A Draw of Kings

29

KNOWABLE





THEY ASCENDED the rough granite steps that led from the docks to the royal compound, where the Judica, the conclave, and the watch made their home. Questions gnawed at Errol, queries he’d denied himself during his journey.

“Do you have any news of Princess Adora?” he asked.

“No.” Derek shook his head. “Nor of Pater Martin.”

Errol stumbled, and his foot slipped back to the previous step. “What of Martin?”


Derek grimaced, his hands fluttering in the air. “My apologies. You departed before he left with the secondus and Captain Cruk. They sent some messages back, but no one’s heard from them since they passed into the eastern parts of Bellia.” He tapped his head with one finger. “That small man went with them.”

“Karele,” Errol said. “But why Bellia?”

Rale made a sound behind him. “Caves. Martin seeks another way onto the steppes, but to what end I have no idea.”

But Errol suspected. Karele’s adoptive father, Ablajin, held authority of a sort with the horsemen. Had the horse master gone seeking to make peace? But why take Martin and Luis with him?

“If they have gone to the steppes, it is unlikely we will see them again,” Derek said.

Errol wanted to argue, but his hope seemed too uncertain to offer.

As they entered the compound, word of their arrival ran ahead of them. Servants, nobles, and churchmen alike gaped in wonder, the faces sloughing off mourning as they passed. Their regard weighed on Errol like a millstone around his neck. Against the might of Merakh and the unlikely hope of Martin’s mission, the recovery of the book seemed insignificant. What good would doctrine do against such odds?

Men in heavy crimson robes raced ahead of them toward the meeting hall of the Judica, but when Errol arrived at the official entrance, the guards bade him wait while the rest of the benefices gathered.

At last the way swung open to reveal a sea of florid faces wreathed in mixtures of hope and fear. The temptation to draw out the moment, to keep the benefices in suspense, washed over him for an instant, but only for a pair of heartbeats. He unslung his pack and with simple movements untied the oiled skin that protected the ancient book, the source of Magis’s folly. A collective gasp filled the hall. Some of the older benefices wept openly, uncaring, while others reached toward him with outstretched arms as if they could touch the hope of their salvation despite the distance between themselves and the dais.

Errol noted the presence of Benefice Kell, who had brought the accusation against him of consorting with spirits and had unwittingly been the means of his survival. Thin wisps of his ancient hair wafted back and forth as he rocked on his feet, tears tracking down his face. Benefice Kerran, one of his few defenders from the first, looked upon him like a man given his greatest hope.

Kell came forward, stumping on his old man’s legs until he stood within arm’s reach of Errol. “I know you’ve no cause to look upon me with benevolence, Earl Stone, but I confess before Deas and all these men that I was wrong to accuse you. Only Deas’s chosen could have brought the book back.”

It was meant to be praise; Errol knew that, but Kell’s pronouncement stabbed him like an omen of prophecy. Deas’s chosen would die.

The other benefices remained in their seats—held by reticence or protocol, Errol didn’t know which—but Kerran came forward to join Kell on the dais, his hands extended.

Errol’s fingertips caressed the thick leather cover of the book, brushed the brass binding that held it closed.

“The church and its Judica owe you much, Earl Stone,” Benefice Kerran said. “How may we repay you?”

Errol surrendered the book with a pang of loss. Other than himself, Kell, and Kerran, no one stood on the dais. No one ruled. “Who commands in Canon’s absence?”

Kerran sighed. “No one at the moment. The duties of archbenefice are carried out by an appointee chosen each week.”

Again, the traditions of the church escaped Errol. Why did the Judica insist on doing everything the hard way? “Why haven’t you told the conclave to cast for the next archbenefice?”

Kell and Kerran exhaled in unison. “It’s not that simple, lad,” Kell said. For once his weathered features didn’t appear stern, only tired. “The corruption within the church carried out by Benefices Weir and Dane has taught us to be suspicious of each other.” He snorted. “As if we weren’t already.”

Kerran nodded. “Also, there has been no omne to verify the cast. Suspicion runs to the conclave as well.”

