Exile Read Online Free PDF Page B

horse.
    “Thank you for the drink,” Osias said, gesturing with the flask. “Excellent Ocscher-wine. Found it with the green cloak, did you?”
    Draken turned to see to his mare, who didn’t need tending, to hide that he didn’t know how to answer. Let Osias think him still angry at being taken captive; it was truth enough. They soon went on, Draken watching Osias as they walked. His hair reflected the light like old glass and he moved with assurance and grace.
    “I assure you I’m not so notable among my own kind,” Osias mentioned over his shoulder.
    Draken picked a couple of barbs from his tunic. They stuck to his fingertips, burning like tiny insect stings. “How do you know what I’m thinking all the time?”
    “I’m sorry,” Osias said. “I’ll pretend not to know.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “I am Mance, and I am spared few secrets.”
    Draken stopped walking. “I heard you, before. Inside my head. I thought I imagined it.”
    Not imagining, friend .
    This was different than the tricksters, buskers, and cultpriests he’d seen at home. Real magicks were dangerous, unstable, and angered the gods. Working them was not only heresy, it was lunacy, as far as most people were concerned. The Monoean Crown decreed a generation ago that a civilized nation had no more need for magicks than it did for state-sanctioned execution.
    Osias chuckled, but not unkindly. “Magic isn’t outlawed here, though most can’t work it. I am a hunter of banes and a gatekeeper at Eidola, where we imprison those foul things. I have glamour and other small comforts, but I cannot use objects of power.”
    “And you can read minds.”
    Osias nodded. “I can enter the minds of mortals, so long as they have been altered by death. And you, friend, have had a long alliance with death.”
    Draken pushed aside the thought of his recent murder. Something else was bothering him. A small mystic cult which claimed they could speak to the dead had followed Korde, who dragged the dead to Ma’Vanni’s watery kingdom. The Monoean King had ordered Draken’s squad to eradicate them after the war in his effort to refocus faith on Ma’Vanni, Goddess Mother, and her son Shaim, gods of peace. He’d been glad to do it. The cult had done far more to the dead than just talk to them.
    “You follow Korde,” he said.
    “He is my patron, aye.”
    Draken’s lip curled. “Then you’re a necromancer.”
    “A fair term,” Osias said, nodding. He didn’t seem to notice Draken’s distaste with the idea.
    Draken took a step back, pressing his shoulder against the mare to turn her away. “This was a mistake, coming with you. Let me go now. I’ll find my own way.”
    “Draken,” Osias said. “I need your help, and you need mine.”
    Draken put his foot in the stirrup.
    “It’s not safe for you alone.” Osias cast his gaze around the thick woods. “This is a dangerous, suspicious place, these woods. The bane still hunts you. And maybe something else, as well.”
    Draken felt a chill. Bane or no, he’d nearly dragged a knife through his own throat. Ma’Vanni didn’t accept suicides in her realm. “I don’t know. I—”
    “I am your friend, a servant should you need.” Osias took a knee and inclined his head. A ray of sun caught his silver head, blinding Draken like snow on a sunny day.
    “No magical ropes this time? You think I don’t see what you’re trying to do? First you insist, and now you beg. Manipulation, mage, is a hated trait in my home country.”
    Osias didn’t lift his head. “You are home.”
    As Draken squinted down at Osias’ bowed head, a sigh filled his lungs and his shoulders fell. His only alternative was to become the criminal Monoea believed him to be. His best hope at survival was to sell his services as a warrior to the highest bidder, to become a mercenary like his rotted father. It was an honest living, if not honorable. Given his past life in service of his King, and his current