Exile (16 page)

“If there is a plot. It’s not been proved to my liking.” Reavan returned to the front of the hall. He dropped down onto the dais with insolent looseness, his noble features compressed into a scowl.

“Why do you believe she is working with others?” Elena asked.

He didn’t like bringing up the crime for which he’d been dragged into the city with his hands bound, but he couldn’t think of another way to prove his point. Nothing like jumping into it with both feet. “When I killed the First Captain, his body disappeared.”

“He did not, you slit his throat and dragged him off—”

“You didn’t see it, my lord. It happened to your back. We fought, I killed him, and then he was gone.” Draken said, swallowing his vacillation over the lie. He looked back at Queen Elena. “Osias says only a Mance would disappear when killed. And the arrow shot at you was Mance-made.” He paused, trying to gauge her reaction.

“Is this truth, Reavan?” Queen Elena asked. “The body disappeared?”

“Draken is mistaken,” Reavan said.

“Then where is it?” the Queen said.

“I buried it in the woods. Cassio was from Khein. I thought…” Reavan paused by her throne and bowed his head. “I thought it was where he’d want to rest.”

Elena nodded and reached out to touch Reavan’s hand.

Draken closed his eyes for a moment. Foolish to bring up killing the First Captain. Now Reavan had turned his claim that the victim had disappeared on its ear. Why? Was Draken really mistaken on this point…he had been exhausted, maybe even suffering from the bane at that point. Or was there something more going on here?

“Enough of this, my Queen. I’ll have her secrets from her quick enough,” Reavan snapped. “Blood draws out the errings, as it were.”

“Torture her if you must,” Draken said, shaking his head again. “But I think she’s capable of dying with her secrets. Someone has trained her well. This is larger than one bitter princess. She’s clever, but my kindness threw her. Also, she wouldn’t have spoken as she did without perceiving me as a potential ally. I can use that to find out more.”

“Deceit of kindness and alliance,” mused the Queen. “You think this could be effective?”

“Given some time, my Queen.”

“What do you propose?” Elena leaned back in her chair and lifted her fingers to stroke her long neck as she studied Draken. She was nearly there, but the hardest part to swallow was just ahead.

“Let her escape. She’s bound to lead us right back to the insurgency. I will catch her and pretend to let her sway me. If she doesn’t believe me, the First Marshal can interrogate her then,” Draken said. “Either way, we’ll get her secrets about the rebellion. But my way, we’ll capture the people she’s working with as well.”

“Odd,” Reavan said. “We heard a similar suggestion tonight from her betrothed. He is certain he could make her see reason, if we allow him to take her.”

“She does not trust, nor respect, Geord,” Draken went on doggedly. “With me, you’ll learn enough to slay the beast, not tap its tail with a whip. And unlike Geord, I’ve no real ties to my homeland. My only loyalties are to you, my Queen.”

Reavan spun toward Elena. “I will not hear any more audacious suggestions—”

But Elena, undisturbed, lifted a hand toward her Lord Marshal. “No, Reavan, do not speak. Not yet. Let me think on this.” She put a stern gaze on Draken. “How long will it take for her to talk?”

“I’ve no way of knowing, Your Majesty.”

“And what will you do to gain her confidence?”

Draken met her gaze levelly. “Whatever I must.”

“He lies!” Reavan almost shouted. “You cannot allow this. He will betray you.”

“I won’t,” Draken said, and he waited for her decree. Gods willing she make it soon, before his knees gave way.

“Of any in my court,” Elena said at last, “Draken is the one who can succeed in uncovering this plot. He is of her homeland, and yet he has no personal interests in Aarinnaie or the Prince’s court—”

“We don’t know that!” Reavan snapped.

“I know it, and it is quite enough,” Elena said. “I believe Draken will see right done, and he alone can gain her confidence.”

“And what of Heir Geord?” Reavan asked, his tone clipped.

“By her own account to Draken, and her actions here tonight, it is clear Aarinnaie wastes no love on her betrothed. Geord would be a valued member of my court, and Aarinnaie would see me dead. They’re not a likely pairing, especially should the Prince die before they are married. Geord will wrest no secrets from Aarinnaie.” Elena turned her gaze to Draken. “Please, do rise, Draken, and no longer kneel before me. I would have my closest advisors keep their feet in my presence.”

