A Draw of Kings

25

A CHANGE OF WIND





MULU ROBEL leaned toward Errol, his expression bemused. “I understand not how you northlanders express humor. Is this a jest?”

Tek’s sea-weathered face wore a knowing smirk as he continued to point at Hadari.

“I don’t think so, Mfalme,” Errol said, “but I’m not sure. Captain Tek comes from the shadow lands.”

Robel’s eyebrows rose at this. “I have never met one of the banished before. I thought to leave their land of exile meant death.”

Rale shrugged. “Times change, Mfalme. A man who needs allies must be willing to set aside previous judgments.”

Ongol’s king nodded and turned to Tek. “Can you offer proof of your claim, northlander?”

Tek lifted a shoulder. “We be on the edge of the withering here. Come and see, but proof be in the mind of the man.” The captain walked back to the edge of dying plants that lay like a cut across the jungle. Robel’s chariot driver edged closer as the rest of the party walked behind him.

Tek strode up to a tree precisely on the withering line—its leaves blackened to the north but hale and green to the south. The captain reached out and took hold of a large leathery leaf, half black and half green.

Errol watched, his eyes growing wide, as green infused the black part of the leaf, slowly giving life back to the whole until no hint of death remained.

“It is not possible,” Robel gasped. “Even the strongest of the akanwe could not do such a thing. What talent did the gods give you, sea captain, that you are able to do this?”


Tek’s deep green eyes glinted in the glare of the Ongol sun. “There be no talent sufficient to repair this ill, my king. No reader, theurgist, ghostwalker, or akanwe be strong enough to undo this bane of malice.”

“You’re solis,” Errol said.

“Aye,” Tek said. “I be.” He pointed to Hadari. “And so is he.”

“Solis?” Robel asked. “Explain.”

Tek nodded. “The solis hear Aurae, the spirit of Deas, for whatever purpose Deas intends.”

He looked at the men of two kingdoms who stared at him in wonder, and his mouth pulled to one side in a self-deprecating grin. “I be as much surprised about it as you. Outcast as a pirate, I floundered in the shadow lands until a breath of inspiration led me to back to the shore, clueless but compelled. The ship I built there sat at anchor for years before circumstance thrust me back into the waters of the world again.”

Mulu Robel beckoned, and Tek pulled the regenerated leaf from the tree and put in the mfalme’s good hand, where his fingertips brushed it as if in unbelief. “Hadari, can you do this thing?”

The big man stepped forward. “I do not know. I never conceived of such ability.”

“Come. Try.”

Hadari took a blackened leaf in his hands. Green spread from his touch for a moment before the leaf broke away from the stalk.

“What happened?” Robel asked.

Hadari shook his head, not answering.

Sumeya stepped forward, tugged Hadari to the side, and pointed to a leaf that still retained a hint of green at the base of its stem. “This one,” he said.

Hadari took the leaf in his hands, and once again verdant health flowed through the veins until the whole was green. Hadari let go as if the leaf were made of gossamer and might tear free, but the tree held on.

Sumeya turned to the mfalme, his broad face split in a radiant smile. “His healing must work with the remnant of health within the plant to succeed.”

Robel eyed the plant, his jaw working. “Can it be done? Can the withering be removed?”

Sumeya nodded, his gaze dancing. “I believe it can, Mfalme. The work will be slow, but I will work with Hadari to determine where to use his power.”

The king of Ongol turned to Tek, his eyes wide with wonder. “For this, I will make you second in the kingdom if you ask it of me.”

Tek sketched a clumsy bow. “I be a simple reformed pirate, Your Majesty, meant for my Brandy and the sea.”

Mulu Robel nodded as if he’d expected no less and turned to Errol. “The book is yours, with one condition.”

Errol waited, not daring to hope. “What might that be, Your Majesty?”

The king of Ongol’s face became almost pleading. “That you give my scribes time to copy it. I would know more of its contents.”

He bowed as low as he could. “Gladly, Mfalme.”



Three days later, they left the royal city with the book, bound once more and wrapped in oiled cloth to guard against the weather. As the growth in the jungle thickened, they forsook the king’s chariots and continued on foot, the northlanders struggling once more to keep pace with their Ongolese escort. Adayo and Phamba halted two hours before sunset well back from the boscage of the ancients.

