Exile (8 page)

Osias touched his bare chest briefly, and Draken’s discomfort with the touch was only slightly weaker than his discomfort with shrugging it off. Osias had been kind to him, a stranger, a branded criminal.

Despite the exceptional circumstances Draken found himself in: this long, extraordinary day ending with sharing his bed with two strangers, an even deeper, silent darkness than the one overtaking the night began to wash across his consciousness.

“Sleep, strange one,” Osias whispered, and Draken did.

Chapter Six

D
raken became aware of comfort first, softness, warmth. There was some good reason to keep consciousness from returning. He couldn’t think why it was. It didn’t matter.

He felt smooth skin next to his, a measured breath of air against his neck, as regular as his own heart, and an arm across his ribcage. Ah, Lesle. He’d curled himself around his wife, his arm tucked under her body.

And then realization stabbed his heart.
Lesle is dead.
Every morning it was the same, a moment of not knowing, not remembering. Peace abandoned him again, leaving a murky hole in its place. His eyelids fluttered open.

Osias stared at him with bruised irises. “Be still, friend. We wake to peril.”

Draken slid his gaze upward without turning his head.

Silvery filament filled the room above the bed, glistening in the newfound sunlight streaming in the window. At first the strands seemed haphazard, accidental. But the longer he looked, Draken could detect a subtle, distracting pattern.

The sheer enormity of the thing defied belief. It stretched across the expansive room, taut with a delicate, stunning strength. That it hung a handspan over Draken’s nose didn’t help matters much. The woven strands reflected back their faces, distorted and distressed.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Draken whispered.

“It is poison. To touch it means a slow, welcome death from the pain it will cause.” Osias grunted. “Mance magic of a most clever, malevolent sort.”

“Why didn’t they just kill us, then?” Draken asked.

“This leaves no evidence. The skin absorbs the web and it tangles your veins,” Osias replied.

“And what do we do about it?”

“I shall work the incantation to free us,” Osias said.

“How long will it take?”

“Some time. The dead do not come easily to cities filled with life.”

Setia’s eyes rolled up to meet Draken’s, but she said nothing. A halo of gold around her iris bled into the dark brown.

“Are you all right, Setia?” Draken asked.

She answered with the barest of nods. Her arm was around his waist and her breasts were pressed against his chest. Osias’ long, pale arm stretched across both of them and his fingers stroked a soothing cadence into Draken’s tense back. The tangle of limbs felt comforting, but there was the torment of temptation, too. Draken sighed and tried to think of other things.

Osias guessed what he was thinking. “Perhaps another time we’ll pursue your curiosity. Be at peace, the two of you. My servant draws near, but she resists the wards around the Bastion.” Osias drew in a deep breath and words exhaled in yet another language. But it wasn’t just the words which were different.

Osias’ voice was breathy, commanding, and came not only from his mouth, but from the air all around. The entire room filled with this Voice; the rafters trembled and the mattress vibrated. Setia tucked her face into Draken’s chest. Draken sniffed. The air smelled like freshly turned earth. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, but he wondered if it were folly to keep looking.

He had been warm; now he was hot. His chest dampened with sweat where Setia pressed against it. But she nestled closer to him. Trembles interrupted the regularity of her breathing and he tightened his arms around her. Osias’ voice hammered his skull, boiled his marrow. He felt it in every vertebrae.

The huge web remained perfectly still, a glistening expanse of peril hanging above them.

The scent fell into gut-twisting decay. Draken’s stomach threatened to rebel and his mind took a moment to catch up with his eyes. A woman appeared in the web, through it, but the web was still whole. She seemed to feel no ill effects from the purported poison.

But then, a reasonable voice in the back of his head explained, She wouldn’t, would she? She’s already dead, of course.

Tatters of skin bared her teeth. Her eyes were empty, black holes, the orbs long since rotted away. The disintegrated remains of a once-lovely gown hung in rags. The only reminder of what beauty she once might have possessed was her lush head of hair, loose and shining. Beyond that she was horrid, reviling. Draken stared at her with rapt attention. He could not look away as she reached for the web and tore at it.

The pattern distorted and then ripped. It fluttered toward her and then she was gone, leaving a ghost of the smell of her decay behind and the echo of her cry in Draken’s head. Osias flipped an idle hand toward the window. The shutters swung open and a breeze carried the odor away.

