A Draw of Kings

30

CONFLUENCE





MARTIN RODE AT ABLAJIN’S SIDE with Luis and Cruk trailing close behind. Since leaving the steppes, Cruk had encased himself in silence. He spoke seldom, but he looked often at the phalanx of Ablajin’s men, clustered in a tight mass as they rode. Many times Martin could see his eyes darting, working back and forth, counting the men and their horses, as if trying to multiply their number by sheer force of will.

When the mountain range that ran south from the Soeden Strait down the Gascony border came into view, Cruk nudged his horse into a canter. He stopped next to Ablajin and gave an uncomfortable-sounding grunt.

Ablajin nodded to acknowledge his presence.

“There’s going to be trouble,” Cruk said.

The Morgol leader’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and Martin winced. No one would ever accuse Cruk of being diplomatic.

“How so, Captain?” Ablajin asked.

Cruk gestured first at the force behind them and then forward toward the mountains. “Deploying your men to fight here is risky. It’s a hard thing to ask a man to fight his countrymen, harder still if they’re outnumbered twenty to one.”

The Morgol chieftain nodded. “Holy Martin tells me you are the foremost tactician in the kingdom. I see he is correct, yet there is much about my people that you do not know. From the moment my clan allowed me to live after I killed Oorgat, they declared themselves enemies of our nation.”

Cruk nodded. “Yet having a common enemy does not make them our ally. If I were the opposing commander, I would offer them a battlefield amnesty and kill them later.”

Martin saw Ablajin’s eyes widen as he turned to face him. “Your pardon, Martin, I underestimated the vision of your captain. Such a thing as he suggests would be unholy to the chieftains, but the treachery of the theurgists has no boundaries.”

“What do you propose, Captain?”

“Once we pass through the gap into the Arryth, take your men south to the border between Gascony and Talia to battle against the Merakhi. I will send men with you to smooth the journey.”

“A part of me had hoped to repay the theurgists in person for their treachery.” Ablajin gave a somber nod. “But your plan is for the best.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “How will you fight them, those people who were known to me?”

Martin understood. Ablajin asked for a measure of trust in return.

“Bows and pikes,” Cruk said. “Men with longbows will cover squadrons of pikemen. If we can narrow the gaps, light cavalry won’t stand a chance, especially fighting uphill.”

Ablajin nodded. “It is a good plan. A Morgol’s love for his horse will make him hesitate to charge a line of men with the long spears. Grouped together, they will make easy targets.”

Martin looked to see Ablajin’s gaze upon him, the brown eyes serious, his tone formal. “I would ask a boon for my people, holy Martin.”

“If I can grant it, I will, Chieftain Ablajin.”

“Provide a place for the women and children of the clan if your battle is won. They will awake to a different world, and the steppes may be closed to them.”

Martin bowed. “I will do everything in my power to make it so. They will be honored members of the kingdom, Chieftain Ablajin.”



Two days later they rode through one of the gaps in the mountain chain that circled the Arryth, the fertile region of Illustra where generations of farmers had fed the kingdom everything from wheat to wine. Martin, his elementary education in warfare reawakened, could only stare at the hills sloping up and away from him on each side. He shuddered. Too wide. The gap, every gap opening west to Illustra’s heart, offered too much access.

He pointed. “Will we have enough men to hold them?

Cruk roused from his inspection of the road ahead to spare a brief glance for their immediate surroundings. Owen rode in front of the watchman, snuggled into one burly arm, snoring softly. Cruk paused, his stare growing distant. “No.”

Martin waited, but the captain seemed uncompelled to add anything further.

“How long can we hold?”

Cruk met his question with frank assessment. “Men can hold for a long time, Pater, if they know what they’re holding for and have some hope of living.” His hand idly stroked Owen’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “How much time will you need?”


Cruk’s question hit him like an accusation from Deas. He didn’t know. Again the thought came to him that there might not be an answer, that he and Luis and all the rest of Illustra were living on numbered breaths. He shook his head. No. The herbwomen had said there was a way.

But if they’d been Deas’s chosen, the heads of the solis, why hadn’t Deas simply told them what that way was? He laughed at the irony. Twice he’d been elevated to the red of the Judica, and yet he craved nothing more than another scrap of reassurance from two dead herbwomen.

