His hand crept up to sketch a protective sigil over his chest. “What in Ma’Vanni’s name is that?”
“The Palisade around Auwaer,” Osias said. “It holds fair and interferes with my senses. Someone could walk upon us without warning.”
“I’ll scout,” Setia said.
She curled her fingers around the lowest branch of a tree and pulled herself upward. She shimmied through the branches and climbed across to another higher tree, disappearing among the thick branches. When she dropped back onto the ground next to them she spoke in a hushed, warning tone.
“Greens are thick about us.”
“Royal Escorts,” Osias said grimly. His pupils were enormous, irises ugly purple rings against the whites. “I suppose we’d best be off, and find the proper entrance. Escorts cannot be trusted, not with Draken. Not just yet.”
Draken heard the arrow as it cut a swath through the leaves, but he didn’t see it until it paused mid-flight in front of his own heart, quivering. Osias reached out and plucked it from the air. His sleeve slipped back, revealing a wide, dull metal band on his forearm.
Osias’ irises inverted back on his pupils and flooded the whites. His entire eye swirled purple-gray. It was so alien, so
wrong
, it was sickening to see. Draken took a step back, swallowing hard. Osias started to nock the arrow on his bowstring.
Setia moved closer to Osias and laid her small hand on his arm. “They think Draken is alone. They do not see us yet through your wards.”
A sound as deadly as the hiss of a hungry snake filled the forest and green-cloaked soldiers materialized around them, circling them with glittering sword points. Leather armor peeked between the folds of their green cloaks, black braces clad each wrist, and heavy black boots graced each leg to the knee. Silent and still, the company far outnumbered the arrows in Osias’ quiver.
Osias met each soldier’s gaze as he slowly spun, his cloak sweeping the forest floor. “We are Mance-bound. We cannot be touched.”
One by one the sword points dropped, and then one of them stepped aside and bowed to someone approaching on horseback. Only from years of concealing his emotions on a daily basis did Draken contain his shock. The marshal he’d left tied in the woods, dismounted and leading his horse, hacked his way through the undergrowth with brutal sweeps of a sword. The animal’s flanks were wet and its mouth frothed around its bit.
“Lord Marshal Reavan!” The royal escorts slapped their fists to their chests and cast worried gazes at his face. One stepped forward. “We’ve intercepted a Brînian and a—”
“
Silence
.”
At his hissed order, they stepped back to admit him into the circle. He scanned their lowered swords with an upturned lip, flicked his gaze across the intruders, and stopped at Draken’s face.
Lord Marshal?
Gods, he headed the whole Akrasian army. Draken held his ground, torn between terrible regret for sparing him and relief he hadn’t murdered such a high-ranking soldier. The missing servii must have crawled off, wounded, only come back and untie the Lord Marshal. But something about it didn’t feel right.
The Lord Marshal looked at Osias. “You dare attempt the Palisade uninvited?”
“I’ve come a fair distance to deliver a message to your Queen, and I was merely looking for the main gate,” Osias said.
The Lord Marshal let it go for the moment. Instead, he directed his attention toward his soldiers. “Stand down,” he snapped. “You don’t assault Mance without risking the voice of the dead.”
Swords were sheathed as each soldier took a step back. They pushed back their hoods. Each of their eyes were also lined in black. Faces set, they fell back into vague formation behind their Lord Marshal and fixed their impassive gazes on his back. Draken knew unrelenting discipline when he saw it. They had no thought in their heads beyond swift response to their commander’s next directive. I used to be one of them, he thought.
“He stinks of the sea and wears Brînian black,” the Lord Marshal said, jerking his chin toward Draken. “What has this pirate to do with you, Lord Mance?”
“Draken is a Brînian bloodlord, a man of honor. I found him in the forest under attack,” Osias said.
“And the sundry?” The word was an insult, directed at Setia.
Osias’ reply was equally as firm. “Mance-bound.”
The Lord Marshal drew himself up. “I am Lord Marshal Reavan of the Royal Escort, Proxy for Her Majesty, Queen Elena of Akrasia. Kneel to your sovereign, Mance.”
Osias was untroubled by this challenge. “My allegiance belongs to my kind and my King, good cousin. But I pledge to show you the reverence you deserve while I am in your company.” Osias touched all ten fingertips to his forehead and gave a slight bow—a disarming gesture, literally. Both his hands were free of weapons, the bow and arrow gone.
