Exile by Betsy Dornbusch

off either.
    Tyrolean turned so quickly his green cloak snapped, and he led the way to the stairs. The guards in the tower lowered their bows, saluted Tyrolean by touching fist to chest, and regarded everyone else with stony silence. Draken noted how closely they studied each of their faces as they passed.
    “How many Royal Escorts serve at the Bastion?” Draken asked.
    “One hundred in peace time,” Tyrolean answered.
    “I imagine they know the faces of the others who serve, if not many of the names,” Draken said.
    “Every Escort Captain assigned to the Bastion commands at minimum five horse marshals and fifty servii—”
    Draken’s brows climbed. “And all of them take a turn at protecting the Bastion?”
    “When it is necessary, aye.”
    Draken felt a pang. In Monoea, an elite fighting force protected the King. It was an earned position, gained through service and trust. He’d planned on being elevated to their ranks within two Sohalias had his career continued on the right path, even leading the Royal Guard someday if it pleased his cousin. This didn’t make sense. Why in Khellian’s name would Elena allow just anyone to guard her? Why would Reaven allow it?
    “And the assassin might have used glamour,” Osias reminded Draken. “Green cloaks are not so difficult to acquire or conjur, as you may recall.”
    Draken sighed. The assassin operated under cover of hundreds of soldiers in and out of service at the Bastion, and not only that, he might have a magical disguise. Brilliant.
    The Bastion roof afforded a grand view of the gray stone city crossed with its white gravel roads, which, after a cursory glance, Draken ignored. He walked the length of the roof, passing five bowmen, and turned the corner. When he stood where the assassin had shot from, he knelt and stared across the courtyard. The roof was low enough he could see through the doors, but the black-walled throne room was in shadow. He revised his previous judgment of the foolishness of the Queen. Not a ghost of the white throne betrayed its location. Even a well-aimed arrow required a leap of faith or shared, immediate recognizance. He thought of how Osias had read his mind so early on and frowned. Could all Mance do it?
    “Mind-talking?” he mused under his breath.
    Tyrolean’s impatience lacked only a tapping foot. “What?”
    “One can’t see into the throne room from here,” Draken said. He gestured for the captain to kneel next to him, which he did with reluctance. “It’s too dark. Does Elena, sorry, Queen Elena. Does she always sit in the throne when she’s in there?”
    Tyrolean narrowed his lined eyes but didn’t take his attention from the open doors across the courtyard. “It is the throne room.”
    “Right. But she didn’t sit right away,” Draken said, stroking his bristled chin. “Not that day. She spoke with Lord Marshal Reavan first, near the door. Why not take a shot then?” He rose. “Is there another way up here?”
    “No. Only the tower stairs.”
    They crossed the roof to the outer edge to look over the shoulder-height wall at the murky moat below, fronted by its spiked fence. Nothing marred the surface of the water; it was still and quiet in the shadow of the Bastion. “What’s in it?” Draken asked. “The moat?”
    “Errings.”
    Draken grimaced. No getting past those snapping jaws and dagger teeth. “Well, he got up here somehow, and disguised or not, I doubt he strolled past your sentries in the tower. I’ll wager you know to a man how many are appointed to the roof.”
    “Ten to a side when we’re under threat.”
    “And the day of the attack?” He knew the answer; he’d counted the first moment he’d walked into the Bastion. He wanted to see if Tyrolean did.
    “One at each corner, ten positioned over the gate.”
    Draken frowned at him. “With her father assassinated? I’d think Lord Reavan might have increased security, don’t you?” Gods, Reavan wasn’t just spiteful, he was