“The journey through the domain of the ancients takes planning,” Adayo said. “I would not risk any of your party”—he darted a look at Tek’s ankle—“by setting too swift a pace.”

Errol glanced around the thick jungle, tried to take comfort from the dense growth. How fast would he be able to climb one of the trees? A morbid curiosity grew in his mind. “What form do these ancients take?”

Adayo’s face, speckled by sunlight shining through the canopy of foliage, took on a grim cast, the lines of his face taut. “Ah, Earl Stone, you are unfamiliar with the beasts of Ongol. There are cats in your kingdom, the spotted ones. . . .” He stopped searching for the word.

“Lynx,” Errol prompted.

Adayo nodded. “Yes. How big are they?”

Errol shook his head. “I’ve never seen one. They stay in the mountains of Frataland, but I’m told they might attack children or sheep.”

Soft laughter accompanied Adayo’s nod. “Imagine such a thing, its paw as big as your head, and weighing as much as Phamba and I together.”

Errol gaped.

Adayo smiled. “Now imagine one of those corrupted by the malus. It holds all of the power and ferocity of the animal but with greater intelligence and an unquenchable thirst for human blood.”

Errol’s stomach dropped with a weight against the bones of his hips.

Adayo noted his reaction. “In the history of our kingdom, warriors have tested themselves against the ancients, striving to claim the verdant from them. We lure them into the jungle, where arrows and javelins may be used from cover, but at great cost. The men who survive such a hunt become heroes, only a little lower than the mfalme.”

Errol swallowed. “Are we far enough from their plain?”

Adayo nodded. “The river lies less than a mile from here and they are too big to swim well. Tomorrow we must make haste past the boscage.”

A fascination gripped Errol. “Do they not hunt during the day?”

“Never, but sometimes they can be seen sleeping beneath the solitary bringo trees that dot the plain.”

“Perhaps we will see one.”

Adayo shook his head. “That is a sight to be avoided, Earl Stone. Their vision is keen.”

Tek cleared his throat from a few paces away. “They be gone, lad. There are no spawn left on the plain.”

Adayo looked at the sea captain as if he were sunstruck. “The mfalme says you have powerful sight, northlander, but I will not put your pronouncement to the test. Caution costs us nothing.”

Amos Tek nodded. “That be wise, but there are no ferrals left in your kingdom, Adayo. The malus have called their offspring east”—he turned to look at Errol—“to join the fight.”

The truth of his words struck a chill deeper than a Soede winter into Errol’s chest. What manner of twisted creatures would they be fighting when they returned home?

Adayo and Phamba jerked upright, their gazes searching back the way they’d come.

Errol followed their lead, his eyes searching but finding nothing. “What do you see?”

Phamba turned to regard Errol, his expression unreadable. “The wind has shifted, northlander. Zephyr has changed her mind. Our days will soon cool.”

Errol wet his lips. “But that would mean . . .”

“Aye,” Tek said. “Winter is breaking in Illustra.”

Merodach and Rale bore twin expressions of tension and haste. “How fast can you get us back to our ship?” Rale asked.

“As fast as your feet can take you,” Adayo said. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

Errol looked at the reddening sun as it began its descent toward the tops of the trees. “No. There are no spawn to avoid. We go now.”

Adayo glanced at Tek before sighing into the wind. “Then let us run.”



Martin sat heavy in his saddle at the front of the Wind Rider clan, his shaggy horse ignoring the chill wind that wormed its way into every rent and hole in his cloak. He rode next to Ablajin, who led twenty thousand fighting men along with their women, children, and belongings. Though the Morgol warriors spoke exclusively in their native tongue, Martin didn’t require Karele’s translation to catch their mood. Ablajin’s men were unsettled.


Their worry showed itself in a dozen different ways—a squint of the eyes, hands that stayed near swords, mutters spoken at random. Karele, on the other side of the jheng, rode with one ear toward the men, his expression confirming Martin’s fears.

“What do they say?” Martin asked.