Osias put his attention on Setia. “I’ve sent her away, love,” he said. She rolled over, away from Draken and into Osias’ arms. He stroked her face and kissed her.

Draken had no words to express what he was feeling. He’d run through a gamut of emotions, and he’d only just blinked awake. He set his jaw and tightened his fingers into fists.

Osias disengaged himself from Setia. “Touch heals our ills, Draken.”

Draken’s shook his head. “I’m all right.”

“You’re not.” Osias was already reaching for him. “You were in the proximity of powerful death magic.”

Most of the lavender had washed from Osias’ eyes and left them a peaceful blue-gray. His lips parted in his constant smile. Before, the mark on Osias’ forehead had seemed to mar the perfection; now it served to add to it.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” Draken whispered. Then he froze. What was he saying?

“It’s only your own heart you see,” Setia whispered. “As when we stare into a pool, the nature of the Mance is to show us ourselves.”

Osias drew near. He cradled Draken’s face in his long fingers and laid a light kiss on his forehead.

That was all. He backed away. “Are you well?”

Draken didn’t have anything to say, but the stench and fear and discomfort was gone. He swallowed, wishing for a drink, and twitched a nod.

“We must replenish ourselves after this ordeal,” Osias said, his tone matter-of-fact. As he pulled on his tunic he said, “The dead have their way of clinging to life—”

The door swung open hard enough to hit the wall behind it. Reavan. His mouth was open to speak, but instead he eyed Draken, bare-chested and still in bed, Setia nude next to him. Draken yanked the covers over her.

“Fair daybreak to you, Lord Marshal,” Osias said, already on his feet and sounding easy.

Reavan was gaunt with fury. Several Escorts waited on his heels, swords drawn. “You dare to work magic without leave of your Queen?”

Draken slid out from under Setia to stand up. “We were under attack.”

“Silence, pirate,” Reavan said.

Draken took a step forward. “I’ll speak when I like.”

Reavan drew his sword. “Would you care to hear the voice of my blade?”

Osias gracefully stepped between Reavan and Draken. “Extend Queen Elena my apologies for the magic. However, Draken speaks truth. We were under attack.”

Reavan cast a glare around the room. “I see no one. Did they flee?”

“They left a trap, which I undid,” Osias said. His voice sounded even, agreeable, but a muscle twitched in his back.

Reavan was silent for a moment and then he gestured to the Escort to retreat. “Stay in your chamber until bidden to court.” A cruel smile twisted Reavan’s lips as he looked from Draken to Setia. “It might be the day, but you’ll no doubt find a way to pass the time.” The door slammed shut behind him.

“Right bastard, he is,” Draken said.

Osias hushed him. “We are in the Akrasian Royal Bastion, and we must show the Lord Marshal respect.”

“You’re right, Osias,” Draken said. “But so am I.”

“I do wonder how they knew of the magic so quickly,” Osias said thoughtfully. “They must have wards set.”

Setia climbed from bed. She reached out and touched the bruises fading on Draken’s chest. “What happened?”

He looked away. “Prison happened.”

***

An unsmiling housemaid brought breakfast. She didn’t speak, even when Draken caught her eye to thank her.

“Akrasians don’t approve of sleeping three to a bed,” Osias said, smiling to show he was teasing. “Rumors of our impropriety surely spread through the Bastion.”

“Or they fear us,” Draken said, rather hoping it was the latter.

“Someone hates us. They left that trap,” Setia said quietly.

“Most curious, as well. Did you notice how it reflected us?” Osias said.

Draken nodded.

“It’s almost as if they could watch us through it, as if they wished to watch us die,” Osias said. He looked at Draken. “Have you experience with such killers?”

“I have experience with killers, but nothing like this,” he said carefully. His experience with magical killers was limited to his wife, and he didn’t want to go there. He changed the subject. “Elena is new to the throne, isn’t she? Speaking of untimely deaths, I’d heard her father died the Sohalia past.”

“Assassinated, actually,” Osias said. He shrugged at Draken’s raised eyebrows. “It’s not common knowledge. I only heard through my own court.”

Draken raised his brows. “Who inherits if Elena dies? She has no heir, aye?”

