Free Exile by Betsy Dornbusch Page B

anyone as of yet,” Osias answered.
    “Lord Reavan has control of the army,” Draken said, giving them both a pointed look.
    “Just because you don’t like the man doesn’t mean you can accuse him of treason,” Osias said.
    Draken leaned forward on his elbows. “Not to his face, anyway. But her father’s assassination explains the tension around the Bastion. Was Elena’s father by chance shot with an arrow?”
    “Hung from his wrists and gutted. Some suspect magic, because the entrails had been removed and the blood drained.”
    Draken rose, toppling the bench behind him. “ What ? What did you say?”
    Osias blinked at him. “The King was gutted…”
    “No. The last part. Entrails removed. Blood drained. Are you certain?”
    “Aye,” Osias said. “The King was powerful, and his parts would make potent magic—”
    Draken cursed in Khellian’s name.
    “What is it?” Osias asked.
    Draken leaned over the table, fists clenched. “You’re certain, absolutely certain he died from a gutting.”
    Setia nodded as she righted the bench and sat next to him on it. “Aye. The messenger was from the Bastion and had Elena’s seal. What’s wrong, Draken?”
    Draken dropped onto the bench, his stomach contracting painfully. “It’s coincidence; it must be.”
    Osias and Setia didn’t question him, just waited. Draken considered and made up his mind. “The crime I was accused of, banished for, I did not commit. But the murderer used my blade, and they found me with her, trying to take her down…” He looked away. He’d spent days defending his innocence. Those words were spent.
    Osias nodded. “Go on.”
    He couldn’t bring himself to say Lesle’s name. “She was hung by her wrists and gutted. When I found her, her entrails were gone and she’d been drained of blood, like a butchered animal.” The last came out in a harsh whisper. “The Crown outlawed the use of sorcery when Akrasia invaded and wielded it against us. It was a formality anyway, my people lost their magicks long ago. But I’m… half Brînian, aye? I wasn’t only accused of murder, but of working sorcery, though the King kept that bit quiet. It had to have been an Akrasian mage who killed her.”
    “It seems a leap, Draken.”
    Draken shook his head. “You don’t know it all. After the war, I led a Black Guard regiment hunting the rest of the Akrasians and Brînians in Monoea. I’m loathed by them. They used to threaten me from the racks, even as I drew blades through their throats.”
    Setia stared at him, eyes wide, and Draken regretted saying the last bit. But then, maybe it was best they knew exactly who they were dealing with. Draken had found, after a lifetime of trying to scuttle upward in society, fear did a deal to establish respect.
    Osias just lifted his fingertips to his lips, thinking. “I begin to understand. And to worry. You should know, the only ones who wield the old blood magic are the Mance.”
    “But they used sorcery in the war—”
    Osias shook his head. “Not blood magic. Not the Ancient rites. No Mance went to war in Monoea.”
    “And, it was a Mance arrow aimed at Elena today,” Setia pointed out.
    “Your situation is more complex than I thought,” Osias said. “If your past becomes known, someone could implicate you in the King’s murder. We must make the court believe you are fullblood Brînian. Better Elena think you a pirate than something closer to the truth.”
    “They won’t hear of it from me,” Draken said. “But Reavan saw me dressed in rags, right off the boat. They threw us off at Khein. And the soldiers who tied me saw this.” He held up his branded hands. “It’s not too great a leap, Osias.” He wondered why the Lord Marshal hadn’t mentioned it. More unanswered questions. Perhaps the Lord Marshal wasn’t just a thin-skinned noble.
    Osias grasped his hands and studied the brands closely. “I should like to change your marks. It’s an old Brînian custom to brand the hands