Draken didn’t like the expression of outrage on Reavan’s face, and he wasn’t too sure about being a closest advisor, but he couldn’t deny getting to his feet was a welcome relief. “Thank you, my Queen.”

“You’ve earned it,” Elena said. “Indeed, I name you Night Lord.”

If Reavan was angry before, now he was sputtering. “Elena! My Queen! You barely know this man—he is Brînian—”

“Reavan.” Elena’s voice rang like thunder against his protest. “Draken of the Blood saved the life of your Queen tonight. He deserves this distinction, as I deserve his fidelity.” She returned her attention to Draken. “Do you accept this designation?”

Draken was desperate for Osias’ guidance, to gauge the Mance’s reaction to this latest development. Why hadn’t he thought to bring the Mance with him to this meeting? He cursed himself seven times a fool.

“I’m unfamiliar with the rank,” he admitted.

“Night Lord is my champion, my shield, my voice when I am not present. I trust you as my highest lord to investigate and solve this insurgency. And as I bind you to me in sworn loyalty, your death before mine. For this you receive all honors, lands, and recompense due the position.”

Draken recognized an order cloaked in request well enough. There was no real choice here. He bent in an awkward bow. “It’s an unanticipated honor, my Queen. How could I not accept?”

She was so pleased by his response, Draken was certain she didn’t hear Reavan mutter under his breath, “Unanticipated, indeed.”

***

“You realize she’s just made you one of the wealthiest lords in Akrasia,” Osias said.

Draken had outlined the details of his plan to trap Aarinnaie to Elena before finally being allowed to return to his quarters, utterly exhausted. He rolled over in bed to face Setia and the Mance, one arm tucked under his head. He frowned. With wealth came power, and power was dangerous. He’d seen plenty of powerful people fall in Monoea. “I’m still shocked.”

“She sees something in you she trusts,” Osias said.

“How is it, Osias, when everything I’ve told her about myself is a lie?”

“Not everything,” Setia said. “You are trustworthy, no matter your lies.”

“Tell that to Aarinnaie,” Draken said sourly. He turned his back, thinking of his suspicions against them. Homesickness crept into him like a slow, twisting dagger.

***

“I’ve made arrangements for you to be returned to your father,” Draken said, reaching down to unlock the shackles on Aarinnaie’s arms and legs. “Alive.” He had slept through the morning, and most of the afternoon. Leaving her in chains all day was the first volley in his gambit to gain her trust. Personally removing those shackles was the second.

She rubbed gingerly at her raw wrists, reminding Draken of his own scars beneath his bracers. “How did you manage it?”

“I made the suggestion, and Queen Elena thought it was the right thing,” Draken answered.

“Elena wouldn’t know the right thing if it slapped her on her backside,” Aarinnaie said.

“Careful,” Draken said. “In my presence you’ll show her respect.” He offered his hand to help her out of the chair. She just stared at it for a moment, a petulant scowl wrinkling her forehead.

“Come,” he said. “You must be stiff after so long in one position.” She’d only been allowed up once, for the toilet, since her capture.

Aarinnaie allowed him to help her rise, but she turned her back on Draken at the earliest opportunity. She made an obvious effort to sound casual as she hobbled toward the fire. “Who are you that she listens to you?”

Draken crossed the room to drop the shackles on a stone tabletop. They fell with a clatter, almost covering his quietly spoken answer. “I’m the Queen’s Night Lord.”

Aarinnaie turned, not trying to hide her surprise. “There hasn’t been a Night Lord designated in two generations.”

“I’m to take you back to Brîn—alive, I might add—as the Queen’s personal emissary. She is most anxious to avoid war over this matter, as am I.”

“I’ll wager that’s truth.” Aarinnaie gripped the hearth so tightly her fingers whitened. “She’s had her war, hasn’t she?”

Draken stared at her. “You haven’t seen real war or you wouldn’t speak of it so lightly.”

“Were you at the first landings at Monoea?”

Draken hesitated. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I was there.”

She nodded. “They think you an island bloodlord. But I know better, don’t I?”

Draken released a slow breath. “Before I leave you to your rest, let me make one thing clear. You are in my charge until I turn you over to your father. Betray me and Reavan will have your head.”

Aarinnaie bit her lip, but said nothing.