Kell put a hand on Errol’s shoulder. He could feel nothing except earnest sincerity in the old man’s touch. “You may be the weight that tips the scales, Earl Stone. You have returned the book to us, and you are the omne. As such, your integrity is unassailable. The Judica is in your debt.” Kell leaned close, beseeched. “You could use that debt to force us into action.”

He felt the extremity of Kell’s need as Benefice Kerran nodded assent behind him.

“No.” He tried to ignore the look of shock that twisted their faces. “It won’t work. If you need me to tell the Judica what to do now, who will you turn to next—someone like Weir?

“Archbenefice Canon had the Judica and the conclave tested—each and every member, including the primus. You can trust each other.” He shrugged. “You just have to make the decision to do it.”

He favored each of them with a bow. “Benefices, if you will excuse me, I need to report to the council of nobles.” He gestured toward the book. “And you have much to do.”

Their gazes followed him as he departed, but he left without regret. If he allowed them to make him their leader, their reliance would lead them to helplessness.

When he arrived at the hall the council of nobles used as their meeting place, he was surprised to find a mere fraction of the men present who’d attended months before. Duke Escarion had eschewed the seat of authority on the dais. Instead, the space was filled with maps of the kingdom spread on a dozen trestle tables that had been shoved together in the center of the room. Every noble present clustered around as the duke used a pointer to brief them all. Rale and Merodach stood on each side.

“We’ve got every tub not committed to the Forbidden Strait ferrying men from Soeden to Einland.” He shifted his pointer. “Most of the Fratalanders have already made their way south into Bellia. Those that remain are too few to threaten the Morgol army pouring through the gap.”

A noble with a florid complexion and a bushy red mustache pointed to the inlet that reached far into Bellia. “Can we not hold the Morgols here? The landscape would pinch them into a longer column. Pikemen and archers would be able to stop their cavalry.”

Escarion glanced at Rale, who pointed to a pair of markers just west of Bellia in Dannick. “It’s a good suggestion, Duke Hoffen, but the men you need are too far away to get there before the Morgols.”

A different noble made a strangled noise in his throat. “Do you know what you’re saying? There’s nothing but rolling plains from there to the mountains of the Arryth. You’ve just surrendered Bellia, Dannick, and Einland to the Morgols.”

Duke Escarion gestured at the map, pulling the noble’s attention and ire away from Captain Rale. “Count Hessen, even could we hold the Bellian inlet against the Morgols, that portion of the army would be trapped by any force coming against them from the south.” He smacked his pointer on the border between Lugaria and Sorland. “We know the Merakhi have already crossed from the shadow lands into this region. Were they to march north, any force in Bellia would be caught between them and the Morgols. They’d be totally wiped out.”

The duke’s words went into Errol’s side like a sword thrust. He tried to keep his voice neutral, failed. “What of Princess Adora? Is she . . . Did her mission succeed?”


Escarion’s expression was unreadable. “No, Earl Stone.”

The room spun. Errol thrust out an arm, groped for the nearest shoulder to support his weight as the duke’s voice came to him from a distance. “The princess and Captain Liam are unharmed, but the Merakhi landed a large force of soldiers and spawn on the southern coast of the shadow lands. Haven’s army was wiped out buying their civilians enough time to escape. The princess and Captain Liam will meet our forces in Gascony.”

“They aren’t coming here?” Errol asked.

With a gesture to Rale and Merodach, Escarion shook his head. “We’ve already sent word for them to await our arrival. The Forbidden Strait cannot be held indefinitely. We must engage the Merakhi in the Arryth and hope we can defeat them before they can land a force behind us.”

Errol looked into the shadowed gaze of the duke, tried not to see the despair Escarion fought to keep from his eyes. Around the tables, the nobles paled and most of them wore resignation. To win the war, they would have to engage a superior force from not one but two countries and triumph quickly. Then, assuming enough of their army survived such a victory, they would have to turn and defeat whatever force the Merakhi sent to attack them from the west.

“How soon do we leave Erinon?” he asked.

