“I was hoping you could tell me,” Draken said. “I need your help. If there’s anything at all—”
“You? Why you?” They’d stopped several paces down the corridor, outside the earshot of prying Escorts. The two Brînian guards waited, watching Draken.
“The Queen would have me,” Draken said. “Which is a good turn for you and your Prince, as I am a reasonable man.”
“Your Szi as well,” Geord pointed out. He frowned. “You’re Brînian all right, even if the accent is off. But the odd bit is your Mance-friend. Your familiarity with him is disturbing. I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Osias has nothing to do with Aarinnaie’s attack on Queen Elena,” Draken said, his jaw tightening.
But he’d misunderstood. Geord’s smile was thin and cruel; he had petty insults in mind. “My guards are up on the gossip from the barracks. They say you and the Mance share the sundry slave because you cannot afford a proper woman. Be easy with Aarinnaie, and I’ll give you my slave Konnon here. He plays the part of a woman well enough.” He jabbed a thumb toward the dappled bodyguard.
Konnon remained impassive to the slight, but Draken’s hand lashed out and caught Geord by his chains. Just as quick, Konnon’s sword-point was below Draken’s chin, nicking the skin.
“Release my lord,” he said in Brînish.
Draken held on, though he tipped his head back, away from the sword. “You protect him even when he insults you?”
The sword tip did not waver. “I must insist, bloodlord.”
Tyrolean approached, speaking quickly but with utmost calm; here was a man who had broken up many a fight. “This is hardly proper behavior for Crown Court. Swords away and release the Heir, Draken.”
“Not smart to taunt the man who’s got the fate of your betrothed in his hands, my lord.” Draken released Geord with a shove and stepped out of range of the sword at his throat. Konnon sheathed it, but kept a tight grip on its hilt. His sullen gaze rested on the back of Geord’s head.
“The prisoner is ready for questioning, Draken,” Tyrolean added. “Heir Geord, Queen Elena would have you relay a message to your homeland. She awaits your presence.”
Geord straightened his chains and went the way Tyrolean indicated.
“What do you know of the slave Konnon?” Draken asked.
Tyrolean gave Draken a look of haughty disdain. “He is here as an insult to Queen Elena. He’s the bastard of an Akrasian noble. Why are you concerned with a slave?”
“Just curious.”
Draken took the bowl and cloth from another Escort, ignored the curious stares, and went back inside the room. Aarinnaie’s head hung low, but she lifted it to see who had come in. There was no sign of gladness in her face. Just as well. Draken wasn’t happy to see her either.
Nevertheless, he pulled a low stool close and set the bowl on the floor at her feet. “I’m just going to wash you.” He dipped the cloth into the bowl and touched it to her face.
She twisted her head away from him and he dropped his arm to his knee.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need help from a traitor.”
“I don’t think you’re in much position to refuse it.”
Her blue eyes locked on his. “I’ll see you executed for your treachery.”
“The only execution you’ll see is your own if you don’t cooperate.” He lifted the towel again. She didn’t twist away, but she watched his every movement.
As he dabbed at her lips he said, “They do mean to execute you.”
She didn’t answer.
“I managed to stay the command.”
The slightest narrowing of her blue eyes was the only indication of her interest in what he was saying.
“Lift your chin so I can clean the blood from your neck,” he said. When she didn’t, he reached out to lift it for her and rubbed the cloth along her throat. He leaned down to rinse the towel in the cold water, leaving it pink with diluted blood. “Was it your idea to kill the Queen?”
“She is not the Queen.”
“Elena, then. Was it your idea to kill her? I ask because it was a bold move, nearly perfect. I’m impressed.”
After several seconds of consideration, Aarinnaie nodded.
“All on your own, then?” Draken said. “You’re very young. Surely there were more qualified candidates.”
“I’m well-trained…” Aarinnaie’s voice died. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to find out who else was behind it, like perhaps my father.”
Draken leaned away from her. “I’d venture to say your father is a prime suspect without your implication. Seems he has much to gain. But I’m not interested in him. I’ve no doubt Queen Elena, or Lord Marshal Reavan, will see to him.”
She cringed at Reavan’s name. “Or perhaps you?”
“My concerns lay here at the Bastion for the moment, with you,” he said, keeping his tone low and intimate. “For instance, Geord asked after you.”
