of beauty. He didn’t know if it was from nerves or attraction. Gods, but she was dangerous.
***
After untying Setia and Draken, the Escorts made the point of strolling them through an unpleasant courtyard filled with sweltering cages without so much as sheeting for protection from the sun. Miserable captives suffered in the heat. They were sweaty and bloodied, men and women alike. Three flat tables bristling with gears and chains were stained with blood, and a body dangled from a scaffold.
Draken stared at the skinny body, recently dead, as it twisted on its cord. As the face came into view he paused. Sarc.
He had not died easy or well. One hand caught under the rope around his throat; he’d tried for a futile escape. The other dangled at his side, branded like Draken’s. Head tilted; eyes bulged. Body waste stained his prison rags, which hung in bloody tatters from lashings and torture.
Osias inverted his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Draken tucked his hands under his cloak and walked on. He had little time for sympathy. Averting his attention from the cages and the gruesome dead, he took the opportunity to study the line of bowmen along the roof, arrows nocked. This Bastion was as good as his prison, as well.
Their room was large and airy and simply furnished. Thick beams supported coal brick ceilings and a small fire burned in the hearth. A single large mattress rested on a low platform, and two benches flanked a table. After a peek out the shutters at the street and the quiet moat languishing outside their window, Draken latched them again. Doubtless something nasty lived in the water. Servants brought a meal, and they fell to, quiet for the while.
“You think I missed that bit about the powerful ally,” Draken said. “Is it meant to be me or you?”
Osias smiled. “Fight well, do you?”
Draken shrugged. “Trained to the bow since I was small.”
“And you’re a thinking man. So I reckon she has gained an ally in you, aye?”
“That remains to be seen. I won’t be so keen to serve her if she threatens me with those cages,” Draken said sourly, getting up to scrub his hands. He gestured, flinging water droplets. “She won’t like my brands, nor my past.”
“She won’t know. Most Brînians wear bracers, or enough chains to cover your scars. Speaking of, I’ll see to the cuts on your back.”
Draken pulled the conjured tunic over his head and sat down, his back to the Mance. Osias’ smooth, warm fingers ran down his skin, probed a cut, and Draken cringed without meaning to. The damned thing stung to the bone.
“Aye. They coated their blades in smolder.” Osias opened his pack. “I’ve a Gadye balm should draw the poison out.”
“They poisoned me?” Draken turned around to see what the Mance was doing.
Osias dipped his fingers into a small leather pouch of black ointment. “A mild toxin, designed to create pain as a diversion.” He smeared the stuff across Draken’s cuts and it cooled the sting away.
“What is Gadye?” Draken asked.
“Healers and diviners,” Osias said. “An ancient traveling people who see well beyond what our eyes tell us.”
“Many think them liars and false prophets.” Setia crawled across the bed to sit near them.
“Setia, they no longer keep Moonling slaves. Do not let past grievances hold you from seeing someone’s worth.” But Osias sounded more lenient than reproving.
Having no opinion on the Gadye, Draken bowed his head, letting his neck stretch as Osias applied the balm. The coolness seemed to sink into his skin and spread through his body, stealing some of his anxiety.
“Who did that to your hands?” Setia said. “It’s horrible.”
Draken tensed. The brands stared back at him, crimson, ugly betrayals. The pain hadn’t been the thing so much as the shame. “They mark me as a criminal at home.”
“Try not to worry.” Osias’ breath brushed across the back of Draken’s neck. “It went fair well,
***
After untying Setia and Draken, the Escorts made the point of strolling them through an unpleasant courtyard filled with sweltering cages without so much as sheeting for protection from the sun. Miserable captives suffered in the heat. They were sweaty and bloodied, men and women alike. Three flat tables bristling with gears and chains were stained with blood, and a body dangled from a scaffold.
Draken stared at the skinny body, recently dead, as it twisted on its cord. As the face came into view he paused. Sarc.
He had not died easy or well. One hand caught under the rope around his throat; he’d tried for a futile escape. The other dangled at his side, branded like Draken’s. Head tilted; eyes bulged. Body waste stained his prison rags, which hung in bloody tatters from lashings and torture.
Osias inverted his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Draken tucked his hands under his cloak and walked on. He had little time for sympathy. Averting his attention from the cages and the gruesome dead, he took the opportunity to study the line of bowmen along the roof, arrows nocked. This Bastion was as good as his prison, as well.
Their room was large and airy and simply furnished. Thick beams supported coal brick ceilings and a small fire burned in the hearth. A single large mattress rested on a low platform, and two benches flanked a table. After a peek out the shutters at the street and the quiet moat languishing outside their window, Draken latched them again. Doubtless something nasty lived in the water. Servants brought a meal, and they fell to, quiet for the while.
“You think I missed that bit about the powerful ally,” Draken said. “Is it meant to be me or you?”
Osias smiled. “Fight well, do you?”
Draken shrugged. “Trained to the bow since I was small.”
“And you’re a thinking man. So I reckon she has gained an ally in you, aye?”
“That remains to be seen. I won’t be so keen to serve her if she threatens me with those cages,” Draken said sourly, getting up to scrub his hands. He gestured, flinging water droplets. “She won’t like my brands, nor my past.”
“She won’t know. Most Brînians wear bracers, or enough chains to cover your scars. Speaking of, I’ll see to the cuts on your back.”
Draken pulled the conjured tunic over his head and sat down, his back to the Mance. Osias’ smooth, warm fingers ran down his skin, probed a cut, and Draken cringed without meaning to. The damned thing stung to the bone.
“Aye. They coated their blades in smolder.” Osias opened his pack. “I’ve a Gadye balm should draw the poison out.”
“They poisoned me?” Draken turned around to see what the Mance was doing.
Osias dipped his fingers into a small leather pouch of black ointment. “A mild toxin, designed to create pain as a diversion.” He smeared the stuff across Draken’s cuts and it cooled the sting away.
“What is Gadye?” Draken asked.
“Healers and diviners,” Osias said. “An ancient traveling people who see well beyond what our eyes tell us.”
“Many think them liars and false prophets.” Setia crawled across the bed to sit near them.
“Setia, they no longer keep Moonling slaves. Do not let past grievances hold you from seeing someone’s worth.” But Osias sounded more lenient than reproving.
Having no opinion on the Gadye, Draken bowed his head, letting his neck stretch as Osias applied the balm. The coolness seemed to sink into his skin and spread through his body, stealing some of his anxiety.
“Who did that to your hands?” Setia said. “It’s horrible.”
Draken tensed. The brands stared back at him, crimson, ugly betrayals. The pain hadn’t been the thing so much as the shame. “They mark me as a criminal at home.”
“Try not to worry.” Osias’ breath brushed across the back of Draken’s neck. “It went fair well,
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