Escarion exchanged a glance with Rale and Merodach before he answered. “The captains will leave in the morning with the remnants of the watch still on the island. The rest of us will follow as soon as we can.” He sighed. “We will have to convince the Judica and the conclave of their peril. They will not want to leave.”

“I will depart with the captains, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem convincing the Judica, Your Grace,” Errol said. “They have something they will dearly want to protect.”



A whisper of breeze, no more than a suggestion of air movement, brought Antil’s scent to Adora as they rode west. The odor nauseated her, and like rotted meat eaten unawares, everything about the man turned her stomach. Not for the first time she regretted her decision to make the bitter little man her personal priest. In the beginning she thought she might change him, might force him to see the nobility that lay within his son, but she’d underestimated Pater Antil.

No endorsement, however sincere, no matter the source, would convince him of Errol’s worth. Antil’s own self-loathing went too deep. Several times she’d found herself on the verge of striking him, only to stop just short, her arms shaking with the suppressed violence of withheld blows. Rokha, her jaws and shoulders clenched, had quickly left her company, only returning to her side if Antil rode elsewhere.

Adora could hardly blame her.

Weary of Antil’s denials, Adora now considered a different approach. “Tell me about her,” she said at last.

Antil looked at her with eyes that shared Errol’s color but not his openness and squinted in suspicion. “You will have to specify, Your Highness. Callowford is a small village, but I am acquainted with more than one ‘her.’”

That was another thing she despised about him; his corrections never ceased and the superior smirk that twisted his lips into a parody of a smile made her sword arm itch. “Pardon my mistake, Pater. I thought you to be a more discerning man.” She smiled as his grin faded. “There is only one ‘her’ I have any interest in: Errol’s mother. I want to know what my future husband’s mother was like.”

Antil set his jaws, didn’t speak.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.”

“Your Highness”—Antil bit his words off one at a time—“I am your priest. You are not my confessor.”

Adora forced a laugh, hoped it sounded genuine in its amusement. “I am not interested in the sordid details of your indiscretions, you miserable excuse for a priest. Errol is the noblest man in the kingdom, despite the treatment he received at your hands. Since there seems to be no such quality within you, Pater Antil, I can only conclude that his mother must have been a woman of extraordinary depth. I adjure you, as your sovereign, tell me everything you can recollect or surmise about her in as plain and honest a fashion as you can contrive. Leave nothing out.”

His mouth gaped as she spoke, stretching in horror by the time she was done. “You cannot ask that of me. You cannot.”

She slowed her horse and leaned a little toward him, her gaze burning with all the love and passion for Errol she held. “You are quite right, Pater. I do not ask it; I demand it.”

He shook, but whether he struggled with her command or himself she could not tell. His head turned from her with a jerk, so when he spoke she had to strain to hear him. “Where shall I begin, Your Highness?”

To his credit, he did not spit her title like an epithet as he had so often in the past.

An unexpected twinge of pity for his self-loathing arose, moved her to speak softly. “What was her name?”

“Candide,” Antil said. He stared at the reins in his hands. “And she fit it. She was sweet and pure.”

“Hardly that,” Adora observed softly, “if she would knowingly bed a priest.”

She had the impression of movement, only that, before Antil’s open hand connected with her face, the slap loud in her ears. Stunned past anger she stared at him, at the rage that twisted his features.

“You may kill me, Your Highness, but I will not suffer your insults of Candide. She was perfect in ways you could never hope to approach.” His voice rose until he screamed as tears bunched in his eyes. “She burned like a bonfire on a moonless night until she died, was killed giving birth to that filth you say you love.” He panted, defying her. “She loved me!”

Adora rubbed her cheek. He had pulled the blow. Sevra and her minions had given her worse. Insight flared in her, and she understood Antil. She didn’t like him any better—far from it; he remained contemptible—but now she knew how to approach him.

But that would have to wait. Too many people had seen him strike her. Rokha and Waterson rode toward them with swords drawn. Even Liam had slowed to turn, unhooking his short bow and nudging his horse to ride back to her.

