A Draw of Kings

11

PARTINGS





THE FAMILIAR CLACK of practice swords filled the watch yard, though the sharp retort of strokes being parried came less frequently than it had prior to Weir’s attempt for the throne. Adora, bundled into a heavy, fur-lined cloak, sat at one of the tables with Errol by her side. Her left arm felt the chill of Green Isle’s winter, but Errol held that hand, and she would not willingly surrender his touch. She let her gaze trace the fingers that held hers, surprised by the size and strength in them. It could have been a carpenter’s hand or a musician’s.


“How long before you leave?” Adora bit her lip, frustrated with herself for bringing up his departure.

His hand squeezed hers before he replied. “As soon as Tek is ready.” His shoulders lifted beneath the dark wool cloak. “Two days, perhaps three.”

She braved the cold to touch the skin of his face with her other hand. “There is no one left to contest your suit, maitale.” When he looked at her, uncomprehending, she grunted her vexation. “We could be married.”

He swallowed. “Wouldn’t the wedding for a princess take a long time to plan?”

She sighed. “I don’t want a wedding for a princess; I want to be married, to you, now.”

His eyes grew moist, as if she’d somehow managed to touch a wound with her words, but even before he spoke she could feel his denial in the loosening of his grip.

“I cannot.”

She clenched his hand, refused to be denied. “You mean you will not.”

His face softened, melting her anger the way a summer sun would reduce frost to water within moments. “It amounts to the same thing, Adora. If we married, if you took me to be your husband, do you think I could ever suffer to leave your side? For anything?”

He laughed, but tones of rue and loss wove threads through the sound as he looked away, and his voice softened almost to a whisper. “There is no book or destiny that could compel me from you, nothing that would make me surrender your touch. Do not ask this of me.” He rose, bolting from his seat, but she caught his hand, keeping him close enough to read his face.

“I would rather have two days with you than a lifetime with another.” A thousand strands of fear blanketed her. “You mean to die. If not in Ongol, then back here in Illustra.”

He stilled at her words, became as quiet as an oak in winter, and his expression calmed until he might have been a statue of some long-dead churchman, utterly peaceful, inhumanly content.

“Someone has to.” He smiled at her. “But it’s fitting. In the end, the kingdom will be saved through sacrifice, but hasn’t it always been? The life of Illustra is bound up in the small sacrifices that people make constantly for the ones they love—husband for wife, mother for daughter, brother for sister. I didn’t have the eyes to see it until Merakh, but it’s always been there.” He shrugged. “There’s not so great a difference between living your sacrifice and dying it. One’s just a little more . . . final than the other.”

He pulled her to her feet. “I will live if I can, and I won’t pretend to be without fear, but I will do anything to keep you safe.” He turned, his grip on her hand tightening. “Come. The only parts of Erinon I’ve really seen are in the royal compound. I would like to see the island through your eyes, the parts you love, the places where you played.”

She nodded, trying to content herself with the short time they would have, but failed.

He gave her a lopsided grin. “We’ll need an escort.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

Errol favored her with an arch of his dark brows. “In spite of my best intentions, I don’t trust myself alone with you”—his gaze turned hot—“Your Highness.”



Two days later, gales of wind stabbed the isle as winter deepened its grip. Frustrated by grim stone, the gusts turned to drafts that sought openings in castles and clothes alike, the needlelike cold serving to remind Adora of her loss. Her time with Errol had raced past, and now she was leaving before he started his journey.

She’d volunteered to go to the shadow lands under the assumption Errol would accompany her, before he’d made his grand offer to recover Magis’s book. But the conclave, restored to a semblance of confidence after its members had been tested, informed her that Liam and Rokha would be the ones to accompany her, along with a quarter of the watch currently in Erinon to guarantee their safety.

Desperate activity covered the isle as the kingdom’s political infrastructure struggled to recover from Weir’s brief reign. Members of the guard, those loyal to Rodran, had returned in the crimson of their uniforms. One of the king’s quartermasters, Nob, checked the load on the horses carrying supplies to support her journey.