She froze under his ministrations.
“We just spoke in the hall outside,” Draken went on. “He wants very much to see you. Perhaps a meeting can be arranged—”
“I don’t want to see him.” Not fear, but quick anger.
“Why not?” Draken was truly curious. “He is your betrothed. He’s meeting with the Queen on your behalf right now.”
“He would. He needs me,” she said, and shook her head. “I’ll speak no more on the matter. He means nothing to me.”
“He works to have you released, I’m sure. He is your only real friend here.”
Her expression was troubled, but resolute. “So you admit to not being my friend? Whose friend are you then?” There was the undercurrent of mockery in her voice.
Draken hardened his tone. “Who put you up to this?”
A sly smile brushed her lips without a trace of hesitation or surprise. “I cannot trust you,” she said. “I will not. Soon you may even act as Elena’s emissary to my father, to deliver my body after I am executed.”
He feigned nonchalance with a shrug. “Perhaps. I go where my Queen bids.”
“And the Akrasians claim to keep no Brînian slaves.” Her lips parted in a sneer. “Look at yourself. You’re no better than a slave to Elena, and you could be so much more.”
So much she knew. He’d been a slave his entire life, bound between an unattainable family name and a navy fighting in a war they did not start. Only when his cousin-King had brought him to court had he started to feel a bit free, for that brief time with Lesle. Draken supposed there must have been peaceful times before her, but he couldn’t recall them, unable to break free of the harsher memories of abuse and war. He thought he’d found a measure of peace with Lesle, but her murder had forever shadowed their joy with pain.
Draken rested his forearms on his knees again, the towel and water forgotten, resentment deepening his voice to a growl. “And look at you: chained like an animal in the Queen’s Bastion, a hundred Royal Escorts vying to be the one who pulls the blade through your throat.”
Draken had no real reason to feel loyalty to anyone; he had done all he had up to now in the name of survival and a misguided—he knew that now—attempt at solving his wife’s murder. But he felt
something
. Elena’s very real fear tugged at him, and now this young woman sat before him in dire straits. It all was so confusing and pathetic. How had he been dragged into this mess?
Gods, by my own doing, he thought. Draken rubbed his hand across his face, willing away an anger that had nothing to do with her. “Give me a reason to save your life, Aarinnaie. Show me your value to the Queen, and I’ll do my best to protect you.”
“Oh, you will want to protect me. For if I ever feel a noose about my throat or cold steel at my nape, Draken vae Khellian, Bowrank Commander and Black Guard for your cousin the Monoean King, I’ll shout your name loud enough for the Gods, and certainly Reavan, to hear.”
Aarinnaie unfurled a small, certain smile, her utter accuracy grinding a cold and feral knife deep into his soul.
Chapter Eleven
W
alking back to the throne room, Draken felt in a daze. How had she learnt his true identity? Sorcery? Or something more mundane, like from someone else who knew. But who, besides Setia and Osias, would tell? Surely not them. His mind fell immediately on the dead prisoner Sarc. He frowned. But how in Korde’s name would she have managed to get close enough to the Monoean prisoner in the cages to learn Draken’s identity? Why would she even think to do it? And, if Sarc had talked, who else had he told?
It was ridiculous. Aarinnaie wouldn’t have talked to Sarc. And if Sarc had blurted out Draken’s identity to anyone of import, Draken himself would be hanging from the same gallows.
So it left Osias and Setia. Gods, and all the evidence pointed to a Mance involved in the attack. Osias was the only Mance about. Was he using Draken to keep close to the investigation?
“No,” he muttered aloud. “He found me by chance.”
As had the bane…
Or not so much by chance, perhaps. Was the Mance using him, betraying him? Truth, it was odd the way Setia had tried to seduce him just as Aarinnaie was sneaking through the Bastion, knife in hand. But, gods, surely no. What would be her purpose in subterfuge? Osias had protected him, been kind to him. It couldn’t be all just some plot, could it? Why involve Draken at all? Perhaps as a fall-man? If Osias revealed who Draken was and claimed he’d been behind the attempt on Elena’s life, surely all would believe it, especially Reavan.
