Draken had brought Gusten back to the inn. Perhaps he would be Draken’s ticket into Va Khlar, though he hated himself for thinking it. Even without, he couldn’t have left a boy lying dead in the filth of the street any more than he could relent on his duty to the Queen. It was an odd place, this Akrasia, which held such stringent, conflicting demands over his conduct.
“Brooding won’t bring him back,” Tyrolean said, yawning and folding his arms behind his head.
“Who else shoots those Ocscher wood arrows?”
“You’ve asked me twice before.” Tyrolean didn’t open his eyes. “The arrow belonged to a Mance, Draken. Talking about it won’t change it.”
“Damn. Damn.” Draken unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it on the floor. Sweaty from the warm, stale air inside their room, he swung back toward the window in hopes for a breeze. Still no Osias. Had the Mance shot the boy for some reason and then run?
No, Draken,
Bruche said.
I trust Osias. Even if he did kill Gusten, then he has a good reason for doing so. Do not accuse your friend until you hear him speak.
Good advice, but Draken couldn’t help wondering about Osias’ culpability.
“Possibly Gusten deserved it, had done something unrelated to us,” Tyrolean said, unconsciously furthering Bruche’s case. “He could’ve been a thief, or worse, being Va Khlar.”
Draken turned to face Ty again. “He was a boy, and he’s dead. By a Mance arrow.”
Tyrolean opened his eyes to roll them at Draken. “Age has little to do with innocence in Reschan.”
Draken ignored him and put his gaze on the street. At the sign of movement, he leaned out the casement for a closer look. A single, furtive figure skirted the road and entered the inn.
“Tyrolean.” Draken’s low voice made the captain sit up. “Setia’s coming, alone.”
After a few moments, Setia opened the door, her knife blade entering first. She stared at the two men for a moment before relaxing her guard.
“Close the door,” Tyrolean said. “And tell us what’s happened.”
She obeyed, but kept her back pressed to the door. “Osias is gone. Arrested. They took him to the Keep.”
“Why?”
She didn’t seem to know where to put her troubled gaze. “A boy died today, from a Mance arrow. Osias was accused.”
“We know about the boy. We were with him. His body is in my room.” Tyrolean pulled on his dual scabbards and buckled the straps across his chest. “Tell us all.”
“A witness said it was a Mance arrow. Osias was the only Mance about, and Reavan...”
Draken and Ty exchanged glances. “You saw him?” Tyrolean asked.
She nodded. “For a moment. Osias sent me off. I think he might’ve glamoured me, instead of himself. It all happened so quickly.”
Draken looked at her hard.
Her dapples are missing
, Bruche pointed out. He didn’t move toward her; she was too skittish. “I’ll go to the Keep,” he said. “I’ll get him back.”
He re-dressed in his travel attire with his banners and Elena’s sigil indicating his rank. He turned the pendant to show Elena’s face. Setia helped him buckle his armor, worried eyes as dark as his Escort leathers.
“You look a proper Night Lord,” she said, trying to smile.
He nodded grimly. He’d pull rank on Reavan if he had to.
The market was dark and quiet as they passed through it, walking toward the looming Keep wall. They were greeted at the Baron’s wooden gates by a contingent of hardened guards, cleaner and more deferential than those guarding the riverside gates. When he told them who he was and held out his pendant for their inspection, three guards saluted him politely and escorted them into what looked like a empty throne room without a throne.
“Was this a King’s keep at some point?” Draken asked as he studied the faded tapestries hanging over the empty dais. He could make out very little of what they depicted in the dim torchlight.
“It’s an old keep which precedes our kings,” Tyrolean said. “Back before the Akrasians took rule, Reschan was the Gadye capitol.” He drew one of his swords and studied the edge, turning it in the light. Then he flipped it, caught it by the blade, and offered it to Draken. “Look.”
A flowing, archaic script was inscribed on the blade.
“I can’t read it.”
“‘By your blood, buy your peace’,” Tyrolean said. “It’s a Gadye saying. They’re old, these swords, given to my grandfather by a Gadye peacewarden. Back in those days, every village kept a contingent of Gadye warriors. Even when the Akrasians came over the Hoarfrost and settled Auwaer and the Brînians filled the lands by Blood Bay, Gadye peacewardens in the midlands kept them separated.”