“She’s not marked anyone as of yet,” Osias answered.

“Lord Reavan has control of the army,” Draken said, giving them both a pointed look.

“Just because you don’t like the man doesn’t mean you can accuse him of treason,” Osias said.

Draken leaned forward on his elbows. “Not to his face, anyway. But her father’s assassination explains the tension around the Bastion. Was Elena’s father by chance shot with an arrow?”

“Hung from his wrists and gutted. Some suspect magic, because the entrails had been removed and the blood drained.”

Draken rose, toppling the bench behind him. “
What
? What did you say?”

Osias blinked at him. “The King was gutted…”

“No. The last part. Entrails removed. Blood drained. Are you certain?”

“Aye,” Osias said. “The King was powerful, and his parts would make potent magic—”

Draken cursed in Khellian’s name.

“What is it?” Osias asked.

Draken leaned over the table, fists clenched. “You’re certain, absolutely certain he died from a gutting.”

Setia nodded as she righted the bench and sat next to him on it. “Aye. The messenger was from the Bastion and had Elena’s seal. What’s wrong, Draken?”

Draken dropped onto the bench, his stomach contracting painfully. “It’s coincidence; it must be.”

Osias and Setia didn’t question him, just waited. Draken considered and made up his mind. “The crime I was accused of, banished for, I did not commit. But the murderer used my blade, and they found me with her, trying to take her down…” He looked away. He’d spent days defending his innocence. Those words were spent.

Osias nodded. “Go on.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say Lesle’s name. “She was hung by her wrists and gutted. When I found her, her entrails were gone and she’d been drained of blood, like a butchered animal.” The last came out in a harsh whisper. “The Crown outlawed the use of sorcery when Akrasia invaded and wielded it against us. It was a formality anyway, my people lost their magicks long ago. But I’m… half Brînian, aye? I wasn’t only accused of murder, but of working sorcery, though the King kept that bit quiet. It had to have been an Akrasian mage who killed her.”

“It seems a leap, Draken.”

Draken shook his head. “You don’t know it all. After the war, I led a Black Guard regiment hunting the rest of the Akrasians and Brînians in Monoea. I’m loathed by them. They used to threaten me from the racks, even as I drew blades through their throats.”

Setia stared at him, eyes wide, and Draken regretted saying the last bit. But then, maybe it was best they knew exactly who they were dealing with. Draken had found, after a lifetime of trying to scuttle upward in society, fear did a deal to establish respect.

Osias just lifted his fingertips to his lips, thinking. “I begin to understand. And to worry. You should know, the only ones who wield the old blood magic are the Mance.”

“But they used sorcery in the war—”

Osias shook his head. “Not blood magic. Not the Ancient rites. No Mance went to war in Monoea.”

“And, it was a Mance arrow aimed at Elena today,” Setia pointed out.

“Your situation is more complex than I thought,” Osias said. “If your past becomes known, someone could implicate you in the King’s murder. We must make the court believe you are fullblood Brînian. Better Elena think you a pirate than something closer to the truth.”

“They won’t hear of it from me,” Draken said. “But Reavan saw me dressed in rags, right off the boat. They threw us off at Khein. And the soldiers who tied me saw this.” He held up his branded hands. “It’s not too great a leap, Osias.” He wondered why the Lord Marshal hadn’t mentioned it. More unanswered questions. Perhaps the Lord Marshal wasn’t
just
a thin-skinned noble.

Osias grasped his hands and studied the brands closely. “I should like to change your marks. It’s an old Brînian custom to brand the hands of noble-born infants to bar imposters set in their stead. Certain houses even branded their slaves.”

“They haven’t done it in generations,” Setia pointed out.

Osias blinked and smiled. “But the court won’t know, not for certain. The Queen might believe it’s still done by the old Houses or Islanders. She’s the one we need to convince.”

Draken glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I think the Queen’s naiveté is mostly an act, Osias. And my wrists are scarred from shackles.”

“We’ll keep your wrists greaved, then,” Setia said. “Don’t worry, we’ll make her believe.”

Draken started to rise, to put it from his mind, but he paused, mind racing, heart thudding. “Do you know what this means to me, finding another victim? I could find who murdered my wife and prove my innocence. I could go back home.”