A Draw of Kings

27

ANTIL





BANDS SQUEEZED HER CHEST until spots danced in her vision and dizziness threatened to pitch her from the saddle. Rokha called her name as if from a great distance. When her vision cleared, Lieutenant Jens had backed away. Her hands ached, and she looked down to see her knuckles standing out from their flesh.

“There’s more than one priest in Sorland, Your Highness,” Rokha said.

Adora whipped around to face her. “You doubt? Who else could it possibly be?” Her lips trembled, and tears of frustration and rage gathered and spilled from her lashes. “When has Errol ever been spared?”

Rokha reached over to grasp her hands, but Adora shook her off with a flip of her reins and dug her heels into the flanks of her horse.

Hooves thundered behind as Rokha and Jens struggled to catch her. The press of bodies prevented them. People turned at the sound of her approach, their eyes wide at the sight of her riding through the crowd, heedless of those scrambling to get out of her way.

At the front of the caravan, near a train of carts, shadowlanders and Illustrans came together like opposing waves, but in the morass of humanity, she could see no obvious center that would indicate Antil’s presence.

A need for haste she couldn’t control drove her forward.

She reached down to grab the nearest soldier and spun him by his arm. “Where is the priest?”

He gaped at her, then snapped to attention and pointed. “Over there, Your Highness, next to the largest cart.”

Adora rushed for the wagons, squeezing her way past a burly pair of teamsters into the space where two of the watch confronted a man in a dirty cassock.

Antil.

She’d never seen him, had never wanted to see him, and deep in her heart had nourished the hope that he would somehow fail to escape the flood of Morgols who had poured into his province. Inside, she railed at Deas. Was there no wound too deep for Errol to suffer? Must he endure this as well?


“Antil.” She waited for him to turn.

A hint of dimples in his cheeks was the only resemblance she could see. His nose had been broken at least once and his eyes were too haunted to compare, but the hair still held a hint of the deep brown where gray had failed to mar it.

Recognition spread across his face.

She must be sure. “Are you . . . Antil?” Almost she had used his title, but she would not cheapen the work of other men who labored faithfully for the church.

The man before her, the one responsible for Errol’s pain, nodded.

She launched herself at him. He flinched, the whites of his eyes showing around brown irises. Her hands shook with rage, and the shock of blows shook her arms in time with her heartbeat. Blood poured from the ruin of Antil’s nose.

A blur of color like a flash of lightning caught her arm, held it, and forced it down. The momentum of her swing carried her into Waterson’s arms, and his hands tightened on her wrists, squeezing until her fists unclenched. She jerked and struggled, but he refused to let go.

“Unhand me,” she screamed. “Do you forget who I am?”

Still struggling with her in his grasp, Waterson shifted to address Antil, who stood with his hands pressed against his face. “I think there’s something about your presence, priest, that annoys the princess. You should probably contrive a reason to be elsewhere.”

“Let me go!” Adora spat.

“Not likely, Your Highness,” Waterson said. Strain touched his voice as she fought to get loose. He turned to Jens, who stared at her. “Get that priest out of her sight.”

Jens grabbed Antil by the arm and began to lead him away, out of her reach.

Adora yanked to free her arm, but Waterson kept her pinned. He leaned close until she felt his breath on her ear. “If you have to beat this priest, for Deas’s sake do it in private. All the discipline we’ve managed to impose on this rabble will fall apart if you continue.”

Rokha leaned in from the other side. “Is this really the weapon you wish to use? Think, Princess.”

As if a bucket of cold water had caught her unaware, Adora calmed. She relaxed her struggle against Waterson, who paused, wary, before releasing her. She straightened and adjusted her clothes before raising her voice to address Lord Waterson loudly enough for the retreating forms of Lieutenant Jens and the priest to hear.

“Lord Waterson, please convey Pater Antil to the rear of the caravan.” She looked at the wagons and carts that clogged the road to Escadrill. “And assign these wagons to their proper place.” She tried not to notice the peasants’ fear as they scrambled to obey.

Walking with as much of her royal demeanor as she could summon, she remounted and rode back to the center of the train. Rokha pulled in alongside, her lips pressed together but not quite suppressing a smile.

Adora stared straight ahead, refusing to hold that gaze. “Does everything I do amuse you?”

Rokha shrugged and tossed her blue-black hair over one shoulder. “Not everything, Your Highness, but hitting the priest ranks high on the list.” She laughed enthusiastically. “What did you hope to accomplish?”

She inhaled. “I wanted him to feel every stroke he put on Errol’s back.” Her breath escaped her in a sigh of powerlessness and regret. “I’ve lost my chance to avenge him.”