Reverence you deserve, indeed. Said reverence to be determined by Osias. The Mance had begun a negotiation of conduct. Draken looked at Reavan to see what he read into the statement.
The Lord Marshal was not a stupid man. He’d caught Osias’ point. Again his chin jerked toward Draken, forcing the issue. Claim him or not, but no shoddy diplomacy would be tolerated here. Draken stiffened.
“He’s not like Setia,” Osias admitted. “But he is a witness to my report for the Queen.”
Reavan lifted his chin. “This bloodlord, as you call him, murdered my First Captain.”
Draken frowned. The servii he’d killed had no stripes. First Captain? And if he had indeed been killed, how had Reavan gotten free?
Osias paused. “Please, accept my reparation on his behalf.” His bow was lower this time.
Draken could handle his own affairs. He opened his mouth to protest, but he felt a small hand slip into his: Setia’s.
“What will you give the Queen in his stead?” Reavan asked.
“It is given,” Osias said. “We travel under diplomatic protection and you attacked. I failed to take my due, as is my right.”
Reavan’s lips tightened into a white line. Several hands went for sword hilts. Draken’s gut clenched. But Osias just tipped his head, awaiting Reavan’s decision.
“If you’ve a message from Eidola, Her Majesty will want to see you straight away,” Reavan said at last. “The Mance will accompany us inside the wall as a freeman, but the sundry and the Brînian are considered prisoners until otherwise decreed by the Queen. My First Captain’s death is an issue of State.”
“You chased me—” Draken started, but Osias interrupted smoothly.
“I am certain Her Majesty will see our side, Lord Marshal.” Osias inclined his chin. “But for now, so be it.”
Again a prisoner. Draken didn’t like it at all. But when the two soldiers took the reins of the mare he had been leading and bound his sore wrists behind his back, he endured it without struggle. There were too many sharp swords about. The ropes dug into the cuts left from the shackles. They couldn’t have failed to notice the brands on his hands. The soldier who bound him whispered something to another.
Osias joined Reavan in the lead. Draken and Setia followed, pushed ahead of several sword points. Draken wasn’t too sure about going into the empty blackness, but the swords stole his choice. As they moved closer, his entire body dragged, as if he waded through chest-deep snow. Terrible imagery assaulted him with every step. He would fall off into nothing and plummet for an eternity. Half-rotted creatures preyed on those who were stupid enough to draw near. He would die an endless death in the blackness.
The Lord Marshal walked on, leading his willing horse, with Osias a half-step behind, as if they would gladly drop off into nothing. When Reavan was two steps away from the blackness, he waved his hand as if sweeping aside a cobweb.
A flash of light pierced the black, making Draken squint in the glare. Reavan walked through without hesitation, and Osias followed. The soldier behind Draken nudged him out of his shock with a sharp jab from a sword hilt. As soon as he was through the Palisade, he felt as if a veil had been torn from his senses. They stepped onto a road of clean, white gravel. Two-story buildings of gray stone and polished wood flanked the road. Dozens of people spoke in businesslike, ordinary tones, moving quickly as if on errands. High-pitched laughter burst out. A man jogged past them, a leather scroll tube slung over his back. Small boys pulled rattling carts and horses hauled wagons. Somewhere rubbish burned and faint scents of cooking fires and wool and dust drifted by. Animals snuffled, people spoke, wagon wheels creaked, gravel crunched under the footfalls of the soldiers marching beside him. A green knoll rose on his left, shaded by trees.
Draken had never seen so many pureblood Akrasians in one place before. His impression of the population was dominated by one unifying feature: every eye was outlined in black, from the smallest of children to the oldest adults. It served to intensify their expressions. Beyond that, most leaned toward the fair skin, lean features, and black hair of Reavan and his Escorts.
Draken looked behind himself, seeking some familiarity. The white gravel died at the path in the woods. One nearby house encroached on the trees, and three children played by the door with a small rodent. The boy picked up the creature by its tail and it squeaked. But the blackness was gone, not seen on this side of itself.
Draken stumbled in surprise, and an Escort caught his arm. “Watch your path, pirate.”
The sun loomed high, and after the shadows of the forest the warmth on Draken’s shoulders felt welcome. Osias’ hair gleamed in the sun, too bright to look at, and in the light, his pale skin took on a new brilliance. Setia’s dapples shone.