A border of hair, red like many native to Erinon, framed the bald dome of his head like a fringe of carpet around a bare floor, but his smile, bright and youthful, drew her gaze down to crystal blue eyes. “We’re almost ready, Your Highness.” His voice held a light singsong, as if his words followed a melody only he could hear. “The horses will be loaded within the hour.”

She nodded. Her trip to the shadow lands would be far different than Martin’s earlier journey there. Letters of authority from Archbenefice Canon and Duke Escarion rested in her pack, wrapped in waxed cloth. Once they left the isle and crossed the Beron Strait to Port City, they would break to the south and thread their way east through the provinces of Gascony, Basquon, Talia, and Lugaria. At any city or village along the way, she would have the power to commandeer whatever supplies necessity required.

The captains had told her the trip should be quick, so long as the Merakhi did what was expected. She sighed. It seemed people rarely did what was expected—in fact, they often made a point of doing the opposite.

Her mind slipped to Sevra, and her hand clenched her sword. Despite the frowns of many of the nobles and most of the ladies at court, she no longer went anywhere unarmed. Duke Weir’s daughter had escaped on one of the few ships that weren’t burned in Erinon’s western harbor. To a man, the captains of the watch dismissed Sevra as a threat. Adora wasn’t so sure.

She looked to Liam, where he sat his horse like something from legend, and past Rokha, hawklike and ill-tempered, to the stretch of ground where people milled around beyond them.

Wasn’t he coming? Disappointment flashed to anger, then relief as she saw him slip through the crowd with that strange metal staff in the crook of his arm.

“I didn’t know two days could pass so quickly,” he said after they parted from their embrace.

She nodded, not looking at him for fear of crying. “The captains tell me it will be a close thing to make it back before spring breaks winter’s grip. I’ve always hated the cold, but now I find myself praying for a long winter.”

He should have laughed. Instead he just stood there, looking at her as if trying to memorize her face. She bit her lip against the desire to hold him again, let him gaze at her until the sweet earnestness of him overpowered her and she pulled him close. “Why does it have to be you?”

His arms, strong and sinewy from countless hours with his staff, bonded her to him. His voice was calm when he spoke, so unlike the awkward young man he’d once been. “I’m the only one Hadari knows. I doubt he would surrender the book to anyone else.” He shrugged as if he didn’t quite believe his words. “If we start asking why, Adora, we’ll be here until summer. I’m sure Deas has his reasons. Maybe he’ll even explain it someday.” He laughed. “But I doubt it.”

A couple of paces away, Nob coughed, scuffing the grass with his foot as he examined the ground. “We’ll need to be leaving, Your Highness, if we’re to make the tide.”

She nodded and moved to turn away, but Errol caught her by the arm and spun her back to kiss her softly despite the fierceness of his embrace.


“I will survive this,” he said.

She tried to take comfort from his parting words, but the way he’d stressed the last word only reminded her of Martin’s confession and a choice of Deas she didn’t want to think about.



Hours later Errol stood by the King’s Port docks, facing the Western Ocean. Workers in heavy cloaks used long rakes to pull burnt flotsam from the water, their breath misting the air. The smell of charred wood and seaside detritus blended in his nose and he sneezed. The objects of his farewells remained behind him in fire-warmed rooms in the palace, cathedral, and watch barracks. He strode up the gangplank to the three-masted cog, gnawing zingiber root against the seasickness that plagued him whenever Deas or circumstance contrived to put him on a ship.

Merodach and Rale waited for him on deck, though Rale’s presence surprised him still. Both had been chosen by the conclave’s cast, but Rale’s departure meant Illustra would prepare for war without one of its best tacticians. For the first time in anyone’s memory, the Judica had nearly voted to ignore the outcome of a cast. Luis Montari had been pressed to verify the decision in persimmon wood. Two lots had taken him four hours and uncounted strokes against a whetstone to complete, but in the end the original cast had been confirmed: Rale was coming with him.

Amos Tek descended the ladder from the aft deck to greet him, the small man’s face enthusiastic—an eternal boy with an unexpected plaything. “Welcome aboard the Penance, lad. She be a fine ship, eh?”