But he had a hard time believing Osias and Setia were guilty, and worse, he simply didn’t want to. Just thinking over the implications left his tired mind in a painful knot. He decided to stick with what he knew for now and sort through the rest later, when he was more alert. He had to use all his capabilities to keep Elena from learning the truth of who he was, as well as keeping Aarinnaie alive. However, he couldn’t escape the shivery feeling of arrows trained on his back.
As drained as he was, a short time later Draken found himself on his knees in the throne room before Queen Elena and Lord Marshal Reavan. He waited silently, wondering about the meeting between Geord and Elena. Did Geord know who Draken was? No. He’d have used it. Reavan had the best chance of knowing, but he certainly would have spoken by now.
The Queen wore loose robes revealing the hem of her white sleeping shift, but Reavan had changed into his greens and armor. The Lord Marshal still anticipated an execution this night.
Draken repeated his conversation with Aarinnaie, save the bit at the end. His voice broke off as he finished, and he realized he was still feeling the effects of Aarinnaie’s revelation.
“That’s all you’ve got?” Reavan rose from his place on the dais at Elena’s feet to pace the length of the throne room. Draken refused to follow him with his gaze, but stared at the Queen instead. “She is of no use, Your Majesty,” Reavan said. “Let me dispose of her so we can have this done.”
The Queen’s lips drew down in a troubled frown. “I think I must agree. But I would like to hear Draken’s thoughts.”
Draken shifted. The stone floor was wreaking havoc on his knee. His mind painted an unbidden picture of Aarinnaie shouting out his true identity before the axeman took her head. “I believe she’s still of use.” Gods, think, Draken. Think. “It’s clear she’s part of a larger plot.”
Reavan waved a dismissive hand. “If we kill her now and hang her corpse in the highest tree outside the Palisade, it will serve as warning enough to her partners.”
“All respect, Lord Marshal,” Draken said, hanging onto his conspiracy theory for dear life. “I must disagree. I believe such an action would serve to fuel the hatred that inspired this attempt on Queen Elena’s life. And, Aarinnaie is a daughter of Brîn. She is royalty.” The last was directed to the Queen.
“She’s a traitor,” Elena said.
Her gaze didn’t flicker from Draken’s face as Reavan said, “Her father may be a Prince of Brîn, but he serves at the pleasure of Queen Elena.” He smoothed his hand over the green tunic marked with the moon sigil and stripes designating him as Lord Marshal. His arms corded with tension. “We’ll be better off with Geord in the Prince’s throne.”
An interesting alliance, Draken thought, distracted for the first time since Aarinnaie had revealed that she knew of his origins. Geord, no doubt, played patsy to whatever Reavan suggested. “I’ve no opinion on Prince Khel’s corruption, my Queen, or Heir Geord’s worth to the Crown. I’m here to see to your interests, and I tell you they will not be served by killing Aarinnaie.”
“She is nothing, less than nothing.” Reavan stopped his incessant pacing to stand very close to Draken, so he had to look up to see the Lord Marshal’s face.
Draken refused to be intimidated, even on his knees. He straightened his back. “If she is nothing, then how did she manage this attempt? And she is a princess, after all. Do you truly believe her father will let her execution pass without retribution?”
“Her father has no real power, no real army,” Elena said. “You’re of Brîn. You know this, even if you won’t admit it.”
Draken shook his head, wondering what politics and insecurities kept Reavan and Elena from being rational. The Brînians had enough power to threaten Elena’s life. Aarinnaie had proved it this night. “If Prince Khel is involved, killing Aarinnaie will force his hand. If he’s not, killing her will secure him as an enemy. Won’t he at least attempt to avenge her death? The Brînians can—” He stopped, his face heated from his slip. “My people can fight. You must give us that. Why give the Prince a reason to lead them against you?”
“Laughable,” Reavan said, snorting. “The Brînians could never beat us in full-on war. They already lost once, remember?”
But Draken glanced at the Queen to gauge her recovery from her fear. What he saw spurred him to continue. “There’s use for Aarinnaie yet, Your Majesty. She knows things—”
“Draken’s own motives are in question, my Queen,” Reavan spoke quickly, too quickly. “He is trying to save Aarinnaie’s life for the sake of his fellow Brînians.”
Draken paused, knowing his own calm could provide a foil for Reavan’s volatility. Still, it was hard to maintain. “Is that so wrong? It seems to me killing Aarinnaie could cause the Prince to make civil war. She is key to getting to the bottom of this plot against you.”