“There may not be enough time,” he said to Cruk.

The captain’s mouth pulled to one side. It was hard to tell whether he was grimacing or grinning. “Every now and then I’d appreciate it if you would offer an evasion or two. You have a nasty habit of telling a man the unvarnished truth.”

The expression slipped, then disappeared. “I heard you with the secondus. If one of them has to die to save the kingdom, there’s a simple way to guarantee Illustra’s safety.”

Martin held up a hand, but Cruk ignored the plea.

“Send them both out to fight.”

A breeze, channeled by the hills, lifted a stray lock of his hair as it caressed his face. On the surface, Cruk’s solution offered a way for the kingdom to survive, but a foreboding grew in him as he considered the idea. The herbwomen had said one of them must die. That could only mean one of them had to live. But to what end? Neither Errol nor Liam had children. No matter which of them died, there would be no heir to maintain the barrier bought by the sacrifice.

He tasted Luis’s despair. Cruk looked at him, waiting for an answer, but there was none to give.

They crested a rise, and the gap into the Arryth snapped into focus. Lines of men working on fortifications appeared. The sound of engineers calling out instructions drifted to them.

“Praise Deas,” Cruk said. “Somebody at least had enough sense to begin preparations while we were gone.”

The clatter of weapons startled Martin, and he turned his head to see workmen turned soldiers. Cruk chuckled. “Should have expected that, I suppose. Thousands of Morgols are bound to make anyone nervous.” He turned to call to Ablajin. “Chieftain, would you have your men wait? I think we need to make some introductions.”

A detachment of guards broke away from the squadron guarding the gap and rode toward them at an easy canter. When they neared, the detachment split into two groups: one composed of watchmen and irregulars, the other made up of grim-faced church guards in red livery. The church soldiers had weapons drawn, despite Martin and Cruk’s presence at the head of the column.

Cruk muttered under his breath. “Not good.” He pointed. “We’ve got a problem, Pater. Those church soldiers seemed to be more intent on you than the Morgols. Who have you annoyed now?”

“It could be almost anyone,” Luis quipped.

Martin noted the soldiers in red hardly spared a glance for the twenty thousand Morgol warriors spread before them. Their attention clearly seemed centered on Martin. They came at him in an arc, hemming him in.

“I think this would be a good time for you to use some of your fabled oratory, Martin,” Luis said. “They look very serious.”

Cruk grunted as he adjusted Owen, who still slept tucked within his arm. “I’ve noticed a man with bared steel has a hard time hearing.”

Ablajin nodded toward the approaching guards. “I will order my men to come to your aid if you ask it, holy Martin, but would not spilling kingdom blood jeopardize our alliance?”

Martin exhaled. “It would. Something must have happened within the Judica.” At his side, Luis made a sound halfway between a sigh and agreement.

“At least they haven’t put arrows to bowstrings,” Cruk said. Martin nodded, but the edges of those swords appeared very keen.

At ten paces the church guard detachment stopped. Its leader, a blond-haired captain with a beard and mustache that blurred the scar running through his sharp Gascon features, pointed his sword at Martin.

“I adjure you by the authority given me by the Grand Judica, are you Martin Arwitten?”

The absence of the title of pater, or even priest, could not bode well. “I am.”

The sword returned to attention but not to its sheath. “Martin Arwitten, I am Captain Geraud. I am commanded to conduct you to the Grand Judica in haste. There you will answer for your deeds and serve whatever penance or penalty Deas and the Grand Judica deem fit to expunge your debt.”

“Captain,” Luis said, “does your charge include any others?”

The captain shook his head.

A trace of cold threaded its way across Martin’s skin. The Grand Judica, the church guard had said. Not the archbenefice. “Who signed the writ?”

“Benefices Kell and Kerran.”

He struggled to pull air into his lungs. “What of Archbenefice Canon?”

The guard blinked twice. “The archbenefice is dead.”

Martin bowed his head and recited the panikhida. When he looked up he saw Cruk speaking with the detachment of watchmen and irregulars. Owen was now awake but still sat in the saddle in front of Cruk. A bluff-faced lieutenant nodded, moving with the brusque motions of one who feared displeasing a superior.

When Cruk returned to Martin’s side, Ablajin was there to meet him.