“So what happened?” Draken asked. His nerves hummed with anxiety, making it difficult to concentrate on the history lesson. “How did the Gadye lose power as peacemakers?”
“Some say the banes helped the Brînians destroy the Gadye rule, but I believe it to be myth. I think the Brînians took over quite on their own, capturing slaves and stealing wealth. It went on for decades. Finally Elena’s father waged the Sword War to settle things.” Tyrolean replaced his sword in its scabbard and looked at Draken, his brow drawn. “No one can withstand Akrasia when we wish to make war.”
Except the Monoeans, Draken thought, but he didn’t get a chance to say it.
“Many lives were lost,” came a new, deep voice. The doors had swung open on silent hinges. “But the happy result is we Akrasians took rule and peace reigns once again.”
Urian had arrived. Thick black hair hung in coifed, smooth waves. His bright clothes were indulgent in cut and fabric, and a thin jeweled circlet graced his forehead, as befitting his status as Baron. Two guards and six overdressed familiars followed. They stared at Draken and snickered among themselves.
Gods, I know that voice
, Bruche said, and moved Draken’s hand to his sword hilt.
“The Gadye were exiled, nearly eradicated—” Urian’s gaze fell on Draken’s face and he silenced himself with a hiss of air. “You.”
“Aye,” Draken said. “Will you keep your promise to kill me?”
As answer, Urian drew his swords.
Draken’s arms chilled from the fingertips to his shoulders: Bruche spoiling for the fight. He drew his own blade. The pale metal gleamed, but something new attracted Draken’s attention. Faint black lines glimmered beneath the surface of the metal, like veins under papery skin.
At the sight of the blade, Urian’s swords faltered in their paths. “Ahken Khel?”
“The Night Lord should have the finest of weapons with which to protect his Queen, don’t you agree?” Tyrolean answered.
Urian blinked. That threw him for a moment. “Elena is not here.”
“Elena is Queen,” Draken said. “She is everywhere.”
“My lord?” Tyrolean asked, reaching for his swords.
“Hold, Captain,” Draken said, raising his free hand. The fewer blades drawn, the less chance for bloodshed. But Bruche was cooling his muscles, trying to push his way forward into Draken’s consciousness.
He’ll strike at any time
. Draken relaxed and Bruche’s ethereal chill consumed him.
Not a moment too soon. Urian’s blades whirled close and Bruche threw Draken’s body into motion. He ducked the advance and then struck, managing to get close with his sword, but not cut. He did force Urian back a step, disrupting the Baron’s footwork.
“Kill me and you’ll fall out of favor with the Queen,” Urian said as he recovered.
“Aarinnaie,” Draken retorted as Bruche struck again. His sword sliced the air in front of the Baron’s chest. “Where is she?”
A guard threatened their circle, but Urian held up one sword to keep him at bay. “Fools all, man! He’s mine!” He never took his eyes off Draken. “Aarinnaie is a ghost. Gone. You’ll never find her.”
“She escaped you.” Draken grunted as he lunged again.
He didn’t want to kill Urian as much as question him, but he held little hope he would get the opportunity. On the back swing, Bruche struck Urian’s forearm in a tremendous blow with the flat of the blade. Urian cried out and one of his swords went flying. It landed steps away with a perilous clatter. Urian again adjusted his steps to keep from stumbling.
Bruche wasted no time in pressing his advantage. He stepped forward and shoved Urian. The Baron fell back and had to use his free hand to catch himself. To his credit, he went down swinging. Metal bit hard leather armor over Draken’s ribs. He felt the bruising blow, but the leather held. Bruche kicked Urian’s sword from his hand before he could swing again.
Urian looked up to find Draken’s sword point at his throat. He rasped out, “He told me who you are—”
Bruche thrust the sword down, through buttery flesh and resistant spine, until the point scraped the stone floor below. Urian gurgled, blood poured from the wound, and his handsome face fell slack. A shout went up from the soldiers and nobles. Urian’s guards advanced on Draken.
A strange growl emitted from Draken’s lips; Bruche’s voice: “Life for life.” He spun toward the guards. The white sword struck again and the first guard to reach him fell. The second was on his heels, blade rasping from its sheath, but all halted at Setia’s sharp cry.
“Urian—he lives!”
Draken turned back to the dead Baron.
Urian’s eyelids fluttered. “Aarin…” he whispered.