Karele waited for Ablajin’s nod of approval before answering, and Martin stared in wonder. As head of the solis, the spiritual head of the entire nation of the shadow lands, Karele held a position comparable to Archbenefice Bertrand Canon, if not king of Illustra. That he would submit himself to a clan chief of the steppes was surprising.

“They are afraid,” Karele said. “And like men who fear something great, they express their dread by speaking of smaller concerns that offer them some measure of power.”

Martin nodded, impressed once again by the depth of Karele’s insight into the human spirit. “What do they speak of?”

Karele’s eyes, dark beneath the loose hair that tumbled to his shoulders, squinted in shared worry. “They fear they will be ordered to fight against their kinsman, that they will be pitted against cousins or brothers-by-marriage.”

Martin nodded. He understood, but he didn’t know what choice they had. “I understand their fears, Ablajin. When the time for battle comes, I will do what I can to keep them from such a fight.” He knew it was small consolation, but he had nothing more.

Ablajin exhaled as if he’d held his breath for too long. “I am grateful.” He turned his eyes to Martin and gave a quick nod, his coarse braid lashing against the wind. “But if we must fight against men whose names and clasps are known to us, we will.”

Karele held up a hand. “There is another more immediate fear, and I do not think there will be any remedy for their unease.” His breath plumed briefly in the chill. “They know that to cross into Illustra, they must pass beneath the mountains.”

“Do the caves scare them so much, then?” Martin asked.

The solis shook his head. “It is more than that. They fear being unmanned in the sight of their wives and children.”

Ablajin placed a hand on Martin’s arm. “Few outsiders would know this of us, Holy Martin, but the essence of what it means to be Morgol is to be immune to fear. A warrior may weep at a loved one’s death, or he may scream in pain, but for him to do either from fear is to bring shame upon his family and clan. Doing so in front of his wife and children is doubly damning.”

“Even so,” Karele said, “the fear of the caves weaves its way through their conversation, mentioned briefly before it stills the tongue, and there is no antidote or argument that will avail them.” The solis locked gazes with Martin. “The caves represent the end of their way of life, and they fear what lies ahead. Victory means the subjugation of the steppes by Illustra, their former enemy, and defeat means death for them all and their nation ruled by theurgists.”

Martin hung his head, staring at his thick hands upon the pommel of his saddle. His mind turned Karele’s words over and again, seeking some balm that he might offer against these fears, but nothing came. “They are right, so far as I can tell,” he said at last.

“I have thought so as well,” Ablajin said. “Yet the future is difficult to see even for the theurgists, else Oorgat would not have died from a prophecy he brought to fruition. I choose to take comfort in the misty future. It may be that there are outcomes unknown to us. Who knows what kind of world we will wake to after the war?”

Martin stared at the clan chief in amazement. Where did a man of the steppes, raised within the apostasy of generational theurgy, find such peace? “If we survive this war, clan chief, I would offer you the hospitality of my kingdom.”

Ablajin’s face shone with surprised joy, his smile showing merry crinkles around his eyes. “My son has told me stories of the Green Isle where your king and church rule. I should like very much to see it.”

Martin found Ablajin looking at him, his request plain. After a deep breath he told the clan chief of the isle and its peoples for hours as they rode, and Ablajin’s questions showed both a childlike curiosity and a scholarly discernment that surprised him.

As the sun set they came within sight of the cave that would lead them beneath the mountains to Bellia, and the muttering behind them grew. Ablajin turned his horse to face the clan. The warriors, men ranging in age from a score to three times that number faced him. Their unease became a palpable thing, until Martin could almost smell it on the chill north wind.

“They will break,” he said to Ablajin. He tried to speak without attracting attention. “The longer they stare at the cave, the more the fear of it grows upon them.”

“You are right, holy Martin,” Ablajin murmured in return, “but they must conquer it themselves. Any strength I give them through my words will not last long enough to bring them through to the other side.”

The tension heightened until the horses, attuned to their riders, shied and fought the reins. Just when it appeared the entire clan might break and run, one of Ablajin’s lieutenants, Ulaat, kicked his horse forward until its nose touched that of Ablajin’s mount. Then he spun to face the assembly.

“Hooves and wind,” the lieutenant shouted, his eyes tight, “if a master of horses and four soft kingdom men can brave the dark, a Wind Rider can.”