He pointed to Owen. “What will be done with the child?”

Cruk stiffened. “I will see to the boy.”

Ablajin nodded but raised a hand. “I would like to adopt Owen into my household. Among my people, he is already considered a man for saving his horse.”

Martin put his hand on Cruk’s arm, drawing the captain’s ire to himself, but he refused to acknowledge the anger in his gaze. “Owen will need a family, Captain. And if the kingdom survives, it will need men who can speak to both peoples.”

Cruk’s internal struggle played across the lines of his face. For a moment it appeared as though his long history of stoic resolve would collapse. Tremors worked through his cheeks as his mouth twisted, framing objections he never uttered.

He lifted Owen and turned him so that they sat face-to-face. Cruk rested a scarred hand on top of the boy’s windblown thatch of hair. “Owen, I have to go places that won’t be safe for you. Would you like to live with the chieftain’s clan and learn how to take care of horses?”

The boy’s face brightened, but he may have sensed a portion of Cruk’s struggle. He didn’t speak. His nod appeared to tear Cruk’s heart from his chest.

“Well then,” Cruk said, his voice thick, “I want you to be the best horseman you can be.” He hugged the boy close, then lifted him to the ground. “Off with you now.”

Owen scampered toward the rear of the caravan and Ablajin’s household.

Ablajin’s horse faced Cruk, and the chieftain bent in a deep bow that he held. When he rose, Cruk acknowledged him with a nod.

“The boy Owen will be as my own son, Captain,” Ablajin said. He pointed to Karele a few paces away. “You know that I speak the truth.”

Cruk breathed deeply. “I do.” The strain of speaking threaded its way through his voice. “I wouldn’t have let him go otherwise.”

He turned to Martin. “I’ll be going back with you.”

Martin turned to Luis. The secondus returned the look with a lift of his eyebrows. “You know I will always be at your side, Martin.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a pair of blanks. “And the answer I seek is somewhere back there.”


The church captain coughed. “If you please, Pater.”

Martin nodded. “Though I wish the circumstances were different, it will be good to see Erinon again.”

“No, Pater.” Captain Geraud shook his head. “The Judica awaits us in Gascony. Erinon has been evacuated.”

Martin ignored the panic worming its way through his belly. They’d known holding the strait would be next to impossible once Weir burnt his ships. With a mental shove, he pushed this latest bit of news into the corner of his mind where he kept all the other circumstances that defied his attempts at control.

“Where is the church setting its headquarters, Captain?” Luis asked.

“I am commanded to convey you to Gergy, the ducal seat of Escarion.”

Cruk rolled his shoulders as he gazed at nothing, then nodded. “It’s a bit close to the mountains, but retreat doesn’t matter now. It’s centrally located. We’ll be able to coordinate as well from there as any other location.”



Ten days and innumerable changes of horses later, they arrived at Duke Escarion’s estate. The home of Illustra’s most powerful duke—which Martin had visited several times over the years—resembled the man himself. Strong towers stood at the corners of a five-sided fortress, and though the architecture carried beauty of a sort, it lacked the ostentatious embellishments Duke Weir had favored. Escarion favored function over form. No trees grew within a half mile of the walls, but flower gardens inside the main gates and rich tapestries and carpets decorating its halls testified to Mickala Escarion’s influence.

Cruk nodded his approval as they surveyed the castle from a low rise. “A defensible place, but if we can’t hold the Arryth, it will hardly matter. They’ll just surround it and starve us out, and a siege is a bad way to die.”

“It was built for another age,” Martin said, “before the provinces united. After Magis died, no one thought we would ever see the Merakhi back on our soil.” He waved at the throngs of refugees heading west, leaving the duke’s lands behind. “There aren’t enough castles in Illustra to protect the people that have filled the kingdom. We must win.”

Captain Geraud twitched his reins, looking uncomfortable. “If you please, Pater, the Judica is waiting.”

When Martin nodded, the church guards drew weapons and surrounded him, forcing Cruk and Luis outside of the circle. They descended a low rise and crossed the half mile of field that teemed with more armed men than Martin had ever envisioned. Pikemen drilled under the strident direction of their commanders. A row of men with longbows stretched into the distance, drawing and releasing a cloud of arrows into the air. The flight arced almost lazily overhead before plummeting toward a red-cloth target spread on the ground.

