Stay up all night? Draken was worn from his journey. “You don’t have your own security measures?”
“None so capable as the Queen’s Night Lord.”
Draken sighed. The grooms were more clever than he’d thought they’d be. “And you’ll let Setia stay with no argument?”
Again the laugh, rougher this time. “I’m not interested in the Moonling. That was my ruse to achieve an audience with you.”
Draken would never understand the subterfuge these people required for the merest action. “Who might attack?”
“Mercenaries linger. They are thieves and fierce fighters.”
Brilliant. Draken rose.
Ask her when to expect the attack. Ask her what else she knows.
Draken looked down at the filmy figure. “Why the smoke?”
She jerked slightly before quieting her apparent nervousness. Draken had caught her off guard, which he’d meant to do. “I am in constant pain,” she said. “The smoke has soothing effects.”
She lifted one white hand and pulled down her veil to reveal a lidless blackened hole where her left eye should have been. The flesh around it rippled with ruddy scarring from her cheek to her hairline.
Draken stared hard at her, willing himself not to flinch. He examined her pale skin and her golden brown hair, twined into several thin plaits. Her remaining eye, a sharp green, regarded him with equal curiosity. When he was certain he could speak clearly, he asked, “What happened to you?”
“Akrasian soldiers stole my mask during the Sword War,” she said.
Another atrocity from the war.
“I’ll watch for tonight,” he said. “But I’ll warn you, tomorrow we move on.”
She nodded and replaced her veil. “You bargain like a Reschanian trader for one from so far away.”
Anxiety caressed his spine and his fingers chilled. Bruche again. “Not so very far,” Draken said. “I’m Brînian.”
“I only speak of it because you should know your secrets are not held so closely as you think. You are watched, and word of you precedes your path. Royal blood does such to a man.”
“How do you know I’m of royal blood?” The question came without thought.
She tipped her head at him. “I am Gadye. Not much slips by me, even without my mask.”
“Royal is a stretch. Only by my mother, a cousin to the monarch.”
She bowed her head as if she didn’t believe him, but also had no wish to quarrel.
“Who spoke of it to you?” he asked. He thought of Aarinnaie, but it seemed she hinted at something else. Once again there was too much he did not know. Even here in the woods it was like being at court.
A low chuckle. “All the peoples speak of you.”
“I don’t know why. What would anyone want with me?”
She spoke in crisp dismissal. “Many things, Lord Draken. Many things. But I’ve achieved all I want, so you may go.”
Somehow he mistrusted a woman shrouded by so many veils and smoke that he couldn’t even see the white of her eye. He started to bid her goodnight, but turned back. “One more thing. I’m searching for a young Brînian woman traveling alone. Brown curly hair, blue eyes, and a bad attitude.”
Galene shook her head. “I do not mix with my patrons, but you may inquire of my servants.”
Odd she felt the need to throw all that at you,
Bruche said as Draken walked into the welcome fresh air of the hall outside her quarters.
Perhaps she just alluded to it to unnerve me.
The spirit as good as snorted.
She fair succeeded, eh? But why?
Draken had no idea and resolved to ask Osias about it. He sighed again and headed back for the common room and his cold meal. The day had been long, and he suspected the night would prove longer.
Chapter Fourteen
O
sias listened silently as Draken told of what Galene had asked. Draken wondered how much he gleaned from the telling, but the Mance held his counsel beyond expressing worry for Draken’s safety. “If the innkeep suspects foul play, then we’ve reason to be on alert. I think you should not watch alone.”
“No, Osias.” One glance told him the Mance was exhausted. He moved like an old, arthritic man, his hair was tangled in silver knots, and his face was drawn. Even Tyrolean’s lined eyes narrowed with fatigue.
They’d taken rooms at the end of a hall opposite from Galene’s dark corridor. In contrast to her smoky quarters, their room was filled with the mild scent of the sweet woods burning in the blackened hearth. The ceiling was low and the cracked stone floor sloped. But everything was clean. After glancing out the windows, Tyrolean shuttered them tight against the night chill.
Draken was allowing Bruche to sharpen their sword, and he watched his cold hands expertly move the strap over the blade with idle interest.