Adult passersby showed veiled interest in their party, especially Draken, but children stared, unabashed. Reavan led the way, chin up, eyes ahead, not acknowledging any of the people. A small girl abruptly ran near, unmindful of the gleaming swords. She wore a long loose tunic and her feet were bare. Sunburn colored her cheeks and nose. She looked right at Draken. “Are you the Pirate Prince?”
The people nearby watched with abrupt attention. Her father drew near and took the child’s hand. “Apologies, my lord,” he said to Draken. He gave Reavan a contrite glance and pulled the child away despite her protests.
“But I want to see the Prince, father!”
“He’s too young to be the Prince,” the father murmured. “Come, child.”
“But he looks like the man on the coin!”
“All the Brînian bloodlords look alike,” the father replied quietly, tugging her away.
“The man seems frightened of you,” Osias said to Reavan, his tone unreadable.
“Girl!” Reavan called, his eyes on Osias and his hand on his dagger hilt.
The pair stopped and turned, the child eager, the father reluctant.
“Come here, child,” Reavan said, his smile looking like he’d strapped on his sword belt too tight. “I won’t hurt you.”
The girl pulled free and ran back to them. Her father took a step closer and then thought better of it.
By a trick of good timing, Osias had put Reavan’s reputation to the test. The Lord Marshal had no choice but to demonstrate his good standing among his people. Draken tensed; he had a feeling it was about to be at his expense.
“Look upon him, child,” Reavan said, gesturing to Draken. “This pirate is going to the cages for crimes against Akrasians.”
“I’m not a pir—” But a sudden sting at Draken’s kidney silenced him. The point of a sword had sliced through his cloak and tunic like an erring through bloodied seas.
Reavan looked on with false tolerance, which thinly disguised his satisfaction.
Banking they wouldn’t kill him outright in front of all these people, Draken went on. “Your father is right, little girl. I’m no prince,” he said. He looked at Reavan. “Nor a pirate. And I won’t be a prisoner for long.”
Reavan’s smile faded, but he gave the child a coin and sent her back to her relieved father. Reavan stepped close to Draken. “Speak again and I shall gladly kill you. Mance-bound or no, only give me cause.”
Draken didn’t answer. His triumph had been short-lived. Showing him up in public was just as much an affront to Reavan’s ego as the private defeat in the woods had been. A thin-skinned noble—Draken had known plenty of them in his cousin’s court. The familiarity gave him some comfort.
Once they had resumed walking, delicious food smells made his stomach moan. A tidy wooden boardwalk fronted the row of buildings down the long street so pedestrians could walk without dusting their boots, though the white road seemed scrupulously tended. The houses were polished to a reflective shine. Carved symbols graced the lintels above each doorway. Draken squinted and realized he could read them now: they appeared to be surnames.
Laughing, barefoot children played upon a hill centered on an immense fountain made of black hardstone. Stark against the sunlight, it depicted a woman draped in a long flowing gown. Her long curves glistened wetly in the sunlight. One hand held a sword and the opposite held up a cluster of white disks hanging from cords, reflecting sharp rays of sunlight as they tinkled under the continuous bustle of the city noise.
The Queen? But Draken didn’t dare ask aloud. His back still burned like a brand from the last time he’d spoken.
Ahead, the white road ended in an imposing black building constructed of more hardstone. It rested on a gentle slope, fronted by a wide expanse of green. A high-banked moat enclosed by a cruel barbed fence curved around the corner of the building. The brackish current had left a white watermark on the black walls.
The rough-hewn stone failed to gleam even in the bright light. The building was a spare, sprawling box with utilitarian battlements and a high tower next to the gates. Rooftop bowmen trained arrows on them. Huge barred gates on the bridge protected the entry, fronted by a company of two dozen green-cloaked soldiers. The white gravel led through the gates, which swung forward at their approach. The soldiers saluted Reavan, fist to collarbone. He ignored them. With a glance at each other, Osias and Setia followed him through the gates, Draken at their heels.
They walked through a long portico, well-shadowed from the sun. It led to a courtyard, open to the sky and green with more of the low groundcover. The bubbling of a fountain dulled the city noises. The three newcomers stared round at the covered walkways and balconies fronting the inside of the building. As austere as the exterior, few of the many doors were open to admit air and light.