The next morning Setia left her tack, saying she didn’t need it. Tyrolean argued against leaving such expensive items to ruin in the damp woods, but Draken spoke quietly.
“Leave her be, Captain.”
Tyrolean turned away from them, but not before Draken caught the scowl on the Escort’s face. He felt Bruche’s cold, alien urge to show bravado at the resistance to Draken’s authority, but he ignored it.
Bruche chatted more, and there was no escaping him, which began to grate. Draken recalled Bruche’s memories as if they were his own well enough; he didn’t need a verbal rehashing. But then, he didn’t need to say when he was annoyed either; the spirit knew.
Bruche moved in strange, unexpected ways, and he admitted to Draken their centers of gravity felt different. Bruche had been a big man. The worst was when Bruche redirected his gaze. Draken often felt dizzy for minutes after.
Stop looking
, he’d tell the spirit irritably, wondering how they were to fight when just standing in one place and looking around was so difficult.
No worries, friend,
Bruche said.
When the time comes you’ll simply have to step aside.
He had no idea how he would step aside from his own body. While he had been proficiently dangerous before, now an untested menace lurked. He hadn’t dared to try his swordhand yet, even in practice, though he’d seen Bruche’s successes through his own memories. As a soldier Bruche had killed early and often. At least they had that in common.
Draken’s hand bumped into his sword hilt, making him jump. Bruche had insisted he wear it on his hip rather than his saddle. It bounced against his thigh as he rode, and its weight felt ungainly. With the unfamiliar weaponry and the vertigo, he couldn’t imagine wielding the blade with any skill at all. Bruche had been impressed by the blade despite its worn appearance, admitting grudgingly moonwrought was the finest metal available for a sword.
It’s maintained a fair edge.
The Queen gave it to me, so I suppose it is of some value,
Draken said.
Bruche snorted.
That sword is legend in Brîn. Magical, if you believe in such a thing.
That was a joke. He knew what Draken thought of magic.
It did explain why everyone considered the sword such a grand war prize. But to him, one weapon was much like another. He’d shot hundreds of arrows in his life. He only cared if they flew straight and killed his mark. They served no other purpose. Bruche said nothing, but he could feel the spirit’s disdain at his attitude toward the sword.
“We need real rest,” Osias declared, eyeing Draken as if he sensed his internal tension. “Good fortune, and Aarinnaie, leads us to such a place.”
Draken blinked at him in surprise. Once he thought to actually pay attention to something outside his own confused body, he heard the strains of a distant, strange piping. “What is the music?”
“To guide us to the inn,” Osias said. “They keep a minstrel in the surrounding woods to alert travelers to their location. We shall retire indoors tonight.”
Setia nodded. “We near the Erros and the wetlands are perilous.”
“Why?” Draken asked.
“Va Khlar’s people range further from Reschan all the time,” Tyrolean said. “And this region is not policed by Escorts as it should be.”
Typical Akrasian attitude,
Bruche said.
If there’s a problem, throw more soldiers at it.
Draken inwardly rolled his eyes in agreement.
“So Aarinnaie is there, Osias?” Draken asked aloud.
“Full of questions this day,” Osias answered, amused. “When you’ve been so silent.”
“Is she?”
“Her trail leads here. Whether she remains yet, I do not know.”
Tyrolean sat up in his saddle and urged his mount forward at the good news. Of any of them, he was most eager to complete their journey and return home to Auwaer.
The horses’ strides made pleasant sounds as they walked the leaf-padded trail, making it difficult to feel cautious. He reached up and tore one from a tree. Blue-veined and broad, the leaf left his fingers feeling waxy. Before, Setia had pointed out people did not cross Moonling lands lightly. But they’d ridden three days through their forest, never meeting anyone. What could make the wetlands any more dangerous? The whole of Akrasia felt nearly empty to Draken.
They continued at a good clip through the thinning woods until they came upon a proper clearing and a low-slung, thatched log building, shuttered tight against the oncoming night. Two chimneys at either end of the roof sputtered smoke sweetened by food smells.
As Draken drew closer, he realized the roof wasn’t quite thatched in the familiar ways from home. It was woven; twigs and reeds canvassed into an intricate tapestry depicting a woodland panorama. Images of animals cavorted on the roof, seeming to twitch and move as the fading light caught the different hues of the natural materials.
