A Draw of Kings

31

WAR COUNCIL





JUST BEFORE DAWN, Errol moved through the halls of Duke Escarion’s castle with tentative steps, ready to spring away at the first sign of being recognized. His recovery of the book of Magis had robbed him of any hope for anonymity. Everywhere he went, servants pointed and whispered, ducking their heads and bowing as if he were royalty. Even other members of the nobility, seasoned men and women old enough to be his grandparents and know better, spoke to him in quiet, almost reverent tones, ducking their heads each time he replied.

He wanted nothing more than to slip away from the crowds of churchmen and nobles who packed the corridors, but the proclamations from the Judica made that impossible. After his unlikely elevation, Martin seemed intent on correcting perceived slights to Errol on behalf of his predecessor and Rodran.

Errol just wanted him to shut up.

With Adora still days away according to the latest messenger, the only honest company he cared for was Cruk and Rale. Merodach was straightforward enough, but the taciturn captain hoarded his speech the way a miser guarded his gold. Bemused, he turned a corner and nearly ran over the slight form of Mickala Escarion.

“Pardon me, Duchess,” he said, stammering his words. He still struggled to reconcile this woman, who seemed no more than a decade older than himself, as the mother of Derek and Darren Escarion. “I should pay more attention to what’s in front of me.”

Her laughter brightened the hall like an additional torch. “You can be excused, I think. Do you require anything, Earl Stone?”

He nodded. “I’ve gotten turned around. Could you direct me to Captain Cruk? I believe he is in the nobles’ hall.”

She signaled the servant trailing behind her as she looped an arm through his with a motherly smile that belied her age. “Come, Earl Stone, I will conduct you.”

He slipped into the hall used by the nobles to plan the campaign. It was empty now, or nearly so. Cruk, Reynald, Rale, and Merodach stood at the oversized table gazing at a huge map of the Arryth. They didn’t appear pleased.

At the sound of the door, the four men looked up.

“I’m sorry,” Errol said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back later.”

Rale shook his head, the suggestion of a smile playing around his lips. “Said the hero of the kingdom.”

Cruk grunted. “Three times over.” He waved a hand, beckoning. “Come here, Errol. Take a look at the midden we’re wading through.”

The absence of Cruk’s customary title for him—boy—brought a strange pang of regret. Too much had changed and too fast.

“I’m not very good at reading maps,” Errol said.

“We’ll explain,” Rale said. He traced a line of mountains that started just west of Steadham in the north, ran south along the eastern border of Gascony, and then ran west with the border of Basquon. “This line of low mountains is the front we must hold. If the Merakhi or the Morgols break through into the flatland of the Arryth, they’ll push us all the way back to the Beron Strait.”

Errol peered at the map. Notations marked each gap in the mountains. He pointed at one of the numbers in red. “What do those mean?”

“That’s the number of men we estimate are needed to hold the gap,” Reynald said.

Cruk snorted. “The bare minimum.”

Merodach nodded. “And that’s for a single engagement. There won’t be any reinforcements. The numbers are in thousands.”

Errol added up the markers. The other men lapsed into silence as he did so and time stretched. He’d never been quick with numbers despite Naaman Ru’s abbreviated attempt to turn him into a merchant. “We need a hundred thousand men?”

Cruk exhaled through his nose as if he smelled something foul. “No, Errol. We need more, a lot more.”

“How many do we have?”

Rale squinted. “Seventy thousand, perhaps ninety with the Morgols Archbenefice Arwitten brought with him. Princess Adora indicates that she has another ten thousand shadowlanders. That’s all there is, unless we start drafting old men and boys who know nothing about fighting.”

Cruk gestured his disgust. “Always a mistake. That type of conscript is more of a hindrance in battle than an asset.”

Errol stared at the map with its uncompromising reality and shook his head. It wasn’t hopeless—it was worse. “What’s happening now?”

Rale pointed to the southeastern end of the range. “Watch captains Indurain and Merkx are investing the Pelligroso Pass. The Merakhi advance force Princess Adora encountered should arrive there within the week.”

Errol’s stomach lurched. These men talked about thousands dying with little more emotion than they would spend discussing breakfast. “Can they hold?”

Rale shrugged. “We hope so.”

He fought the panic that erupted in his stomach, threatening to bring his breakfast back up on him. They had invited him to look at the map, to think, not to fall to pieces like some scared village drunk. He stared at the chart. The oversized scale managed to convey the details of the terrain in terrifying clarity. The Pelligroso Pass resembled an extended passage rather than a gateway. That seemed important. There were regions of the Sprata that looked like that, the gorge for one.

He pointed. “How difficult would it be to get men, ours or the enemies’, up onto the cliffs overlooking the pass?”

Rale nodded his approval. “It can’t be done from their side, but the slope is more gradual from ours.”

“Bowmen,” Errol said. “As many as you can spare. If you—we—lose that gap, it won’t matter if we hold the rest.”

“What else?” Rale prompted.

Errol looked again. What was Rale fishing for? His plan would work. He checked that thought. No, his plan should work, but every fight he’d seen held unexpected elements. What would he do if the Merakhi somehow nullified his bowmen and came through the gap? “Here.” He pointed to the western end, where the pass opened into the fertile lands of the Arryth. “Close the gap. Use soldiers, conscripts, anyone you can. If they’re no good in a fight, let them fill the gap with enough earth and rock so that there won’t be one.” He shrugged. “At least they can narrow it to give us a better chance.”

