His first impression of the city was one of tired beauty: edges dulled and colors faded from the abuse of salt air. Hardened, bare-chested soldiers crowded the streets. They hushed as he walked among them, and some knelt. Peeling signs swung on creaking chains. Garlands of flowers draped the rusted, ornamental railings of the balconies overhead. Women and children, wearing colorful gowns and their finest moonwrought jewelry for Sohalia, crowded all of them. A haze clouded the air over the city proper, obscuring the blackened mountains of Eidola over the spires, rooftops, and far walls.
His wet clothing clung to him, his borrowed armor felt tight and restrictive, his bad knee caused him to limp, and he had to grit his teeth to keep them from knocking. Not quite knowing where to go, he paused in the center of the main street heading from the gates. Tyrolean would have known what to do. Elena would. Even Bruche would have prodded him in the right direction. He heard low, tense mutterings and a horse stamping a hoof, but most of the people were quiet, waiting. Despite all the people, Osias and Setia nearby, and Va Khlar’s respectful deference, he hadn’t felt so abandoned since the Monoean captain had made him dive off the prison ship in the bay near Khein.
He breathed in the foul smoke from Truls’ fires and imagined what Brîn would smell like on an ordinary day: crisp salt air, good beers brewing, cooking fires from taverns. No one mourning their fresh dead. No one kneeling because their new prince had just entered the city.
What would his life been if he had grown up here? He at least would have known his way around the city.
“Take me to my father’s house,” Draken said to Halmar, stumbling over the Brînish from the remnants of Bruche’s memories. “If I’m to rule, I might as well start there.”
***
Three days later funerals still carried on for the many dead and their bereft families. The din of funereal parades served as constant reminder of Draken’s failings. House slaves kept incense burning in the estate-like citadel Brînian royalty called home, but it couldn’t mask the scent of the smoke from the pyres, nor Truls’ cursed fires still smoldering. The Mance did their best to unravel the enchantments, but Osias admitted privately that Truls had warded his spells well.
As he waited for the next visitor to the citadel, Draken lifted his gaze to the interior of the great dome over his head. Images of the gods cavorted over the surface, still bright despite the salt air. It covered the Audience Hall, which he couldn’t leave during daylight hours for the constant stream of visitors.
Three temple elders, draped in crimson robes, approached the dais. Draken rose to greet them and Halmar shifted on his feet near the throne. He didn’t like it when Draken rose. It was proper for Khel Szi to remain seated while receiving his subjects, he said. Draken retorted as Prince, he would do as he wished.
He didn’t offer his hand, though. He’d learned none dared touch him beyond his body slaves. “How might I help you?”
“Might you lead prayers to Khellian in his temple? We must thank him for guiding our swords,” one replied. He was a grayed, gentle fellow. Draken doubted he’d ever touched a sword in his life. Lucky bloke, he thought.
“I’ll think on it,” he told them, the same answer he’d given to Shaim’s followers, knowing he was putting off the inevitable refusal. He had no intention of praying his thanks to any gods, not when Va Khlar’s men still policed the streets to keep Shaim’s peace, not when Khellian’s swords had only made worse the longstanding enmity between the Akrasians and the Brînians.
He bid them a polite, firm goodbye and sighed as he waited for the next petitioners. He craved news from Seakeep, where Elena held temporary court, but...
“Brînian traders would see you, my lord,” Halmar informed him.
Wealthy traders kept demanding proof he was who he said, as well as questioning him about Va Khlar’s influence on policy. As if he’d had time in the last three days to work out all the intricacies, much less sleep.
“Khel Szi?” Someone approached the dais from the side. When Draken didn’t respond, he tried again, louder. “Lord Prince Draken?”
Draken jumped. The titles didn’t always register as belonging to him. “Sorry. What is it?”
But he regretted sounding so cordial when he spotted who spoke to him. The household stewards constantly pestered him about domestic matters. In frustration, he had put them in Setia’s charge. They balked at answering to a half-breed former slave—having, of course, no idea their new prince had been a slave once himself. The idea of slavery still rankled: he would see the servants in the city freed if it were the last thing he ever did.
Va Khlar assured him it would be. “To do such a thing now would destroy the economy and set the people into an uproar. Wait until well after you’re crowned, and attempt such drastic alteration in stages.”