Ablajin’s gaze sought Martin. “He means no offense, holy Martin.”

Martin rubbed his belly. Months of travel and infrequent food had diminished his bulk, but he still carried far more padding than the Morgol riders. “I would be small-minded to take offense at the truth”—he gave his midsection a soft pat—“however indelicately spoken.”

Slowly at first, but in a growing tide, the warriors of Ablajin’s clan committed to braving the underground crossing. The clan chief nodded his approval, then cast a look at the dying light. “I think it would be best if we camped before beginning the passage.” He glanced at the mouth of the cave and shivered. “There are some who may need the knowledge of sunlight to bolster their courage.”

Ulaat passed word among the lieutenants, and the large octagonal tents were quickly erected. Cook fires sprouted like flowers on the plains. Martin cast about for Luis and Cruk, but his countrymen were not to be seen. He passed a hand across his heavy jaws. Cruk’s decades-old enmity for the Morgols could prove to be a problem. He didn’t think the watchman would do anything to jeopardize their newfound alliance, but it would be best not to leave the captain to his own devices for too long.

Luis presented a different problem. Day by day, his friend had withdrawn a little more into his thoughts, leaving Martin bereft of his counsel. Many times at night or early in the morning, Martin spied Luis casting in solitary locations, his face blank, lost in the question and answer that framed his craft, the calling that shaped him as secondus of the conclave.

Martin shrugged as if an unfamiliar and unwelcome weight had settled upon his shoulders. The failure of the cast of stones, the draw for the king they knew would come from Callowford, gnawed at him. How much more had it distressed Luis, who had shaped it?

Women and children stared at Martin as he passed by, their fingers pointing at his strangely rounded eyes or his girth, both equally rare on the steppes. On the northern end of the camp, he found them both. Cruk stood guard, Owen by his side, while Luis strove to carve a lot. Small white fissures laced the back of his chapped hands as he stroked the knife over the wood. Despite the chill, his motions were steady, and before the sun slipped below the horizon, a pair of spheres lay before him.


Luis regarded them as he might an enemy. Martin coughed, and the secondus jerked, scooping up his lots to deposit them in a rough leather bag, his face red.

“How many?” Martin asked. Worry sharpened his voice. Cruk turned at the sound.

Separated from the reader’s trance that kept him from feeling the cold, Luis’s hands trembled as he shook the bag. “Specify.”

A sigh, bitter as the wind, escaped Martin. He knelt on the frozen earth next to his friend. “How many times have you cast the same question since the stones failed us?”

Luis didn’t bother to raise his head. His shoulders lifted a fraction, then fell back into place as he drew from the bag. “More times than I can count.”

Martin shook his head. “I doubt that. How many?”

The lots within the bag clacked softly as Luis rolled it across the ground. “Perhaps a hundred.” He drew again, shook his head with a rueful smile. “But not always the same question. I even cast to see if I was still a reader. Then I tested to see if the question could be answered.”

He looked at Martin at last, his eyes dark, haunted. “Both of those came up yes.”

Martin balked at the torture in his friend’s voice. “But there remains no answer between Errol and Liam.” He’d meant to phrase it as a question.

Luis shook his head and drew again. “Illustra must have its soteregia, Martin.” His gaze changed from haunted to grief-stricken. “What if the wrong man dies?”

He tried to block the possibility from his mind, but Luis’s question wormed its way through his defenses, ate at his conviction until he doubted his faith. “Deas will ensure that does not happen,” he said, but his statement carried no fire.

Luis continued to draw, sparing only the barest glances for the lots before repeating the process.

“Still?” Martin asked.

“Twelve times for Errol. Twelve times for Liam.”

Bands of despair squeezed his chest, keeping him from drawing breath. Luis folded his bag and tucked it away before throwing the lots with a savage grunt out into the grass of the plain.

Cruk edged his way toward them, his face grim. “We have a more pressing concern.” His voice shoved aside their concern. “The wind has shifted.”

Martin stared, then rose to face south. A whisper brushed his face, startlingly warm compared to the north wind that no longer cut, that no longer kept the passes protecting the kingdom filled with ice. “It’s coming now,” he breathed. “War.”