Draken walked closer and stood over him, his sword limp in his hand, his gazed fixed on the Baron’s whole, uncut throat.
“It matters naught. We have the keep and we’re holding Urian. Release Lord Mance Osias,” Tyrolean had the presence of mind to say. “And bring him to my lord.”
The remaining guards, shocked at the sight of their recently dead Baron now struggling to sit up, hurried away to do Tyrolean’s bidding. The nobles held back in a tight, silent knot.
How did this happen?
Draken asked Bruche.
Ahken Khel does your bidding,
Bruche said.
As the legends claim. Look there. It speaks yet.
Draken watched his bloody sword. The blood separated on the blade, forming writhing lines.
“Put it away, Draken,” Osias said gently.
Draken wiped his sword clean of the oddly behaving blood and sheathed it while Tyrolean restrained the dazed Urian.
“Shall I arrest the Baron, Night Lord?” Tyrolean said. “He may be of use later.”
Draken nodded. “Confine them all until we sort this out.”
“There’s a whole keep full of people who would free Urian,” Tyrolean pointed out. “One of us will have to stay with him at all times.”
Osias Voiced a quick incantation which brought an undeniable stench and chill to the air. “I leave this man in your custody,” Osias told the summoned spirits, which Draken could not see but could certainly smell. “Kill any who try to free him beyond Captain Tyrolean, the Night Lord, or the Queen, as well as any who betray what happened here.”
Urian’s loyals whitened at the necromancy, and a casual wave of the Mance’s hand sent them scuttling off to their private quarters. Once the small band was alone in the chamber, Osias turned to Draken and laid his hands on his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Draken snarled and shook free of his grip. “Fine. I’ve killed before, remember?”
“My lord,” Tyrolean said. “We must have command of the Keep. May I search for hostile vassals and Reavan and his lot?”
A small wave of gladness cracked through Draken’s confusion. “They’re supposed to be your lot as well, Tyrolean.”
“After Urian’s actions, Reavan’s visit here is suspect.”
“All right, go,” Draken said.
Tyrolean strode off to search the keep, but in short order he reported Reavan had apparently fled. “I think no one here will challenge you this night.”
“Perhaps Reavan ran from us,” Draken said. He couldn’t shake the feeling Reavan was wrapped up in the plot against Elena.
Could it be you simply dislike the man?
Bruche asked.
It could,
Draken assented.
But I like to think I’m more judicious than that.
Bruche snorted.
As long as there’s no woman involved.
Draken turned to Osias. “Talk to me more about this sword.”
Osias shook his head. “It’s clear Aarinnaie is not here, and this is not a safe place to speak of anything important.”
“Damn her, damn her,” Draken said as they left the keep. “This night was a catastrophe.”
“Not a total loss,” Osias said. “You rescued me. I thank you.”
Tyrolean gave a nod in acknowledgement, but Draken shook his head. He’d caught the amusement in Osias’ tone. “You don’t fool me. You had things well in hand. I don’t know why you let it go so far as you did.”
Osias answered, “Truth? I was hoping you would meet Reavan. But like Aarinnaie, Reavan seems to have sprouted wings.”
“When news of this reaches Elena, I don’t like to think what she might do,” Draken said, rubbing his face with his hand.
Osias reached out to quiet Draken with a hand on his arm. His voice had been rather loud in the empty, midnight streets of Reschan. The oblique light of two waxing moons illuminated their path.
“You’d had a shock,” Tyrolean pointed out. “We all had.” He gave Draken a sidelong glance. “I’ve never before met a weapon which did anything but kill.”
Draken had a sudden urge to fling the peculiar sword away, anywhere, to escape its magic.
“You knew,” he said to Osias, knowing he sounded resentful and not caring.
And you, too
, he added for Bruche’s benefit.
I told you, friend. You chose not to believe.
“It’s supposed to be legend,” Draken snapped.
Osias lifted a hand to quiet him.
“No. Don’t put me off again,” Draken said. “You’re going to tell me all you know—”
Hold.
Bruche felt like a breath of cool air on Draken’s legs as he slowed his steps.
What is this?
Several cloaked figures materialized from the shadows by the darkened buildings and surrounded the small band. They were masked to a man, but had not drawn weapons. Tyrolean drew his swords and circled his friends with the tips outward. The strangers kept a generous distance, but Draken and his friends were outmatched.
Va Khlar,
Bruche whispered.