Chapter Seven
T
he branding hurt. Osias did not use sorcery to change the look of the marks on his hands, but overlaid a new design with a poker from the fire he built up in the already stifling room. It took all Draken had not to scream out when the red-hot metal marred his skin, and by the second one he lay back on the bed, trembling and sweating. But the Mance had done well. Draken now bore marks more like a stag’s horns. Khellian’s war helmet.
As he lay in the bed, hands thickly salved, resting from his ordeal, he couldn’t shed the idea of proving his innocence and seeking vengeance on the one who had killed his wife. The beginnings of a plan seeded in his mind. It was dangerous, and revenge was considered heresy, so he knew better than to bring it up with Osias and Setia. They’d never agree. But he had lost his wife, his home, his whole life. He realized it anew staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, enduring the pain from his burns. He was irrevocably changed, damaged. Desperate. And this, surely, was a plan born of desperation.
By the time he readied himself for court Osias’ salve had mostly healed the burns. They didn’t look like they’d been there from his cradle days, but they didn’t look as if they’d been done in the morning, either.
Elena’s court served unfamiliar meats, vegetables and fruits and a heady, golden wine. Even the bread was odd; every bite melted on the tongue, leaving behind crunchy, sour seeds. The diners sat on cushions with low tables, at a convenient height for the diminutive Moonling slaves to serve them. The Queen reclined on a dais behind a table, surrounded by fawning Akrasian males. Reavan kept close to her side and served her himself.
No one acknowledged their arrival beyond a cursory announcement at the door, but Draken often found the courtiers’ gazes on him. Reavan’s expression was less than friendly. Draken concentrated on his meal until the doorman announced: “Princess Aarinnaie, daughter of Prince Khel of Brîn, and Lord Geord of Brîn beg your reception.”
“Looks fair like a Brînian heir, eh?” Osias said, nudging Draken with his elbow.
A man with bronzed skin entered the hall. Dark waves curtained a broad face with flat cheeks. Silvery-white chains filled the neckline of his robe, and his wrists clinked with bangles. More chains hung on his ankles beneath wide-legged trousers. His feet were bare, showing rings on his toes. Draken had never seen such a ridiculous display of wealth in his life, not even on his own King.
A young woman followed him, Szirin Aarinnaie in Brînish, similarly draped in chains and a brightly embroidered gown. She did not approach the dais with Geord but found her seat, accompanied by two guards, one hulking and hard-faced and the other almost too slight to wield the sword strapped to his back. Aarinnaie moved capably, silently, as if she were stalking something, and the only hesitation in her step was when her gaze found Draken’s face.
Geord took a knee before Elena and apologized for their delay. Elena waved him away to dine. His face creased into a surly frown; he wasn’t accustomed to being disregarded so efficiently. But when his gaze lit on Draken, the scowl disappeared into shock, and then studious avoidance.
“Do you think he wasn’t told I was here?” Draken murmured to Osias.
Osias shrugged. “Hearing a Brînian bloodlord is in the Bastion and seeing you attend court are two very different things.”
Geord sat and spoke to his own familiars. Princess Aarinnaie did not look Draken’s way again, nor speak to anyone.
Once the food was cleared, leaving wine and black fruit which opened to reveal a blood-red center, court proper began. A woman from a town called Reschan asked for more troops for protection against an insurgency called the Va Khlar, and they were granted, though not as many as requested. Draken filed that away, recalling the name from the day he’d met the Queen. Another petitioner wanted shipments of fabrics from Auwaer City sans taxes because of some loophole or another, and this was politely negotiated.
Finally the gilded Brînian approached the dais, this time announced as Geord, Heir-apparent to the Principality of Brîn, fiancé of the Prince’s daughter. He came to debate levies on exports. The heir didn’t get far with his issue. At last, Elena gestured to Draken. The sick feeling in Draken’s stomach bloomed into a stabbing gnaw.
“Do you know this man, my lord?” she asked Geord.
Draken rose as Osias had advised him. “Bloodlord Draken, my lord,” he said, inclining his head.
Geord gave Draken a careful look-over, as if he’d failed to notice him before, which Draken brazenly returned. “Your surname, my lord?”