“Furthermore, Captain Tyrolean will accompany us. Should anything happen to me, he is under orders to deliver you to your father in no less than five pieces. And I assure you, he is most capable with his swords.” He gave her a thin, cold smile. “It appears your life is bound up with mine, eh?”

Draken headed for the throne room, but one of the Escorts on duty there told him Queen Elena was in her private quarters. He paused out in the hall outside her door for a moment. The stones were paler where they’d been scrubbed free of the blood.

The Escorts allowed him entrance, saluting him crisply. Apparently they’d been informed of his new status. But the sitting room was empty. A handmaid beckoned to Draken through the doorway curtains. “Queen Elena is in her bath, Night Lord, and bids you enter.”

“I can wait,” he offered.

“Nonsense, Draken,” Elena called. “Come in.”

After a hesitation, Draken slipped through the curtains into the torch-lit bedchamber. The Queen bathed in a large sunken tub in a draped alcove. He lingered by the door, kept his eyes on the floor, and thought what to say. He had never been granted much time with his superiors, much less his King. He’d learned to avoid mincing words. But Elena disliked jumping into business right off; she found it common and rude. Now he had to play at small talk in a place where nothing seemed small.

“I hope this evening finds you well, Your Majesty.”

“Aye, Draken. And yourself?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Courtesies finished, Draken opened his mouth to make his report, but she spoke again.

“Melie, wash my back.” Elena leaned forward. Draken saw her narrow, pale back through the drapery as the Moonling handmaid rushed to do her bidding.

“I’ve seen Aarinnaie and removed her shackles,” he said, trying to find something else to look at.

“I assume you’ll be leaving us soon.”

“I’d like to reach Brîn Bay by the Moon Festival.”

“A shame you’ll miss Auwaer’s celebration.” Elena sighed. “I suppose you can always attend the next one.”

Draken winced inwardly. For the first time, the thought occurred—really occurred—he might never reach home again. He fought down an unfamiliar rise of terror, staring at her unseeing. Elena turned her head, and Draken averted his gaze from the glimmer of bubbly water on white skin.

“Leave us, Melie.”

The handmaid dipped her head, put down the cloth, and slipped through another curtained doorway near the tub.

“Would you help me with my robe, my lord?”

Draken studied the stone floor beneath his boots. “My Queen, I—”

“It’s just there, hanging on the hook.”

Draken walked forward and lifted the robe. He approached the bath, trying not to look at her too closely.

“I’m not shy, Draken,” she said as she rose out of the water. Her smile lightened her features, sinking a stone of doubt in Draken’s stomach. He had no idea where to put his gaze. Everywhere was glistening white skin and swelling in the right places. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat. “My Queen, I—”

“Be still. When I awoke in my bedchamber to find you fending off the assassin, I knew our pairing was destined.”

He found her face and fixed his gaze on it. “You had a bad scare.”

“I know my own feelings.” She stared a challenge back at him, her lined eyes almost black against her pale skin, and took a step closer to him.

“It’s easy to be confused when you’re frightened,” Draken said, growing desperate to make her see reason before he lost his own entirely.

She leaned toward him, nuzzled his chin with her lips. Her hair had been twisted tightly to her head for her bath and smelled of a cloying sweetness. “I’m not frightened when you’re near, Draken. And I’m not confused.”

“I still mourn my wife, Your Majesty.”

“And I my father. But how long, Draken? How long do we let death rule our lives?”

He tightened his hands into fists, pressing them against his thighs. “But—” It’s not the same, he wanted to whisper, but what did he know of losing a beloved father? He didn’t dare insult her.

“You would refuse my bed?” she whispered against his throat.

Draken tried again. “Queen Elena, I’m flattered—”

Her lips closed over his. His hands betrayed him, seeking skin, and he was kissing her back, all forgotten but the pale, damp woman in his arms.

***

Draken threw himself back flat on the bed. His heart thudded so hard he felt it from his throat to his groin. What was proper court protocol when a Queen left him shuddering like he’d just run the length of the town? He almost chuckled, but he was glad he didn’t when she laid her warm hand flat on his chest, suddenly earnest.

“You’ve faced death before?”

He drew in a deep breath. “Many times.”

A tremor across her skin. “Nothing prepared me to face my own.”