She sighed. He deserved death, but until Illustra found its king, the burden of mercy belonged to her. She jerked her reins toward Antil with her left hand. The priest gaped at her in surprise as she drew her sword and clubbed him across the temple as hard as she could. The shock jolted her arm, sending pain shooting though her elbow.

Antil’s eyes rolled and he toppled from his saddle.

Her rescue party stopped in front of her.

Waterson sheathed his sword, glanced at the dimming sky overhead. “You have an unusual way of selecting campsites, Your Highness.”

Rokha dismounted and sauntered over to stand at Antil’s unconscious form. “I can pour some water on him, if you’d like to continue your conversation.”

Adora nodded. Tired as he made her, she needed to verify her insight. It would be easier to do so now, while Antil’s emotions were still raw and unbalanced. Later, he might manage to restore the judgmental stoicism he wore like a cloak.

He spluttered and coughed as he woke to Rokha’s drenching. When he cleared his eyes, Adora stood waiting for him, her sword clenched in her hand, ready to strike again. Liam sat his horse behind her, short bow at the ready.

She took a deep breath and began, “Do not think to escape my questions by forcing me to kill you, priest. I have defeated and killed men who thought me defenseless. I have no reservations against beating you within a breath of life for your insolence.”


He shook water from his hair. “What else do you want to know, Princess?” He growled the words, but underneath he sounded tired, defeated.

“When did you start blaming a child for a woman’s death?”

He barked a laugh, and at first she thought he would deny the accusation in her question, but when he looked at her, his reserve had given way to sardonic admission. He gave her a condescending bow from his seat on the ground.

“Stupid question. When she died, of course.”

Angered at his disrespect, she searched for a way to strike back, to keep him off balance. “Candide’s death must have been convenient for you. You would have been struck from the priesthood otherwise.”

Her arrow failed to find its mark. “I’d planned to leave the campaign. Traveling with Prince Jaclin offered a means to be paid while we looked for a place far enough from our families to hide.” He looked at her as if daring her to insult him further. “Months before we came to Callowford, we’d snuck from Jaclin’s column to be married by the priest of a small village in Gascony. We liked Callowford. Our plans were to simply let Jaclin and his men leave us behind.”

Something was not right; this was not the story she’d heard. “Your words have the sound of truth behind them, priest, but perhaps you could explain why your tale differs from the one you told Martin Arwitten?”

Antil regarded her from eyes narrowed to slits. “Do I owe the truth to a man who would strike me?”

Adora nodded, even as she ignored the irony in Antil’s protest. “Do you owe the truth to me?”

He smiled, but his eyes mocked her. “Of course, Your Highness, I am your confessor, am I not?”

He tired her with his semantics, but she pressed forward, hoping to find some scrap of knowledge that would help Errol. “But you didn’t kill the child.”

Antil ran his tongue over his teeth and spat a piece of grass into the dirt. “I’m not a murderer, Princess. I gave the babe to Warrel.” He laughed. “Beware, Your Highness. The boy is a curse. Everyone around him dies. Warrel’s wife wasted away five years after he came to them. Then Warrel was crushed by stone.” He smiled. “Perhaps you would do best to avoid him.”

Behind, she heard Liam’s growl. Even his patience was running low. She ground her teeth until her jaws ached. “Say his name.”

He laughed at her. He laughed!

“I have been saying his name . . . Princess. Every time I speak of him as a curse or filth, I name him.”

Rokha, still and unseen by Antil, delivered a savage uppercut to the priest’s chin, the sound of his jaws meeting a sharp retort in the evening air. She bowed to Adora, her movements formal. “Your Highness, I crave your pardon for interrupting your conversation.”

Adora nodded and gestured with one hand to tell Rokha her apology was unnecessary. Antil lay like discarded cloth on the ground.

“What will you do with him?” Rokha asked.

She rolled each shoulder, trying to shed the weight of her responsibility. “What had to be done since the moment we found him: take him to Errol.” She forced the next words past a lump in her throat. “If he still lives.”

“Errol lives,” Liam said.

But when Adora turned to inquire how he knew such a thing, the captain of the watch had already moved away.