Exile (13 page)

Osias crossed to the open window. “We’ve searched everywhere we can think,” he pointed out wearily. His shoulders slumped.

“They’ll never talk with Tyrolean and his lot standing ’round with their hands on their sword hilts,” Draken muttered.

“Come rest now, Osias,” Setia said. “We’ll start anew in the morning.”

Osias turned and sat. He undid the clasp on his cloak and let it slip from his shoulders to untidy folds on the bed, but did not rise to hang it up. Instead he stared in the vicinity of the far wall.

“What’s wrong?” Draken asked.

The Mance pulled off his tunic and then remained bent over, elbows on his knees. “I’m displeased because we are bound to the Bastion until you fulfill the Queen’s bidding.”

“Were you going somewhere?” Draken said.

Osias twisted to face them. “The other peoples of Akrasia need warning about the banes. Another city could be attacked. Even your own Brîn.” Osias’ smile was brief; he was too tired for much humor.

“So, be off,” Draken said. “I’ll stay here and finish.”

“I daren’t leave. Much suspicion still surrounds you, as Tyrolean demonstrated.”

Draken gave him a wry smile. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“I miss more than I like. Powerful wards protect the Bastion and the Palisade interferes with my senses.”

“If I’m all that’s holding you up, then within another sevennight the trail will either have gone stone cold or I’ll find the attacker.”

“I’ll not leave you here to the Queen’s whims, Draken.”

“I don’t think she’ll do anything to me, now I’m helping her…” But Draken fell silent. He thought of what he was saying suddenly—how odd it all sounded. In a matter of a few days he’d somehow managed to bind himself to an enemy Queen. “I wonder if I will ever get home.” He barely knew he spoke aloud.

Osias lay back, but he rolled over onto his side and reached across Setia to touch his palm to Draken’s chest. “I, too, wonder. But as I said, I’ll keep you from harm as best as I’m able.”

Draken had to smile. “You know, I’m fairly capable, Osias. Back in Monoea I’m even considered dangerous.”

Osias closed his eyes, but he didn’t remove his hand from Draken’s chest. “You’re considered fair dangerous in Akrasia as well.”

Chapter Nine

F
ingers moved on his chest, light as butterfly wings. Draken sighed. It felt good.

“You’re awake?” Setia whispered.

“Hmm.”

She reached up and kissed his neck, and her fingers slipped lower, replacing his restful feeling with another sort of sensation, more wakeful but just as pleasant. On its heels came unease.

He caught her hand. “Setia…”

“Why do you stop me?”

“What about Osias?”

“We can wake him if you like.”

It wasn’t what Draken meant. Entirely awake now, every internal alarm going off and not all of them unpleasant, he stared up into the darkness and tried to think of what to say. The shutters were still locked tight against the cold, and the fire burned low.

“I’m flattered—” he began.

“Then why do you refuse me?” She sounded baffled rather than offended.

“It’s not my custom,” he said. “And you’re very young, Setia.”

“I’m older than I look.”

He sat up, but he hesitated. “I’m sorry, Setia, but I cannot. I won’t.”

She stared at him with wide, confused eyes. He sighed and kissed her cheek. She slipped her face under his and kissed him back on the mouth. For a moment they lingered, Draken forgetting his conviction. Warmth spread through him, sinking into his groin.

Osias stirred. “We’re awake, are we?” he asked, a silvery, sleepy beauty by ember-light.

Draken drew back from Setia, climbed from bed, and fumbled for a cloak. “No. I just...I’m sorry. I can’t sleep. I’m going to walk.”

“Be safe.” If Osias noticed Draken’s arousal or discomfort, he was too tired to care. He closed his eyes again and Setia nestled back against him, though her gaze followed Draken as he slung the cloak over his bare shoulders.

He paused outside his door to let his breathing settle. He’d had more freedom since he’d started the search, but the silence and the ever-present Escorts were oppressing, even during the day. Would they want him walking about the Bastion at night? Finally he chided himself. No harm in a quick prowl.

He tried to put what had just happened out of his mind but found he could not. By now Draken was more accustomed to sharing his bed. For one, he was exhausted from negotiating strange customs, digesting unfamiliar foods, absorbing new sights, sounds, and smells, the enduring fear his identity might be found out, and his dependency on the futile search for the assassin. Since his first night in the Bastion, he had rarely stirred until daylight.

