A Draw of Kings

3

TAKEN





COLD WOKE ADORA to a room bereft of light or warmth. Sevra and her ladies had withdrawn. The polished stone of the floor pressed against skin laced with welts and bruises. She pushed herself up, gasping with pain as tortured muscles trembled and protested against the movement. Limping to the fireplace, she struck steel and flint into the tinder until a blaze started. For long moments she measured by shuddering breaths, she nurtured her flesh with the feeble warmth.

She turned at last to retrieve her shirt and found it discarded to one side of the couch, the fabric shredded, useless. She huddled into the rough wool of her cloak. The wood in the fireplace caught at last, providing light enough to see by and Adora considered her situation.

Sevra’s beatings would eventually wear away her resistance, and the duke’s daughter meant to make quick work of any defiance Adora mustered. Errol and the rest of her companions were in no position to help her. She had to escape on her own.

Logic only tempted her toward despair. She moved to her bedroom, lighting candles as she went. Everything remained as she had left it. She moved to a broad wardrobe on the wall opposite the balcony and searched for warm clothes.

Silks and satins spilled across her hands like water, but most of the dresses she’d delighted in before traveling to the sand kingdom seemed frilly and superfluous to her now. As she moved them aside, her gaze fell on a pile of plain, sturdy clothes in muted shades of brown and gray. She fingered the breeches and tunic she’d used to disguise herself for her visits to the healer, Norv.

A foolhardy idea formed in her mind, but she grasped it with the desperation of a drowning woman. She lifted the pile, her heart drumming against her ribs.

It was still there. Adora raised the heavy key to the garden gate as if it were holy.

Replacing it, she moved to the balcony and surveyed the torch-lit courtyard. Her plan would require preparation, but if she could forego the sleep she so desperately needed, she might be able to make the attempt the following night.

The air blew off the great sea to the west of Erinon, but rather than chilling her, it invigorated her and filled her with hope. She looked across the broad courtyard waiting for the telltale movements in the darkness that would tell her how many men patrolled the grounds. There. A shift in the shadows betrayed the presence of a guard.

After a few minutes, the cold forced her back into her bedroom to fetch a blanket off the bed, but she quickly settled herself into a corner of the balcony to watch. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and she sought to memorize the movements of the guards. By the time the moon set some four hours after midnight, she felt confident in her ability to evade Weir’s men. With reluctance, she retreated back into her room. If fatigue caught her unaware and Sevra found her on the balcony, the duke’s daughter might suspect she planned to escape.

She climbed into bed still dressed. Sleep claimed her almost before she laid her head on the pillow. Her last thought was of Errol. Unconsciousness overtook her in the midst of a prayer to Deas on his behalf.

A stinging slap across her face brought her awake. She rolled, ready to fight, but the sight of Sevra’s ladies at the foot of her bed armed with cudgels stopped her. Laughter rasped in her ears.

“That’s good, strumpet. If you step out of line—and I’m sure you will—you’ll find the penalty to be quite severe.”

Adora noted that none of the women seemed in a hurry to approach her. She chose to take that as a sign of caution and savored the thought she’d won that much. Seating herself as if entertaining friends, she skewered Sevra with as much disdain as she could muster. “What do you want, Lady Sevra? Your father wishes to cement his power in the kingdom, but until he’s proclaimed king, it appears he has no need of me.”

Sevra laughed. “I’ve told you, strumpet. I am to train you to be a dutiful queen. Come. I will show you the price of disobedience.” Sevra turned on one heel and left the bedroom. For a moment the temptation to ignore the command raged hot in her chest, but curiosity won out. She rose and followed. Outside her suite of rooms, the two guards fell in line to accompany her, one in front and the other behind.

The sight of the lead guard’s sword on his left hip made her fingers twitch with need. She would require a weapon. They proceeded down the long marble staircase into the main hall of the palace with its gilded bannister and heavy chandeliers. The furnishings, which should have been as familiar as her own reflection, struck her as though she were unaccustomed to them.

They left the light of the palace to venture into the leaden gray of Erinon in winter. The blue of the guards’ uniforms, vibrant under bright torchlight, faded to slate. They passed through the broad archways that led to the courtyard used by the watch. The absence of the black-garbed men struck Adora as an immense corruption, a disease that raged within the compound.

“Your father will doom us all.”

One of Sevra’s women approached Adora, her cudgel held high, ready to strike, but Sevra held up a hand, restraining her. “And how would a cloistered princess know such a thing?”