“I’ve none,” Draken said. He unclenched his jaw for the rest of the lie. “My father would not claim me by name, though he saw me branded and trained to fight. I was raised in the Dragonstar Islands.” Osias had assured him there’d be no immediate way to confirm if this was truth.
Geord arched an eyebrow. “A bastard then?” He studied Draken again and shrugged a shoulder. “Looks pureblood enough. A
kinve
of a low island house, then. I can’t imagine why he calls on your court.”
Kinve
. Draken knew that term. It meant bastard son, claimed but unlanded. It worked for his purposes. Draken had no lands to call his own in this godsforsaken country.
“Interestingly enough,” Elena replied, “the Mance brought him.”
“Ah. He’s dead, then.” Geord’s tone made Draken stiffen, but low laughter sounded from the dining nobles. “Or soon to be?”
“I will not have my guests baited,” Elena said, her tone clipped.
Geord’s necklaces tinkled as he bent in a low bow. “Apologies for my levity on such a grave matter,” he said. Chuckles and whispers followed him back to his seat. Aarinnaie edged away from him as he took his seat.
Despite her admonition, Elena chose to ignore the pun. “The court would hear from the Lord Mance,” she said.
As if finally given permission, everyone’s attention slid to Osias as he rose and approached the dais. He did not kneel or bow as the others had done, but made his own appealing gesture of touching his forehead with his fingertips. Draken looked at the courtiers. Most gazes softened when they looked at the Mance, but some eyes narrowed.
“Having traveled a great distance,” Osias glanced over his shoulder at his companions, “we have found respite from our travels and relief under the kind ministrations of your household. For that, Queen Elena, I thank you.”
“The Mance proved its trust and worth since my father’s rule, and you are always welcome at Auwaer City. Our treaty has proven peaceful and beneficial for all the peoples of Akrasia. I hope you too have found it so.”
The Queen’s voice was even, polite. Osias bowed in agreement. Why, then, did apprehension prickle the back of Draken’s neck at this banal exchange of compliments? He glanced about the dark reception hall and saw no expression on those in attendance except for deferential interest.
The Queen lifted her chin. “Why were we not told the specifics of Draken’s heritage at the time of your arrival?”
There were whispers, but Reavan lifted his hand and they died.
“I thought it prudent to conceal Draken’s identity until I determined the extent of danger to him,” Osias said. “He is a victim of bane attack, and I’ve taken his safety and well-being upon myself.”
Voices whispered, but Reavan spoke aloud. “You do not trust your royals?”
“I remind the court you are not ‘my royals’,” Osias said. “I’m here on a diplomatic mission from Eidola as per the conditions of our treaty. I met those conditions by informing you of the threat to the Crown. Therefore, I am currently obliged to courtesy, nothing more.” Control your Lord Marshal’s provocations, Osias was saying.
Geord would not shift his stare from Draken’s face. Draken occupied his hands by taking a drink of wine, feeling close to provocation himself.
An anxious pause hung on the air between the Mance and the Queen. “My Lord Marshal misspoke, of course,” she said at last.
Reavan’s lips tightened into a frown.
The Lord Marshal inclined his head, but no one at court could have missed that he didn’t verbalize even the curtest of apologies. Despite the chide, Reavan was obviously Elena’s closest advisor. But Draken saw there was little love lost between them. Why did she keep him so close?
Elena continued with a question which caused the blood in Draken’s heart to slow to a glacial pace. “Despite our treaty and mutual respect, you did bring a Brînian bloodlord into my court. Need I remind you how many they’ve killed? They may even plot against me still.”
So she wasn’t going to bring up the attempt on her life, not directly anyway.
“Draken knows who holds the crown and sword, Your Majesty,” Osias said.
Draken begged to differ. When it came down to details, he was fast realizing he had little knowledge of the intricacies of the relationship between Akrasia and the principality Brîn. He knew Akrasia had sent defeated Brînians as footsoldiers under Akrasian officers in their attack on Monoea a decade before. He knew them to be fierce warriors. And he could guess well enough the Brînians would fair resent their Akrasian conquerors, even more from dying in a war fought on their behalf. But he didn’t know how close resentment came to outright rebellion. He frowned. Rebellion could complicate finding Lesle’s murderer. He looked up at Elena, at her cold beauty. She looked more like the statue on the knoll than a real person. To gain his freedom, to achieve his revenge, he needed her good will. He needed her trust. And he wondered how far he’d bend to get it.