The ship’s name seemed too appropriate. He hadn’t asked about the story behind it on their previous voyage, but his curiosity was piqued now. “How did you come to choose that name, Captain?”

Tek rubbed his jaw as he stared over the rail. “In truth, I thought of naming her Contrition, but being on the sea makes me too happy.” He nodded, confirming his own argument. “But since we be likely to die on any venture we take, Penance seemed a good name.” He shrugged. “Plus it might give enemy ships pause. They may think I be referring to them. Ha.”

“Why are we likely to die on this trip, Captain? We won’t be sailing into the strait, and I’m told Merakhi longships don’t venture into the Western Ocean.”

Tek laughed. “And why do you think they stay in the strait, lad? They be afraid of something.”

“What?”

The captain shrugged. “No kingdom man knows the whole of it, but more than once over the years, kingdom ships and pirates have tried to sail past the Devil’s Teeth to traffic with the Ongolese. The spice market be worth a king’s ransom to any ship’s captain who could cut the Merakhi out of the trade. There’s a fortune to be had there, lad, but none of those ships save mine returned.”

He’d told Adora he would come back. “Why did you agree to this, Captain?”

A frown wreathed Tek’s weathered face. “They cast for me, boy.” He snorted. “Waste of time, that was. I’m the last captain to attempt the Teeth. Only makes sense that I be the one to try and take you through them.”

Errol blew breath into his hands, trying to warm them against the winter and Tek’s warning. Tek clapped him on the back. “If we make it past the Hook of Merakh, lad, you’ll not have to worry about the cold. We’ll be lucky if we don’t roast alive.”



Martin held the mug close to his face and inhaled through his nose. His long association with Luis Montari had served to introduce bergamia rind to his winter tea. The aroma calmed him; he needed calming. Illustra’s next king—whether Liam or Errol—had left the island, and this time Martin would not be with either. Instead he sat entombed in his apartments chewing over events like a dog worrying a bone.

Luis chuckled. “Your face is as wrinkled as a hag’s.”

Martin eyed his friend over the rim of his mug, took another deep breath. “They’re gone, both of them.”

“We need allies.”

Martin put the cup down harder than he intended. The rind wasn’t working. “We need a king.”

For a moment Luis looked affronted, as if this simple statement of fact had been an accusation. They sat together by the fire in Martin’s apartments, the ones set aside for him as a voting member of the Judica, a benefice. In the chaos of recent events no one seemed to notice or care he occupied rooms to which he was no longer entitled.

“The boy thinks he will return from Ongol alive.” Luis didn’t respond, so he expounded. “He’s so sure he’s the one who must die for Illustra that he’s equally as certain Deas will preserve him until the time is right.”

“He might be right,” Luis said.

“Have you become one of the Feyt, then, believing everything is preordained and inevitable? I thought that sect had been dealt with centuries ago.”

The secondus of the conclave waved a hand at the jibe. “No, Martin, I merely point out that, where Errol and Liam are concerned, there may be less room to maneuver than for others. Otherwise, what exactly do we mean when we say ‘the hand of Deas is on him’?”

Martin grunted. “Your logic would have made you a fine benefice.”

A knock at the door precluded any reply. Luis opened it as if they still played the fiction from years past of priest and servant. Karele stood outside, cloaked against the chill. “May I come in?”

A small tightening in Martin’s chest, like the barest hint of a premonition, touched him as he gestured to a third chair in front of the fire. Karele accepted the seat but declined the tea with a brisk shake of his head that heightened Martin’s apprehension.

“What do you want?”

Amusement wreathed the small man’s sharp features and deep-set eyes. “If it were about what I want, I wouldn’t have chanced disturbing you at this hour.”

The invisible hand that held Martin’s guts tightened as a sense of unease grew within him, and the desire to leave his chair, his apartments, even the island, bloomed. He settled deeper into the cushion, fighting the sensation. A draft blew across the back of his neck.

Karele’s smile broadened. “It won’t do any good to fight it, Martin. Not really. I ignored his summons for over a year. He waited for me, and as you well know, my delay cost dearly.”