Mornings he typically woke to Setia’s legs intertwined with his, or her warm, nude body curled up against his side, or Osias’ hand resting on his chest or back, as if the Mance were reassuring himself Draken was still there. This caused unwanted desire and daily awkwardness. Despite it all, he liked sleeping with someone in his bed again. It lessened the daily shock of waking to his strange, new life.

He’d not put much thought into his future romantic entanglements. Unlike most Monoean nobles, Draken had been allowed to marry for love and unlike most nobles, he’d not stepped outside his marriage for even the occasional physical dalliance. But for the first time, he realized he was free to do as he would. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable with the idea at all, and definitely not with Setia. And in truth, he still felt loyal to his wife. Knowing her killer was still free made it difficult to move on, emotionally or otherwise.

As he approached the grassy courtyard, he paused near a black pillar and stood in its moon-shadow for a few moments. By day the courtyard bustled with servants and guards and visitors, but tonight it was empty and lit only by two moons hanging low in the sky. A soft noise came from beyond, from the direction of the gates to the city.

Ah, Auwaer isn’t so sleepy after all, Draken thought. Perhaps magic kept the noise at bay for the comfort of the Queen.

Draken tried to think of his cottage with Lesle, the scent of the place and her food. He recalled the music of the fountains in their front garden in summer, but the louder splash from the real fountain at the center of the courtyard drowned out his memories. He thought of the men who had soldiered under him and the ones who had sat trial over him. He tried to recall the name of his first officer and fought down panic when he couldn’t.

As Draken chased his memories, a flitting shadow caught his eye—just a flicker of black against black. Out of habit when he saw something not quite right, his lungs closed on his breath and his body fell still. There it was again—quick movements and then a pause long enough for Draken to think he’d either imagined it or lost the trail of whatever it was.

Draken had his knives, and one shout would bring a host of Royal Escorts upon the courtyard. But he held for a moment. Maybe this was an opportunity to find out something useful. He’d have to pace the perimeter, he decided. The black walls of the Bastion allowed very little moonlight to penetrate the shadows under the breezeway. Korde had risen, but bright little Zozia slanted her shine behind him.

The figure was moving again. Draken drew up his hood and followed, glad he was barefoot. Boots would have made noise.

The figure led him on a slow chase around the courtyard and back through the entrance from which Draken had come. Draken swore under his breath. He could’ve just stood and waited. But there were many exits from the square courtyard, and he had no way of knowing which his prey would take.

The figure walked back down the corridor Draken had used, but before accessing the guest wing, which was where Draken and the others were housed, it turned. The sneak was more confident now, moving quicker. Draken paused for a few moments before turning the corner. The Bastion was two connected squares, one centered on the courtyard off the main gates and the other on the prison courtyard, but the corridors did not always join from one square to the next. In two weeks, Draken still hadn’t seen the entire Bastion, but he let more distance grow between him and his prey as he realized he’d walked this corridor this very evening. His prey was leading him straight for the Queen’s private apartments.

He relaxed. Her night guards would never let the intruder pass. One more corner and the sneak would walk right into two armed Escorts.

Draken paused to listen. The Escorts should handle it from here. He’d rather let them gain credit for apprehending the sneak rather than explain why he was wandering the Bastion at night. And, though the thought gave him an uncomfortable pause, maybe this was something other than danger, something of a more intimate nature.

But at the sharp, quick sounds of struggle, anxiety churned in his stomach. Damn.

Draken drew one of his wrist knives and turned the corner to find two Escorts slumped against the wall, throats slit. One had managed to draw his sword, but only just. The intruder had somehow managed to kill two Royal Escorts as quietly and swiftly as Draken had seen in a lifetime of soldiering.

The carved doors to Elena’s rooms hung open just wide enough to allow a stealthy figure to pass. Draken slipped through as well, not wanting to alert the intruder. The front parlor, where Draken had dined with the Queen a few hours before, was empty. Doorways led from the room on opposite walls. Draken heard a shuffling through a draped exit to his right.

