surf.
“It is Mance-made, but it is not mine,” Osias said. “Nor Draken’s.”
“You must have conjured it, Death-speaker,” Reavan said. “There are no other Mance in the city.”
“As you say, my magic is void here.” Osias knelt next to Draken, and, despite the proximity of the blade, laid his hand on Draken’s back. “Moreover, should I wish Queen Elena dead, she would be dead.”
Brilliant, thought Draken. Insult her while they’re so keen to run me through.
Reavan strode toward them. “Is that a threat?”
“It is truth,” Osias said. “If you know anything of my kind, you know I can only speak truth.”
“Let me up!” Draken grunted into the floor. “I know naught of any arrow—”
“Silence.” The Queen. Draken heard a tremor in her voice that hadn’t been there moments before. “The Mance stopped the arrow, did he not? Reavan, swords away and let the Brînian up.”
Two guards grasped Draken by his upper arms and hauled him back to his knees. The flesh hollowed, skull-like, beneath the Lord Marshal’s cheekbones and his lips pressed into a deep frown.
Behind them, Captain Tyrolean beckoned to guards and drew them outside. Two Escorts closed in behind Draken and other hurrying footsteps started and faded as soldiers trotted off to warn the rest of the Bastion. Tyrolean’s low voice issued orders while Reavan knelt next to the Queen, offering her a cup. The door swung open as people passed through. Draken took the opportunity to glance at the opposite side of the Bastion, across the courtyard. The roofline was clearly visible, until Tyrolean saw him looking and swung the doors shut again.
The archer was on the roof, he thought. Why would she ever allow such a direct shot to the throne? Foolish, though he wasn’t so foolish himself to say it aloud.
Queen Elena caught Osias’ eye. “Could this be part of the rebellion you speak of, the bit with the banes?”
Either Queen Elena was a simpleton or she was trying to make herself believe. Draken didn’t think she looked stupid, but cruelty and conviction could make up for a great deal of incompetence. He waited for his heart to stop thudding so violently, but alarm prickled every pore. Why weren’t they moving her to a more secure location?
“I can’t help but think this attack has something to do with the banes, and the Mance traitor,” Osias said. “It is one of our arrows, Your Majesty.”
Lord Marshal Reavan approached the throne. He took a deep breath before he spoke, as if garnering composure for a lengthy argument. “This bane story is clearly designed to distract you, my Queen, as well as gain a mislaid trust. King Truls reports peace is ever fair. No word of banes: truth, he’s never spoken of them because I think he knows, like we do, they are cradle tales.”
Before thinking better of it, Draken blurted, “It’s what I thought. I felt it, though—” The sword bit into his back again. He twisted and snapped, “Back off!” The sword point drew back an inch, the Escort blinking in surprise.
Queen Elena’s cold gaze turned to Draken. Osias spoke in soft apology. “Forgive him. The bane attacked him and the memory of it pains him still. He very nearly died, Your Majesty.”
“And yet he so conveniently did not,” Reavan muttered.
Osias ignored Reavan. “I brought Draken here as a witness, to help you understand. They are powerful, evil things. Should they take the right soul, especially your soul, Your Majesty, they could sanction a Mance with power which does not belong to us.” Osias hesitated and his expression opened into one of childlike hope. “Do you believe me? Do you know I speak truth?”
Queen Elena hesitated before nodding. “I do.”
“Queen Elena!” Reavan thrust himself into pacing, white-fingered fists at his sides. “Wisdom has fled in the face of this attack. Surely this is a Brînian plot to undermine your reign.” He glanced back at Draken, his face twisted with perilous
“It is Mance-made, but it is not mine,” Osias said. “Nor Draken’s.”
“You must have conjured it, Death-speaker,” Reavan said. “There are no other Mance in the city.”
“As you say, my magic is void here.” Osias knelt next to Draken, and, despite the proximity of the blade, laid his hand on Draken’s back. “Moreover, should I wish Queen Elena dead, she would be dead.”
Brilliant, thought Draken. Insult her while they’re so keen to run me through.
Reavan strode toward them. “Is that a threat?”
“It is truth,” Osias said. “If you know anything of my kind, you know I can only speak truth.”
“Let me up!” Draken grunted into the floor. “I know naught of any arrow—”
“Silence.” The Queen. Draken heard a tremor in her voice that hadn’t been there moments before. “The Mance stopped the arrow, did he not? Reavan, swords away and let the Brînian up.”
Two guards grasped Draken by his upper arms and hauled him back to his knees. The flesh hollowed, skull-like, beneath the Lord Marshal’s cheekbones and his lips pressed into a deep frown.
Behind them, Captain Tyrolean beckoned to guards and drew them outside. Two Escorts closed in behind Draken and other hurrying footsteps started and faded as soldiers trotted off to warn the rest of the Bastion. Tyrolean’s low voice issued orders while Reavan knelt next to the Queen, offering her a cup. The door swung open as people passed through. Draken took the opportunity to glance at the opposite side of the Bastion, across the courtyard. The roofline was clearly visible, until Tyrolean saw him looking and swung the doors shut again.
The archer was on the roof, he thought. Why would she ever allow such a direct shot to the throne? Foolish, though he wasn’t so foolish himself to say it aloud.
Queen Elena caught Osias’ eye. “Could this be part of the rebellion you speak of, the bit with the banes?”
Either Queen Elena was a simpleton or she was trying to make herself believe. Draken didn’t think she looked stupid, but cruelty and conviction could make up for a great deal of incompetence. He waited for his heart to stop thudding so violently, but alarm prickled every pore. Why weren’t they moving her to a more secure location?
“I can’t help but think this attack has something to do with the banes, and the Mance traitor,” Osias said. “It is one of our arrows, Your Majesty.”
Lord Marshal Reavan approached the throne. He took a deep breath before he spoke, as if garnering composure for a lengthy argument. “This bane story is clearly designed to distract you, my Queen, as well as gain a mislaid trust. King Truls reports peace is ever fair. No word of banes: truth, he’s never spoken of them because I think he knows, like we do, they are cradle tales.”
Before thinking better of it, Draken blurted, “It’s what I thought. I felt it, though—” The sword bit into his back again. He twisted and snapped, “Back off!” The sword point drew back an inch, the Escort blinking in surprise.
Queen Elena’s cold gaze turned to Draken. Osias spoke in soft apology. “Forgive him. The bane attacked him and the memory of it pains him still. He very nearly died, Your Majesty.”
“And yet he so conveniently did not,” Reavan muttered.
Osias ignored Reavan. “I brought Draken here as a witness, to help you understand. They are powerful, evil things. Should they take the right soul, especially your soul, Your Majesty, they could sanction a Mance with power which does not belong to us.” Osias hesitated and his expression opened into one of childlike hope. “Do you believe me? Do you know I speak truth?”
Queen Elena hesitated before nodding. “I do.”
“Queen Elena!” Reavan thrust himself into pacing, white-fingered fists at his sides. “Wisdom has fled in the face of this attack. Surely this is a Brînian plot to undermine your reign.” He glanced back at Draken, his face twisted with perilous
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