The knot loosened into a sigh that left him deflated. “What are we supposed to do?”

Amusement slipped from Karele’s face like a priest shedding his stole. “We are being sent by Aurae to find my Morgol father, Ablajin.”

A desperate hope flared in Martin’s chest. “Can we persuade the Morgols to make peace?”

Karele shrugged, his eyes sympathetic. “Aurae hasn’t told me why we’re to go—only that we must. Past that I can only guess.”

Martin smirked. “And I’m to go with you?”

Karele nodded toward Luis. “Both of you, actually.”

Luis cleared his throat. “We can’t get across the mountains of the Sprata. It’s winter. The passes are blocked.”

Martin pictured a map of Illustra. The winter snows would have blocked every pass from Frataland down the Sprata range into the province of Sorland. Only sailing through the Forbidden Strait and then around the range of mountains that divided the two kingdoms would allow them to avoid the snow-clogged passages. He looked at Karele and said as much.

The little man shook his head. “The passes aren’t the only obstacle. My father roams the Little Brothers region.” He shrugged away Martin’s confusion. “It’s the area of the steppes due east of the Bellia province. When the Merakhi began recruiting the magic men, the theurgists, among the horse people to fight against Illustra, they came along the coast of the Eastern Ocean and began there. The theurgists and the Merakhi have a tight grip on the southern steppes. No kingdom ship will land there and survive.”


Something in Karele’s demeanor set Martin on guard. The only route to the steppes that could even be attempted before spring had just been ruled out. Yet the master of horses sat across from him utterly content, as if he hadn’t just outlined the impossible. Karele’s sense of humor had been forged on the harsh plains of the horse people. Circumstances that frightened anyone with sense only amused him.

“There’s another way, isn’t there.”

Karele nodded.

“And I’m not going to like it, am I.”

Karele shrugged. “If your temperament is similar to a Morgol’s, you’ll despise it.”

Martin snorted. “It’s not, but I think I’m going to hate it anyway.”

A grin played around the edges of Karele’s mouth, giving him the rakish appearance of a boy about to play a jest. “The mountains near the Little Brothers are pocked with caves, some of them quite deep. A few years after Ablajin took me as a slave, something began attacking his horses—killing and devouring some on the spot and dragging others away. We tracked it to the foothills of the Shan—what Illustrans call the Sprata.”

Karele’s gaze grew distant as he recounted the tale. “None of the Morgols would go more than a few feet into the cave. They are a people of the plains and the sky. Enclosed spaces terrify them. I told my master I would go for him.”

Martin sat forward. “And he just let you go? Wasn’t he afraid you would escape?”

Karele’s mouth pulled to one side. Martin couldn’t tell if he was smirking or grimacing. “No, by then, in my heart, he was my father.” Karele shook himself. “The caves were immense. After a day I returned to pack provisions. Water wasn’t a problem, but I needed food. I followed that labyrinth for weeks and found nothing. I got so turned around that when I finally saw light ahead I thought I’d made my way back to my master. Instead I came out on the eastern edge of Bellia.”

Karele glanced at Martin and Luis. “I was free, if I wanted to be. I bought more supplies from the local village, though the innkeeper looked very hard at the Morgol silver I carried. On the way back, I took a different route and came across the remains of my master’s horses. Something had eaten everything except the hooves.”

“How did you know they were your master’s?” Martin asked.

Karele smiled. “My master loves his horses too much to endanger the bond between his servants and his herd. You’ll never find a brand on the hide of one of his prizes. Instead, he places a small mark on the hoof that has to be redone each season.”

He shrugged. “After I threaded my way back to the steppes and showed my master the hooves, he thanked me and placed me in his stables. I felt as if he’d crowned me prince.”

Hope and caution warred in Martin’s chest. The caves offered a way to get to Karele’s father and return before the spring thaws. Only one thing remained. “What killed the horses?”

Karele’s lips thinned in a grimace. “I don’t know. Ablajin set a guard on the caves to guard against whatever might come out of them, but nothing ever came.”