Tyrolean watched with quite a bit more than idle interest. “I, too, think you should not patrol alone.”
Draken glanced up from his work; his hands continued to run the strap on the blade. “You forget I’m never alone.”
Bruche’s deep chuckle escaped his lips. Draken and Bruche were finding a balance of control, but when Bruche took over some function, it was easy for more of his personality to slip out.
Setia threw off her cloak with a burst of impatience. “I worry about her intentions. Why does she not keep her own guards?”
Finally sharpened to Bruche’s satisfaction, the white sword gleamed in the firelight as if it were lacquered. Draken lifted it, his hand fully under his own power again, and turned it to catch the light. The blade reflected the room back at him: his own face, harder than he recalled, the flicker of the fire, the silvery shape of Osias, and the warm bed he would not get to use.
Tyrolean rose and held out his hand. “May I, my lord?”
Draken gave him the sword, hilt first. The Escort tried a few graceful practice motions before flipping the naked blade to the flat of his hands and presenting the hilt back to Draken with a shallow dip of his chin.
“Not an ornate blade, but balanced and quite fine, nevertheless,” he said, his approval obvious but grudging. “For a Brînian blade.”
Draken had been sliding the sword back into its sheath, but he stayed its progress. His eyes locked on the Escort’s. “You’ve been spoiling for insult ever since we met, Tyrolean. Why don’t you state yourself plainly?”
Setia turned. Her nostrils twitched as if she were sniffing the air for threat.
Osias lifted a hand before Tyrolean could speak a word. “We aren’t any of us chosen friends,” he said. “But allies you be, by order of your Queen. Put aside your differences.” He smiled beseechingly. “Please. I fear your hostility may spill well beyond yourselves.”
Draken nodded and allowed the sword to slip into its sheath. He was finding he had a distinct inability to refuse Osias.
Tyrolean sat back down and nodded as well. “We’ll try, on your behalf, Lord Mance.”
“Whatever the reason, I am grateful you will,” Osias replied.
“I’m going.” Draken slung his cloak over his shoulders. “You all get some rest.”
Setia caught his hand and gave it a squeeze before releasing him. “Swear to wake us if there’s need.”
Only a few stragglers bent low over their flagons in the common room, and the rest of the inn was quiet with sleep. Most of the food scents had faded, leaving only wood smoke from the dying fire. He tried to keep his footsteps as silent as possible. Walking the clearing and surrounding woods, as opposed to just standing sentry, was a better deterrent to any who might attack. Crisp moonlight illuminated the clearing. The shadows looked impenetrable, more forbidding than usual.
It’s perceived threat rather than real
, Bruche pointed out reasonably.
Right
, Draken agreed. But something had his hackles raised. He strode quietly but with purpose through the outskirts of the clearing, just inside the protective shadow of the surrounding trees, circling the inn enough times to lose count. He found nothing and paused to lean against a tree. A jaw-cracking yawn overtook him. His breath puffed in front of his face like the Gadye’s smoke.
This is pointless
, he thought, resentful of Osias and Setia, curled together, warm.
Shhh, now, what is this?
Bruche whispered, redirecting his gaze.
A figure on horseback had appeared out of the trees. The animal seemed made of shadow; its black hide barely showed in the moonlight; its hooves didn’t speak on the ground. The rider was a cloaked specter. No harness or armor jingled, no rub of leather. Draken didn’t dare blink for fear the creature would disappear back into the night.
I should go and intercept him before he reaches the inn
. Every pore screamed for action.
Hold
, advised Bruche.
He could be a scout for a company.
But the rider approached the inn alone and paused before a window. He turned his head as if to listen, but he did not turn back to beckon any fellows before tapping on the shutters with a short whip.
When there was no response the rider tapped again.
After a short wait, the rider whistled a low tune and the shutter swung open. A figure leaned out. Long curls escaped the casement.
“Aarinnaie,” Draken breathed.
The princess was here. He was rankled; Galene must have known. How could he have been so stupid to not simply search the inn? All this talk of attack was just a distraction—
Wait. And hold your anger against Galene. The Gadye people lean to discretion. Perhaps this was her way of showing you the princess without betraying her custom.