Rokha’s fresh laughter caught her off guard. “If so, you have a limited imagination for retribution, Your Highness.” At Adora’s look, Rokha held up a hand. “That’s probably for the best, but were I the last princess of the kingdom, I could imagine many ways my power could be used to avenge someone short of death.”

Waterson rode up to her a short time later, his eyes wary but his mouth pulled to one side in a mocking grin. “I’d forgotten how much I disliked priests,” he said in a conversational tone. “That one managed to remind me.” He bent from the waist to give Adora an exaggerated bow. “If the laws of the kingdom were different, I would owe you an apology, Your Highness. I don’t think the church would be eager to defend that one. It’s a pity I stopped you.”

Adora watched Waterson’s antics with the trace of a smile, still turning Rokha’s suggestion over in her mind. “Lord Waterson, please convey my invitation to Pater Antil to dine with me tonight in my tent. It has been a long time since I have availed myself of the solace of the church. I find myself in need of her advice.”

Waterson’s eyes lit with savage amusement before he galloped off.

“Very good, Your Highness,” Rokha said. Her alto voice purred with approval. “But what exactly do you intend to do with him?”

Adora pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure. Let’s find out who Pater Antil is.”



Later that day they entered the interminable track of forest that bordered the Stones River and stretched all the way to Escadrill. They pitched camp three days short of their goal. Parties were sent to procure firewood, and the wagon masters took the opportunity to replace or repair axles that required attention. As dusk deepened, Liam and the solis returned to camp with news written on their faces.

Adora took one look at Marya and suspected grim tidings. A glance at Garet confirmed it. Rula beckoned them to a large table, where a map of all Illustra was spread before them, complete with topographical annotations.

At a gesture from Adora, Liam leaned over the map, his thick finger pinpointing their position. “We are three days from Escadrill, Highness. Another two weeks from there to the merchants’ center at Longhollow and another ten days to make the safety of the Arryth.”

“What of the Merakhi?” Rula asked.

Garet cleared his throat. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and kept his gaze focused on the map as if he feared to meet Adora’s eyes. “With the help of Aurae, we have masked our passage and sent their army south toward the swamp of southern Lugaria.” His fingers tapped the area on the map in a brisk staccato. “Your Highness, we have managed to send them on a delayed route back into their own vanguard.”

“But . . . ?”

Liam leaned forward, catching her attention. “Their army travels more quickly than we. If we do not split our military forces from the refugees, they will beat us to the Arryth despite their longer route.”

“We would be trapped on this side of the mountains,” Marya said.

Adora’s face heated. “You’re asking me to abandon the refugees of two countries to the Merakhi and the Morgols.”

Liam shook his head. “If we don’t beat the Merakhi to the Arryth, Your Highness, our presence will hardly help them. If we get there first, we can try to hold one of the northern passes open.”

“If,” Adora said, not bothering to hide the doubt in her voice. “Try.” She turned on the members of Haven’s council. “You are amenable to Captain Liam’s suggestion?”

As one, each member of the council looked at Liam, looked at him in a way they looked at no other man or woman of the kingdom, and nodded. What hold did he have over them?

“And if we do not make it to the Arryth before the Merakhi or cannot hold a passage open for the refugees?”

Garet, still looking at Liam, nodded as if he were accepting a burden or condemnation. “Take what men we have left under arms, Your Highness. We refugees will follow as best we can.”

Adora shook her head as a bitter chuckle escaped her lips. “No, my lord councilor. Martin Arwitten spoke at length about you and the rest of the council. Illustra cannot afford to lose you or the abilities you bring.”


Garet and Marya looked stricken, their faces blanching until they matched the wan light of the lamps. “We cannot leave our people, Your Highness.”

“But you expect me to leave mine? No. If I go, you must come with me. I will not leave behind a weapon that can hide us from our enemy at a crucial moment. I have seen what Solis Karele is capable of.”

Again the council looked at Liam as if seeking his blessing or permission and then nodded acquiescence. “It shall be as you say, Your Highness.” Garet shrank further under the weight of his abdication, and the fire highlighted crevices of worry in his face.

“Tomorrow, then,” Adora said. “Those of the watch and what remains of your army will make for the Arryth.” She sighed, then straightened. “Now, if you would please leave me, I have matters to attend.”

The small crowd shuffled from her pavilion as though she had placed them under judgment. Lord Waterson stood by the entrance, Antil at his elbow, waiting for permission to enter.

“Lady Rokha, Captain Liam, would you please remain?” She glanced at the priest. “I may find your counsel useful.” Let the little toad interpret that how he would.

For once, Naaman Ru’s daughter didn’t laugh at her weakness, only nodded, checking the position of the sword at her hip.