Draken didn’t like holding off, but he listened to Va Khlar. If anyone knew how to manipulate economy and custom, and to reap benefit from the ties binding the two, it was the cynical, scarred trader.
The steward bobbed his head. “You’ve visitors from Seakeep, Khel Szi.”
Draken rose and took a step forward. “The Queen?”
“No, my lord, an Akrasian Captain and a Gadye. Shall I usher them in ahead of the others?”
Tyrolean and Thom. Draken started to step off the dais, and then eyed the approaching traders. The queue of visitors stretched halfway round the Citadel. Most of them had waited for hours and all of them were local. It wouldn’t be good politics to let an Akrasian and a Gadye cut the line.
He sighed. “Take them to my private apartments and make them comfortable. Wine, food, whatever they like. I’ll be along as soon as I can.” The steward bowed and stepped away and Draken added, “And send for Va Khlar. He can entertain them in my absence.”
The group of nobles were polite enough, but cautious. He showed them Seaborn and made it flare for them as he’d done for the others who doubted him. And like the others, they knelt and swore him allegiance. He was so anxious about Tyrolean and Thom he could hardly pay them proper attention. But as day stretched into evening, he still could not get away.
After he reassured the final visitors, four Brînian horsemarshals who reported the Wall Guard had to stop an attack by some stubborn Akrasian servii who did not believe Elena lived, and who, incidentally, were from Draken’s own Night Lord divisions at Khein, the doors were closed and he made his escape.
His private quarters, so recently his father’s, were lavish and comfortable. Colorful weavings and tapestries graced every wall and intricate tile mosaics spanned the floors. A low table surrounded by thick cushions rested in the middle of the room. The group lounged around their meal in Brînian fashion. He hesitated at the doorway, watching them for a moment. Setia and Osias had joined the visitors and Va Khlar held reign in Draken’s absence. He had them all laughing at some story—all but Tyrolean, who stood gazing out the window, his cloaked back to the room. It was evident he hadn’t even sat.
Thom saw him first and rose. “My Lord Prince.”
Tyrolean turned. He didn’t salute, and he didn’t smile. He stared at Draken as if he were a stranger, which must have been how he looked, dressed in traditional Brînian indoor attire of loose trousers and a bare chest.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Thom,” Draken said in Akrasian, unclasping his embroidered cloak of office and giving it to a house slave. A fire burned in the hearth and the room was too warm despite the sea breeze coming through the shutters. “I thought you might go home to Reschan.”
Thom knelt on one knee and bowed his masked head. “I’ve been looking for your sister.”
Hope filtered through Draken’s careful veneer. “Anything?”
“No, my prince. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for searching.” Draken forced himself to wave a hand. “Get up. I’m not your sovereign.”
“I would have you, though, Lord Prince,” Thom said. “If you’ll have me.”
Still too wary to be pleased by a compliment, Draken glanced at Tyrolean to see what he judged of this treasonable claim, but the captain gave no indication. Draken bowed his head in a nod, realizing he’d have to think of titling the young Gadye or making him a bloodlord. Or something. “Of course. There will always be a place for you at my court, Thom, if you wish it. But why are you here, Tyrolean?”
The captain squared his shoulders. “I’ve a message from Queen Elena, my lord. We’ve found your father’s body as they cleared the rubble by the gates. She wants to offer Seakeep for funeral rites.”
Draken crossed to a table and poured himself a glass of wine, putting his back to the room to give himself a moment to regain his composure. “Is that all?”
“No, my lord.”
Draken stared up at the tapestry on the wall over the table where sea animals frolicked with nubile Brînian women. “What else, then?”
“I wish to apologize for my absence these past days.”
Draken turned. “You belong to Elena, not me.”
“Even so.” Tyrolean saluted Draken, holding fist to chest longer than was custom. “I have struggled with loyalty and my Queen is quite frustrated with me.”
Draken stared at him. He just wanted things to be normal between them, friends again, as friendly as a Brînian Prince and an Akrasian Captain could be.
Osias lifted his cup, breaking the moment. “Come, share a meal at table and be easy.”
They both nodded, still eyeing each other, and sat.
“Is she well, our Queen?” Draken asked, trying to sound casual as one of the slaves filled his plate.
“She is in a strange humor,” Tyrolean answered. He stabbed a piece of meat with his knife. “As I said, I’ve not served her as I should.”