Despite the cold, Adora threw her shoulders back. “The Merakhi and the Morgols mobilized their countries in preparation for King Rodran’s death. Your father squanders the kingdom’s strength on his bid for the throne.” Adora could not help but shake her head at the brazen stupidity. “Without an omne to confirm his ascension, competing factions will divide Illustra at a time when every man is needed to fight the threats from the south and east.”

Sevra laughed and favored Adora with a gaze that traveled slowly from head to foot. “You are ignorant, Princess. If not for your bloodline, you would doubtlessly have had to find work in some menial trade.” She turned to continue toward the far end of the yard, where two guards and a cloaked and hooded figure waited. “There will be no war. Father has already struck an agreement with the Merakhi.”

Adora’s laughed cracked in the cold air. “Then your father is a fool. The Merakhi are led by a man possessed by a malus. Belaaz will not settle for rule. He longs for destruction.”

Sevra nodded to one of the women, who thrust her cudgel into Adora’s midsection. She doubled over, retching, gasping for breath.

“When you mention my father, Princess, you must speak with respect as befits a queen of her king. Come.”

They drew closer to a hooded figure, his hands tied behind his back. The hood concealed his identity, but his height was just slightly less than average.

Errol.

No. Please, Deas, no.

Sevra smiled, her eyes glinting, lit by avid cruelty. She flicked her wrist, and one of the guards reached up to yank the hood off. Adora found herself facing Oliver Turing, Rodran’s flamboyant chamberlain. Bruises marked his face like splotches of plague, and one eye was swollen shut, but his insouciant smile remained despite a pair of broken teeth.


Adora’s relief flooded through her, taking her to her knees. Guilt at feeling it brought the tears that Sevra’s beatings could not.

“Your father’s chamberlain refuses to tell me the name of his nuntius,” Sevra said. Her voice rasped with frustration. “There is information that I require. I am merciful, strumpet. I am giving you a chance to provide it.”

Above her, she heard Turing sigh. “The Merakhi sun favors you, Princess. The freckles give you a fresh, girlish air, but you shouldn’t cry. Your eyes and nose turn red. It completely ruins the look.”

“I want the name!” Sevra screeched.

Turing looked heavenward and sighed. “I told you already, his identity is hidden. I’m no more able to identify him than be him.”

Adora laughed and raised her head to meet Oliver’s gaze through a fresh onslaught of tears, but the chamberlain’s expression, deadly serious, bored into her, as if commanding her to understand something. Then the moment passed.

A guard struck him, and he staggered. Turing rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically. “These people have no sense of style. There’s just no color that goes with facial bruises.”

Sevra’s mouth compressed into a line. “You have more to worry about than style, popinjay.”

Turing donned a look of exaggerated horror. “You mean you’re going to force me to make you presentable? I’m sorry. It just can’t be done. You can’t make silk from burlap, you know.”

A guard clubbed Turing across the mouth with the hilt of his sword. The former chamberlain dropped to the ground spitting blood. At a nod from Sevra, the guard kicked him in the head so hard he flipped to land on his back.

Weir’s daughter snapped her fingers, and two of the guards hauled Turing to his feet. She turned to Adora. “This is your first and most important lesson, Princess. Every time you contest me, every time you think to thwart my desire, one of your friends will die.”

Adora shook her head. “Please, you don’t have to do this. I won’t fight you anymore.”

Sevra’s smile stretched her face into an obscene parody of childlike joy, her eyes wide. The expression chilled her. “Then tell me the name of your uncle’s nuntius.”

Adora gaped, desperate to surrender a name she didn’t possess.

“Well then, Princess, I’m not killing him.” Sevra motioned and the guard next to her drew his sword and ran Turing slowly through the chest. “You are.”

The guard pulled his weapon from Turing’s body, his face blank. The chamberlain collapsed, his arms and legs folding in on themselves like discarded rags. Adora fell to his side, pulled his head to her lap. Turing smiled through the blood on his lips.

“Take . . . care . . . Princess . . . Don’t ruin . . . the . . . look.”

Sevra laughed like a child at play as she turned back toward her quarters.

Adora’s hair cascaded down, hiding Turing’s face and hers. The chamberlain inhaled wetly. His eyes glazed, bringing a stab of grief, but the chamberlain forced air through his lips. “I swear the message I am to deliver is the word of Rodran son of Rodrick, king of Illustra.” He stiffened, desperate to force the words of her uncle’s disclosure through his lips, his hands clutching at her, their strength fading as he spoke. “You don’t look like your father.” The fingers slipped. “Find him.”

Turing’s head rolled to one side. The king’s nuntius was dead.