He sprinted to the doorway, listening hard over the roar of his blood, and parted the fabric with the blade of his knife. Moonlight shone through the windows, striped by the beads. The room had two darkened alcoves. A large, quiet bed rested in the middle of the floor, draped head and foot. The panels hung open, revealing the shadow of Elena’s raven hair across her bedding.

A dark figure, knife in hand, hovered over the bed.

Draken swept the curtains aside with a shout. The assailant spun, knife held up, ready to stab. He dodged a swipe of the knife aimed for his throat, caught the attacker’s knife hand, and ducked in to grab him close. Draken dragged him away from the bed.

The cloaked figure struggled and twisted in his grip, and, mindful of the knife, Draken found the pressure point to loosen the intruder’s grip on it. The blade clattered to the floor. Elena sat up, staring at them, lips parted in shock.

The intruder tried to slip a hand up to grab one of Draken’s wrist knives. Draken tightened his grip on his struggling quarry with one arm, pulled his blade free, and pressed it tight to the assailant’s throat. All the fight went out of him.

“That’s it,” Draken crooned. “Just relax. I won’t hurt you unless you force the issue.” He kept the blade in place and reached up with his other arm to pull back the hood concealing his face. “Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”

Dark curls spilled across Draken’s bare chest. Draken had his second shock for the night, though he had thought of it first himself. The assailant was fine-boned and yielding in all the right places.
He
was a
she
.

“
Aarinnaie
,” breathed the Queen.

“
Szirin
Aarinnaie,” she snapped back. Unmindful of the knife, she twisted in Draken’s grip enough to look over her shoulder at Draken and stiffened.

Draken looked at Elena. She was pale as moonlight, a terrified woman who’d had a very near brush with death. He cleared his throat. “Are you all right, Queen Elena?”

“I’ll take her.” Tyrolean had appeared at another curtained doorway. He strode forward and took Aarinnaie by the arms, jerking her loose. Draken moved the knife just in time to avoid slicing her throat. She cried out in anger, but Tyrolean twisted her arms behind her back. He had a head and a half of height on her; her struggle was over before it began.

Draken slipped his knife back into his wrist sheath. “You’re all right, Your Majesty?” he repeated. Unthinking, he held out his hands to her and helped her to her feet. Her icy hands gripped his tightly.

“Aarinnaie, why would you do this?” she asked. “Your father has had every opportunity to become a valued member of my court, and you with him—”

“You ask the rightful royal family to join
your
court?” Aarinnaie spat on the stone floor. “And put our wealth behind your reign, no doubt. Don’t play the fool, Elena. It does not become you.” She grunted as Tyrolean tightened his grip on her.

“My House has always been respectful of the Prince,” Elena said.

“Ah, it was respect, then, when your father stole our sword and murdered our people?”

“Your Majesty!” Four female Escorts crowded into the room, swords drawn.

“I’m all right. Draken stopped the attacker.”

Draken, still standing close to Elena and still holding her hands, was glad to see them. The more swords in the room the better.

“To the cages, my Queen?” Tyrolean asked.

Elena considered, looking up at Draken. “No,” she said. “To a guest suite, but bind and guard her well. And notify Heir Geord. Where are my guards who were posted outside?”

A moment’s silence.

Draken cleared his throat. “They’re dead, Queen Elena. Throats slit.”

Elena looked back at Aarinnaie. Something cold and heartless crossed her face. “Take her away.”

The four Escorts grasped Aarinnaie. She struggled and cried out, but they subdued her, lifting her off the ground.

Draken did his best to ignore her furious shrieks as they dragged her from the room. “Sit, Queen Elena. You’ve had a shock.” The Queen was trembling, clutching his hands as if they held her upright. He led her back to her bed and took a knee before her to encourage her to sit. She sank down and all trace of strength disappeared into her wide, terrified eyes.

The air fled Draken’s chest. Is this what Lesle had felt in her final moments? Only for her, death had not been stayed.

“Thank you,” Elena said. “I am in your debt.”

Draken wanted to pull her into his arms, to warm away her fear and trembling. He tried for a comforting smile instead. “I’m just glad you’re safe, Your Majesty. Reavan will be here in a moment, I’m sure.”