Draken swallowed his wine and set his flagon down. Setia reached to refill it. “At least she didn’t send you to arrest me for treason,” he said. “I suppose it’s something. Too much to ask she might crown me prince.”
“She’s not spoken of it. She said only I’m to serve you—if you’ll have me.”
Draken’s flagon paused midway back to his mouth. “Sounds as if I’m a punishment. Is it what you would have? You want to stay with me?”
“If it will prove my loyalty to you both,” Tyrolean answered. “I do not know what my Queen thinks, but I believe you belong at her side, and I at yours.”
He stared into Tyrolean’s dark eyes. “I suppose I could use some swordplay training. I lost my previous instructor in the battle.”
“I’m sorry to hear the news, my lord.” But the hint of a smile broke through the Escort’s solemnity. “It would be my pleasure to serve you in this way.”
“Your pleasure, you mean, to whack me round with a practice sword every morning.”
Tyrolean’s smile broadened. “Bruche would think it fit.”
***
After several goblets of wine and supper, everything felt almost normal between them, except for the missing Aarinnaie. Odd the difference a few days made, Draken reflected. Sevenmoon ago he’d been annoyed with his sister enough to run her through. Now he supped with Thom, Ty, Setia, Osias and Va Khlar, and did naught but worry about her.
“There’s truly no sign of Aarin?” Draken asked Thom. He made no pretense at trying to sound casual this time.
“I’ve questioned everyone I can find and searched more piles of dead than I care to speak of,” Thom said. “The princess is not among them, and no Escorts match her description.”
“Ghosts hide easily,” Va Khlar said.
“Unless someone killed her on the sly,” Draken said. “And threw her body on a pyre. They might, if they knew who she is.”
“Easier said,” Thom pointed out. “She’s a good fighter.”
“And it’s not like to happen when the Queen’s own orders go against such a thing,” Tyrolean pointed out. “She’s quite worried about the Princess as well.”
Draken raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”
“She doesn’t confide in me, my lord,” Tyrolean said, sounding as prim as a Akrasian Escort Captain could. He’d had quite a lot more wine than usual.
“Khellian’s balls,” Draken burst out suddenly, rising and walking toward the shuttered window. “I hate not being able to search. I left her out there, and after she rescued me, too.”
“Not like you’d find her at any rate,” Va Khlar said. “Doubtless she’s got some Akrasian servii keeping her in his tent, flattering every foul word from her mouth.”
Draken tried to rein in his annoyance at the teasing. He knew it was only to make him feel better.
“Send Va Khlar to find her,” Tyrolean gestured towards and leaned forward to refill the trader’s flagon with wine. He too, had gained an appreciation for the Reschanian’s particular talents. “He’s got a knack for it.”
Va Khlar lifted the flagon in salute to Draken. “If you wish it, of course I shall serve in this way.”
Draken ran his fingers over his chin. One trivial advantage to being Khel Szi was the opportunity to shave every day. “Set your people on it, but I need you here.”
Setia came to stand by Draken, where he turned back to the window to stare down at the people waiting to catch a glimpse of him. He’d gone out once, and it had only served to encourage more to come, so he’d not been outside in two days. She curled her warm hand around his bicep.
“They should be at home,” he muttered, “cleaning, rebuilding, opening their shops.”
“State a decree,” Setia said. “It’s what your father would have done.”
“I won’t do things as he’s done.”
“They know you are not your father, Draken. But ruling is just that: setting rules.”
“I’m not surprised at Elena’s uncertainty about the coronation.” Draken’s injured shoulder, still strained from Truls’ bindings, felt tight, and his growing tension over his father’ funeral wasn’t helping.
“Hang her approval,” Va Khlar said. He got snappish whenever the topic rolled around to Elena. “You should rule Akrasia, my lord, not her, and she well knows it. It’s the reason for her ‘uncertainty,’ as you so politely put it. Let the Mance crown you in the name of the gods and have done with it.”
Every feeling Draken had toward Elena confused him. One moment he missed her, another he hated her for being so stoic and silent, and in still another he envied her political aptitude. But most of all, he felt horrible shame at how he’d used her. Despite Va Khlar’s assertion, Elena was still Queen. His Queen. He’d sworn himself to her and it was not something he could put aside lightly, no matter how much he wished he could. I’ve already betrayed one monarch, he thought. The subdued finery of the Monoean court, led by his firm, learned cousin-King, already felt a far-off dream.