“The sooner your kind recognizes fealty to your Queen is the only means to your survival, the better off we’ll all be.” Reavan leaned back, cup in hand. He gestured to a slave, who scuttled forward to pour. Draken was hard pressed to know whether he meant the Mance or Brînians. Or both.
Elena spoke softly; Draken had to strain to hear. “You slight our honorable guest, Reavan.”
“He slights you, Your Majesty, by bringing a murdering pirate—” Reavan began, but Elena had had enough.
“The Mance proved his sincerity and worth. This morning he underwent attack and he has asked for no recompense for our lack of protection for himself and his. That is,” she added, turning her dark gaze back on Osias, “yet.”
“I would plead it only on behalf of Draken. He comes to you as a witness and a loyal servant.”
“Loyal servants do not kill their First Captains,” Reavan said.
“A bane had taken hold of Draken, controlling his deeds and movements.” Never mind it hadn’t exactly happened in that order. Draken was fast realizing the Mance considered the truth a fluid thing. “I found him after he attacked you and your First Captain, holding a blade to his own throat. I rescued him barely in time.”
A shudder went through the court; they all knew what suicide meant to the afterlife, an eternity of wandering the world as a voiceless, bodiless shade.
“You confirm this, Reavan?” Elena didn’t look at her Lord Marshal, but stared instead at Draken.
Reavan spoke reluctantly, as if he sensed a trap. “Khein is where we first saw him, my Queen, and there only briefly, until he captured us and killed my First.”
“As I said, Draken was possessed and not to blame for his actions,” Osias said, and Draken realized how neatly the Mance had reshaped him from criminal to victim. Ma’Vanni damn him, he nearly believed it himself.
“Permission to speak, my Queen?” A voice from the back of the hall rang out.
“Certainly, Escort Captain Ilumat. Your counsel is welcome.”
They waited while a young Akrasian male in a green tabard with one stripe approached the dais. He didn’t speak until he was on his knees and looking up at his Queen. “I don’t know anything about any banes. I do know evidence of rebellion happened after the bloodlord arrived. He should be questioned closely.”
Draken resisted smirking. So it’s a full-on rebellion now, is it? He’ll have the Brînian bloodlords raising an army next.
Evidence indicated the attack on Queen Elena was a limited plot. He’d put it at three clever people, a highly placed group, small and nimble enough to infiltrate the Bastion. And there was the matter of the Mance arrow. Odd he should know details about Akrasian affairs that this soldier did not. But it would only help his own cause, if he got the chance to plead it.
“The rebellion is unfounded suspicion, Captain,” Elena said, confirming Draken’s opinion of her. She was more thoughtful than she liked to let on.
Ilumat inclined his head. “A suspicion we at court must take seriously. The Brînian Prince would have his sword back from you, and it’s no secret. Question this bloodlord, at least. Lord Marshal Reavan has his ways to get at the truth.”
Reavan’s eyes glinted at Draken like the tips of knives and a small smile creased his lips.
Aye, Draken thought, I know we’re in your playyard, under your rules, Lord Marshal. But I’ve a soldier-stone up my sleeve and this young man is setting the board for my throw.
Draken found the expressionless Tyrolean guarding the Queen’s back and wondered what he made of all this. Then, Geord of Brîn rose. His gaze rested resentfully on Draken. “Queen Elena, though I do not know this kinve, I cannot stand for threat to one of my homeland. We all know what Lord Reavan’s questioning entails. We’ve all seen your cages.”
Elena frowned and Reaven set his cup down with a loud clink. Draken almost let his head fall to the table. A diplomat, Geord was not. And he’d been so close…
“No insult is meant, my lord,” Elena said. “You are a friend to this court and shall remain so despite doings of your brethren. I don’t count you responsible for them until you are prince.”
Sidestepped again. Geord frowned.
Draken found he was gripping the edge of the table and let his hands fall to his thighs.
“Draken brings no ill intent.” Osias lifted his hand. “Let him speak before the court.”
Captain Ilumat agreed. “Let us hear his story in his own words, my Queen.”
Elena turned her gaze on Draken. Draken nodded and rose. Following what he saw was expected custom, he waited to speak until he took a knee in front of the dais. Osias moved to stand at his side.