She moved to a small table, hardly more than a couple of boards thrown across crude trestles, and bade the rest of them to join her. Waterson escorted Antil into the tent. The priest’s eyes were filled with the fear of her until he saw Liam. With a wordless cry of joy, he closed the space between them to grip the captain by his arms.

“Liam, my boy, my precious boy, how are you?” He tried to give the captain a friendly shake, but only succeeded in rocking himself.

Liam gripped Antil’s forearms in return, his smile easy and natural. “Well, Pater. I am well.”

The display shocked her. How could Liam stomach to have that vile priest touch him, fawn over him like a dog eager to see its long-gone master? “Come, gentlemen,” she said, her voice clipped. “I would ask you to renew your acquaintance while we refresh ourselves.”

Waterson eyed the rations on the table. Despite the abbreviated area, there remained plenty of empty space. “I think refresh might be a bit generous, Your Highness. Perhaps we should say, ‘fend off the worst of our hunger.’”

Rokha laughed and seated herself on Adora’s left. Waterson sat on her right with Antil next to him while Liam filled the chair at the foot of the table.

“Liam is a captain of the watch,” Adora said. “He was my uncle’s chief protector prior to his death.”

Antil puffed up as if Adora had complimented him. “I have no doubt of it, Your Highness. Since Liam was a boy, I have seen the hand of Deas on him.”

Adora toyed with the undersized piece of cheese on her plate. “It’s interesting you should use that term, Pater—the hand of Deas. I have heard many people describe Errol Stone the same way.”

Antil’s face flushed, but he refused to rise to the bait. “So the priest, Martin, told me.”

Adora leaned back, warming to her task. “In fact, my uncle, King Rodran, elevated Errol to the nobility for his courage and service to the crown. Imagine that, Pater Antil, an orphan so distinguishing himself that the king made him an earl. That certainly sounds like the hand of Deas to me.” She shifted. “What do you think, Lady Rokha?”

“Absolutely, Your Highness,” Rokha drawled. “When Errol joined my father’s caravan . . . Excuse my manners.” She inclined her head toward Antil. “My father was Naaman Ru, the finest swordsman of his generation. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Anyway, when Errol joined my father’s caravan, he knew something of the staff, but even I was surprised at how quickly he became nearly invincible with it.”

Antil ripped his bread in half, thrust a piece in his mouth as if he were trying to stifle his tongue.

Rokha leaned forward. “What do you think, Captain Liam? Is Errol not accomplished?”

Liam nodded. “The one time we sparred, he defeated me, though I have improved since then.”

“There,” Adora said. “You see, Pater Antil. You’re a man of the church, after all. Doesn’t that sound like the hand of Deas is on Errol Stone?”

He swallowed thickly, his eyes burning. “That Liam does not contradict you tells me you must be speaking the truth of his exploits.”

Adora’s face heated at the slight, and she reached for a sword she no longer wore. Across the table she saw Liam lean back with wide eyes.

“Priests,” Waterson muttered into his wine. “Slow to admit a wrong, slower still to apologize for it. It’s too bad Abbott Lugnar is dead. I would love to discuss some finer points of theology with him.” He tapped his sword as he took another drink.

Waterson’s aside gave Adora the time she needed to compose herself, and an unexpected opening. “Slow? No, Lord Waterson. Not all priests are slow. Some are very quick to act, and it is not always to punish a perceived sin.” She leered at Antil. “Especially if they happen to see an exposed bit of leg or bosom. Wouldn’t you say, Pater Antil?”

The priest’s face reddened and boiled as he panted in his extremity. “Filth!” He spat. “Born in filth and baptized in the mire. Stone is nothing. Whatever fortune or circumstance has come to him will soon end. The higher his elevation, the greater his inevitable downfall. And on that day I will celebrate.”

Liam, his face hard, rose from his seat. “Do not ever seek to speak to me or come into my presence again. Until now, I thought you only too zealous in the pursuit of your duties, but I see I was wrong.” He strode from the tent without looking back.

Antil watched him leave, his mouth open in a soundless cry, stricken, as if his hope of salvation had left the tent with Liam.

Adora allowed herself a small smile. “It may be beyond my power to assign the penance you deserve for your deeds of spite and hatred, but as a member of the royal house, I have the right to retain my own personal priest, one of my choosing. It is an honor that has been bestowed upon benefices and even the occasional archbenefice in Illustra’s long history. I choose to bestow it upon you.”

She let her smile grow, allowed the pleasure at her inspiration to show without restraint. “You will be my confidant, Pater Antil. From this day forward I will confess to you every thought and deed of Errol Stone that has captured my heart.”

She leaned forward, holding him with her gaze. “And you will listen, my priest. You will listen until you can recite them back to me word for word.”