“Would you look at that?” he whispered.
Gadye-made
, Bruche murmured.
This is a protected place
.
Draken shifted his gaze to survey his surroundings as he felt Bruche wished to do.
Why is it so protected? It’s just an inn, right?
I don’t know
, Bruche answered.
But the Mance led us here for a reason, and if your prey came here as well, it might be to meet someone. We’d best be on alert.
Draken felt a cold tightening deep inside.
A groom appeared at his side. He dismounted and the groom stared as the pendant swung loose from his tunic.
“My lord,” the groom said, bowing low before leading his horse away.
Before Osias could dismount, another groom bent his knee to them. “We are honored to see you, Lord Mance.”
Osias laid his narrow hand on the groom’s head. “I thank you for your kind welcome. Gods keep you.”
“Have you been here before, Osias?” Draken asked, as the Mance dismounted.
“Not for a long while,” he answered as they walked toward the inn. “It’s called the Crossing. It was a safe place, a refuge, before the war. Legend claims everyone walks through the Crossing at some point in their lives.”
Draken gestured to Tyrolean, who kept pace a few steps behind. “What about him?”
“An Escort will be safe enough in the lowlands, if he keeps to his business,” Osias said. “But you, I worry about. You display split loyalty with your colors, and they’re sure to be curious about your pendant.”
“Well, she’s Queen, right? So what can it matter?” But just the same, Draken dropped the necklace under his tunic. At least the weight of the sword on his hip felt comforting to Bruche. He supposed it was the best confidence they could muster.
Most of the footprint of the one-story building was taken up with rooms, because the common room of the inn was small and crowded with tables and patrons. They sat talking amongst themselves, drinking from dented metal flagons. Men and women alike were armed with utilitarian swords and bows and dressed in colors made to melt into the woods. They barely noticed Draken, who passed through the doorway first, and even Osias brought little more than a surprised glance. Tyrolean drew more attention, especially from three Akrasian women who were shooing attempts at conversation by the men around them. But the room fell quiet at Setia, who was last to enter.
A sharp-faced woman, another Akrasian by the look of her eyes, stood between the tables with a pitcher in her hand. She hurried toward them, favoring one leg under her gathered skirts.
“The Moonling-half is welcome to stay in the stables,” she whispered at them.
Draken eyed the others to see what they might do. Osias smiled. “Setia is one of mine.”
The Akrasian server shook her head. “She’ll not be welcomed; no, not at all.”
Her diplomacy skills need work, Draken decided. He rested his hand on his sword hilt. “Not welcomed by whom?”
“The other guests,” she answered. “And my mistress.”
“Who might your mistress be?” Osias inquired. “Mayhap we’ve met.”
“She acquaints with Mance, I’ll grant you, and she’s fair devout,” she answered, glancing back over her shoulder. “But she’s intolerant of sundry. She’ll never let one stay.”
“Even upon special request of the Queen?” Tyrolean said.
The woman took in Tyrolean’s green cloak and gleaming leathers. “I’ll just be asking my lady, my lords. You may wash with the water in the bowl, if it pleases.”
“It does please,” Tyrolean said, his words clipped with annoyance. “And something to drink and eat. We’ve traveled far and we’re weary as any other.”
“You could be civil,” Draken muttered as she scuttled off to fulfill their requests. “Everyone’s staring at us.”
“I’ll behave how I like. This cloak carries the authority of the crown without the controversy of your banners,” Tyrolean answered, dipping his hands in the bowl she indicated. He wiped them on a towel so vigorously it tore the cloth. “You’re the one who would do well to keep your head down, my lord.”
Draken opened his mouth to retort, but Osias caught his eye and shook his head. So he held his tongue while he washed his hands. He wouldn’t turn down a bite at this point, but he’d be damned if Setia would stay the night in the stables.