Aarinnaie and the horseman spoke, heads close together. Draken couldn’t hear what was said. Then Aarinnaie slipped through the window.
With a hiss of sharp blade from metal sheath, Draken sprinted across the clearing toward the pair. The warhorse stamped and snorted at the motion as she moved to mount behind its rider.
“Hold, Aarinnaie!”
At Draken’s call the animal wheeled. Aarinnaie was astride, but had to cling to the rider in front of her to keep from being unseated. The rider’s sword clashed from its sheath, putting the horse on top alert. The animal set his feet and fixed Draken with a glare. A skirt of well-oiled mail swung about its legs.
“Hold!” Draken repeated. “Aarinnaie is under my custody.”
“I’ve not been these past nights,” she called back.
“You’re to be returned to your father,” Draken reminded her, his jaw tight with a sudden rush of nerves. This close, the black warhorse was immense, made more imposing by its armor. “By order of our Queen.”
The rider growled an amendment. “Your Queen, not ours.”
“I cannot let you take her,” Draken said, advancing.
“I will defend her, life and honor. Persist and I must cut you down as an enemy.” The rider’s sword lowered and the horse stepped forward, its front legs curling with practiced precision.
Draken held his ground.
Abruptly, the warhorse sprang forward and the rider’s sword crashed against Draken’s with a rushing fury of strength, blocked by Bruche at the final moment. Draken staggered back from the impact, his sword dropping from his two-handed grip to the dirt. Pain flared in his left shoulder, which had absorbed the force of the blow. The hurt was quickly followed by an uncomfortable chill sliding over and through him. He went cold to his core, through his heart and lungs out to his skin, too cold to shiver, too cold to draw breath, too cold to think.
Bruche grasped at the sword and turned in time to face the next advance. He threw Draken’s body into a giant arc; the white sword slashed at the horse’s armor while ducking the rider’s swing. Draken had no idea if his blade found flesh. The horse spun and leapt forward again.
Bruche sidestepped the giant hooves and swung at the horse’s leg as he passed. Blood flung hot and salty across Draken’s face. Bruche snarled at the taste of it on his lips. They turned toward the onslaught yet again and the horse galloped hard—not four giant strides before their swords clashed. Bruche tried to avoid knocking blades, but the point of the rider’s sword twisted Draken’s hilt and nearly ripped it from his hands.
He fell hard on his back, landing on his injured shoulder, his head slamming into the ground. His lungs ejected air as he hit. Pain cut through Bruche’s fog of cold. Something in his shoulder had definitely popped.
The animal turned toward him again but stopped as its master reined it in, flared nostrils huffing, long ribbons of tail swishing like a stalking snake. The masked rider leaned forward, sword point down, ready to impale Draken to the earth.
Bruche gathered strength for a last-ditch parry; Draken’s right arm swung at the rider’s dark sleeve. The white blade tore mail and flesh as if cutting through flame. More blood splattered across Draken’s face and the rider cried out in rage. Bruche followed with an undercut on the back swing which caught the horse’s chest under its mail skirt. It wasn’t deep enough to fell it, but the horse skittered back with a snort of pain.
“By the Seven, you shall die this night!” The rider started to swing a leg over the horse’s neck to make good on his vow, and Draken struggled to rise.
“Stay!” Aarinnaie cried, clutching at the man in front of her. “Stay your blade!”
The rider paused.
“He was kind to me,” Aarinnaie said. “He saved me from execution. Please stay your kill!”
The rider stared down at Draken, considering for a long moment. Draken wasted no time in fighting his way to his feet, and Bruche lifted the sword in weak retaliation.
“I will spare you this night, by my lady’s plea,” the rider decreed at last. “However, I will not forget your face. When your death comes, it will be by my hand.”
Draken couldn’t say anything in clever retort. He could barely breathe. His misshapen shoulder felt as if a hot poker was twisting itself round in the socket, wrong and tight inside his stiff armor, every ligament strained to bursting, his marrow boiling with fury and pain.
The horse wheeled again, plate-sized hooves throwing up weedy clods of dirt as the animal galloped away. Aarinnaie clung to her rescuer, but she turned her head to look back at Draken.