It seemed a vast company, but Cruk’s expression told a different story.

They crossed a broad moat, their horses’ hooves echoing like the call of a drum. Inside the courtyard, the church guards dismounted, and the captain signaled Martin to do the same.

When Luis and Cruk made to follow, Geraud held up one hand. “My orders were to convey Martin Arwitten to the hall of the Judica alone and under guard.” He ducked his head. “I’m sorry, Pater.”

Martin swallowed, forced a reassuring smile to his face. “It’s quite all right, Captain.” He turned to Luis and Cruk. “You both know what to do.”

Though his arrival hadn’t been a surprise, guards kept him waiting outside the grand hall the Judica had claimed for its meeting space. When the doors opened and they escorted him in, each of the benefices wore the ceremonial red of their position along with the gold chain and symbol of their office, confirming his fears. The seating would be a formal one. Archbenefice Canon had confessed before he died, and the entire Judica knew Martin and Luis had cast for the king privately. That he had done so under the orders of the archbenefice would gain him no clemency whatsoever.

The only questioned that remained would be the penalty, or rather, how they would choose to enact it. The Judica had devised rather creative means of execution in the past.

Instead of raised seating, the benefices sat arrayed in a broad half circle of cushioned chairs running several rows deep. The most powerful members that remained after Bertrand Canon’s purge occupied the front.

The doors banged shut, and a guard barred them from within.

A seat that would have been occupied by the archbenefice sat empty at the focal point of the arc, but on either side sat Benefices Kell and Kerran, old and young, benefices of the most powerful dioceses in the kingdom, both stern faced, both ready to pass judgment.

A functionary stepped forward, pulled the archbenefice’s staff from its holder, and rapped it on the floor six times. Martin sighed. Had the count been held to three, he would have been allowed to speak. Six strikes meant the Judica had already voted.

“Benefice Kerran,” Kell intoned. His voice carried the hollow timbre of the old. “Recite the charges.”

Kerran rose and moved to face Martin a mere arm’s length away. “Martin Arwitten, it has been charged and confirmed by lot that you cast for Illustra’s king in contravention of the authority of the Judica. Further, it has been confirmed that, by your absence, you allowed the blame for this act to fall upon Earl Stone, placing his life in danger.”

Benefice Kell’s voice ripped through the hall. “How do you plead?”

Plead? Martin shook his head. They’d struck the floor six times. There was no plea. All he could do was confess.

“The charges are true.”

Kerran nodded as if he expected no less. “And have you no extenuating circumstances to offer in your behalf, Martin Arwitten?”

If he wanted to save himself from the worst of their penalty, this would be his only chance. Canon had ordered him to find the next king. True, he should have reported the archbenefice’s actions to the Judica, but he had still been a subordinate acting on the instructions of his superior, and the circumstances had been exceptional. And as for Errol being blamed for his actions, he’d left Erinon before the extent of the charges and their consequences had been known.

He wet his lips. These men were known to him. Once he had counted many of them as friends. Surely he could persuade enough of them to evade death.

A hint of breath, perhaps the guard’s, stirred the hair on the back of his neck, and his panic cleared. No. He would not quibble. Only absolute truth mattered now, when the kingdom stood on the edge of its own demise. “I have nothing to offer in my behalf, Benefice.”

Kerran nodded, his face somber.

“Then these proceedings are at an end,” Benefice Kell said. “Pronounce sentence.”

“Martin Arwitten.” Kerran’s voice filled the hall. As one, Kell and the rest of the benefices rose. A sea of red surrounded him. “To determine penance and penalty for your actions, the Grand Judica has sought guidance from the conclave.”

Martin jerked in surprise. What? The Judica never cast lots to determine punishment.

“In accordance with the conclave’s cast and the will of Deas, Eleison, and knowable Aurae, we pronounce sentence.”

Martin blinked, his mind fighting to make sense of what he’d just heard.

“Martin Arwitten, you are commanded to don the crimson of the office of archbenefice and assume the responsibilities of that office until death severs you from the service of the church.” The collected benefices including Kerran and Kell dropped to their knees. Kerran, his head bowed, pointed at Martin’s heart. “You are adjured by Deas.”