Mance arrow!”

Draken struggled against the boot, but a prick at the base of his neck stopped him again. The cut burned like the stingers in the Monoean surf.

“It is Mance-made, but it is not mine,” Osias said. “Nor Draken’s.”

“You must have conjured it, Death-speaker,” Reavan said. “There are no other Mance in the city.”

“As you say, my magic is void here.” Osias knelt next to Draken, and, despite the proximity of the blade, laid his hand on Draken’s back. “Moreover, should I wish Queen Elena dead, she would be dead.”

Brilliant, thought Draken. Insult her while they’re so keen to run me through.

Reavan strode toward them. “Is that a threat?”

“It is truth,” Osias said. “If you know anything of my kind, you know I can only speak truth.”

“Let me up!” Draken grunted into the floor. “I know naught of any arrow—”

“Silence.” The Queen. Draken heard a tremor in her voice that hadn’t been there moments before. “The Mance stopped the arrow, did he not? Reavan, swords away and let the Brînian up.”

Two guards grasped Draken by his upper arms and hauled him back to his knees. The flesh hollowed, skull-like, beneath the Lord Marshal’s cheekbones and his lips pressed into a deep frown.

Behind them, Captain Tyrolean beckoned to guards and drew them outside. Two Escorts closed in behind Draken and other hurrying footsteps started and faded as soldiers trotted off to warn the rest of the Bastion. Tyrolean’s low voice issued orders while Reavan knelt next to the Queen, offering her a cup. The door swung open as people passed through. Draken took the opportunity to glance at the opposite side of the Bastion, across the courtyard. The roofline was clearly visible, until Tyrolean saw him looking and swung the doors shut again.

The archer was on the roof, he thought. Why would she ever allow such a direct shot to the throne? Foolish, though he wasn’t so foolish himself to say it aloud.

Queen Elena caught Osias’ eye. “Could this be part of the rebellion you speak of, the bit with the banes?”

Either Queen Elena was a simpleton or she was trying to make herself believe. Draken didn’t think she looked stupid, but cruelty and conviction could make up for a great deal of incompetence. He waited for his heart to stop thudding so violently, but alarm prickled every pore. Why weren’t they moving her to a more secure location?

“I can’t help but think this attack has something to do with the banes, and the Mance traitor,” Osias said. “It is one of our arrows, Your Majesty.”

Lord Marshal Reavan approached the throne. He took a deep breath before he spoke, as if garnering composure for a lengthy argument. “This bane story is clearly designed to distract you, my Queen, as well as gain a mislaid trust. King Truls reports peace is ever fair. No word of banes: truth, he’s never spoken of them because I think he knows, like we do, they are cradle tales.”

Before thinking better of it, Draken blurted, “It’s what I thought. I felt it, though—” The sword bit into his back again. He twisted and snapped, “Back off!” The sword point drew back an inch, the Escort blinking in surprise.

Queen Elena’s cold gaze turned to Draken. Osias spoke in soft apology. “Forgive him. The bane attacked him and the memory of it pains him still. He very nearly died, Your Majesty.”

“And yet he so conveniently did not,” Reavan muttered.

Osias ignored Reavan. “I brought Draken here as a witness, to help you understand. They are powerful, evil things. Should they take the right soul, especially your soul, Your Majesty, they could sanction a Mance with power which does not belong to us.” Osias hesitated and his expression opened into one of childlike hope. “Do you believe me? Do you know I speak truth?”