Many half-lidded eyes watched them after the exchange at the door, though the low buzz of conversation resumed. A server brought flagons and wooden bowls of stewed meat and vegetables. Draken didn’t care if he didn’t recognize it. Besides the berries, they’d been subsisting on warm wine, strips of dried meat, and even drier bread on their journey. He tasted what was in the bowl. It was good, salty stuff but too hot, so he reached for his flagon. The clear liquid entered his mouth like watered wine, but burned his throat. He coughed, and Osias smiled.
“Easy, Draken. The food will cool.” The Mance took a delicate sip from his cup, the moon on his brow distorting with caution. “A useful brew.”
Draken answered with a cough. He tongue stung from the hot stuff in his bowl and his throat burned from the vile concoction in his flagon. Warmth bloomed in his stomach, though, and his tension eased.
“Do you think they’ll let me stay?” Setia asked lowly.
Draken slid his elbow close to her arm so they were touching. “I’ll see they do, Setia.”
“I like a man to prove himself by deed, not word,” Tyrolean said. “And I’ve yet to see you draw that sword.”
“Bait me again and I’ll draw quick enough,” Draken retorted, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. Bruche had influenced his response; he was sure of it.
Osias laid his palm on the table between them. “Quiet now. You’ve far greater foes than one another.”
“You’re right, of course, Osias,” Draken said, though he held the Escort’s gaze until Tyrolean broke away.
Just as the stew had cooled enough to taste it again, the server shuffled back toward them. Draken looked up from his stew; he’d been taking the “keep your head down” advice seriously.
“My lady would speak with you,” she said, gaze fixed on Draken. “Right, you. The merc.”
Tyrolean smirked.
“I’m not a mercenary,” Draken said.
Easy, friend
, Bruche whispered into his soul.
Tyrolean’s smirk fell away. “He is a lord in your Queen’s court,” he snapped. “Show him some respect.”
“Seven pardons, my lord.”
“Go speak with the innkeep, Draken,” Osias murmured. “You’re not without your charms, you know.”
Draken took another drink of the crystalline liquid. The sting in his throat gave him something besides his irritation to think about as he followed the server through the tables. Others in the crowded room leaned forward on their benches to make way for them, and they lifted shadowed, chary eyes to his face.
After passing the clattery kitchen and entering a quiet, dim corridor, the maid left him without a word in front of a rough-hewn door. A strange, sweet smoke beckoned through the wood. He contemplated it for a moment before rapping with his knuckles. His hand, tingling with internal cold, dropped to his sword hilt as if operating under its own design.
Bruche?
he thought.
Keep sharp,
Bruche answered.
“Come in and be welcome,” called a cheerful voice.
Draken pulled the lever on the door and pushed it open with his free hand; the other remained locked around his sword hilt. Bruche even drew it an inch. He took a step inside and stopped again. The air was milky with smoke. He couldn’t see further than an arm’s length in front of him.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m coming, be assured,” the voice replied.
A vague figure appeared, shrouded in filmy veils that made her as difficult to make out as a cloud in a rainstorm.
Small, delicate hands, white as a blank page, emerged from the veils and touched her chest in the common gesture of unarmed greeting. Draken freed his hand from the hilt with some difficulty, and copied the gesture, adding a slight bow, wondering who this person was and what she wanted with him.
“I am Draken of Brîn,” he said.
“And Lord Draken of the Queen, claims my groom,” she added.
Draken gave her a reluctant nod.
“I am Galene of the Gadye,” she replied, reaching out.
He allowed her to take his hands and she bent her head over them. He’d avoided looking at them much since he’d gotten the brands, but prodded by Bruche, he studied them. They were broad and relatively clean since their scrubbing, save the ragged ends of his nails. His greaves covered the brands, though they limited movement somewhat.
“Honest, expressive hands, which give much more than your face,” she said.
Apprehension tingled through him. He didn’t answer, but he gently removed his fingers from hers. “How may I help you?”
“Come, Lord Draken. Sit with me, and we shall talk.” Her veils rustled as she turned.
So much for the stew. He sat where she indicated and fought the urge to wave his arm around at the smoke, intoxicating and sugary. They sat with a proper distance, one that made him squint to make out her shrouded form. Draken said nothing, though Bruche urged him to speak.
“I would ask a favor,” she said. Bruche moved within him, as if he were leaning closer to listen. “We could come under attack, this night or the next. I need someone to ward throughout the night.”