Rale looked away, seeking Cruk and Merodach. “Well,” he said. “How do you vote?”

Merodach nodded. “Better than most. Captaincy.”

“And you, Captain Cruk?” Rale asked.

“The archbenefice won’t like it,” Cruk said. “He’ll probably have a fit. You know why we can’t give him his own command.”

Rale brushed away Cruk’s argument with a wave. “Can we afford not to? We have few enough men who can think through the advantages of the terrain. Will Captain Liam remain here at Escarion while men of lesser talent command our forces?”

Cruk sighed. “No. It’s one argument Martin will lose with him.”

The import of their discussion became apparent. “Me? You want me to command?”

“Yes,” Rale said. “Welcome to the watch, Earl Stone, I should say Captain Stone. It’s more than honorary now.”

Errol shook his head. “I’ve never commanded anyone in battle. I don’t know the first thing about giving orders.”

Cruk grunted. “Nonsense, lad. You placed your men and your fallback better than most anyone else. The part of command you’re worried about is simple. Give an order, and if it’s not followed, thump the idiot with your staff until he sees the error of his ways.”


Captain Reynald looked at Rale, shaking his head. “Arwitten will flay the skin off us for this.”

Rale shrugged and looked at Merodach. “I’m more than happy to put the question of Errol’s command to the conclave.”

After a moment in which he’d forgotten to breathe, Errol faced the white-haired captain. “You’ve already cast the question. How did you even think to ask that?”

Merodach nodded to Reynald. “When he suggested you for command, I offered to fashion the lots.” He shrugged. “No other argument would persuade Martin to let you go, I think.”

“Maybe not even that one.”

Errol nodded, dumbfounded. “When? Where?” He shook his head. “Who?”

Rale made gestures with his hands that Errol supposed were meant to calm him before he pointed to the map again. “We’re filling the gaps from the south up. We still have shadowlanders trickling in through the mountains in north Gascony, but we should be safe from Morgol attack for weeks yet.”

He straightened and placed his big hand on Errol’s shoulder. “As for who, your troops will be comprised of watchmen and irregulars.” A hint of a smile curled his lips beneath his strong, broad nose. “And there are some pretty tough-looking irregulars who have been asking after you.”

Cruk nodded. “The Soede leading them is the fattest swordsman I’ve ever seen, but he knocked a sergeant of the watch unconscious for making light of him.”

Laughter, surprised and clean, gushed from Errol before he realized it. “I’ll take them, all of them. They’re not particularly disciplined, but they all know how to swing a sword.”

Rale sighed. “Now to speak with the archbenefice.”

Reynald tucked his hands into his sword belt. “Would you rather I did it?”

Errol’s mentor shook his head. “No. Martin will discover sooner or later this was my idea.”

Cruk laughed, raucous, loud. “Elar, you seem to have a gift for annoying the head of the church.”

Rale gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I can’t deny it.”



“No!” Martin thundered. “I forbid it!” His gaze landed on Errol and Captain Rale like a whip. Errol winced as if leather had found his skin. “Are you daft? Are you insane?” Martin’s voice rose with each question until his bellow filled the hall.

Rale winced but otherwise kept his composure. Errol saw the archbenefice ball his hands into fists. Bertrand Canon might have balked at physical violence; Martin Arwitten would not. Illustra’s archbenefice took a deep breath, as if preparing for a renewed attack. “What makes you think—”

“We cast for it,” Rale said.

Martin gurgled, his tirade cut off in midthreat. “Who authorized you to approach the conclave on this matter?”

Errol wasn’t sure he liked Martin’s soft-spoken tone any better than his screaming.

“Did you cast this?” Martin asked him.

“No, Archbenefice,” Errol said, bowing his head.

Martin snorted. “Now he shows respect.” He leveled that gaze back at Rale. “You do not have access to the conclave, Captain. No one does at this point except me, and I never authorized such a cast. So either you are lying, or you’ve managed to convince a reader to do this without my authorization. Either way, I am very displeased.”

Rale nodded. “I understand, Archbenefice, but neither of those happened. Captain Merodach performed the cast.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. “Ah. I see.” He turned to the chair where Luis Montari sat in silence. “Secondus, please confirm the cast.”

Luis pulled a pair of blanks and his knife from his pocket. “What was the question?”

Martin’s eyes lit with the possibility of hope. “Yes, Captain Rale, what was the question?”

“Whether Errol should take command of one of the gaps to protect the Arryth. Then we cast to see when.” He shrugged. The motion brought a flash of annoyance to Martin’s face. “Captain Merodach was quite thorough, Archbenefice.”

A muscle in Martin’s cheek jumped. “Yes. I’m sure he was.”

A knock at the door interrupted Luis’s twelfth draw. Nine times the lots indicated Errol should take command. Martin pointed to Rale, gestured for him to open the door. A low-voiced conversation took place between the captain and an animated guard.

Rale nodded and closed the door. “A messenger just arrived from Princess Adora,” he said, facing Martin. “She will be at Escarion before nightfall.”

Errol’s chest struggled to contain the pounding of his heart. He wanted to shout in celebration and cry in relief. The conflicting emotions conspired to root him to the spot, staring in dumbfounded wonder at Rale.

But the captain’s gaze found his, then darted away to Martin. “Pater Antil, the former priest of Callowford, accompanies her. She requests an immediate audience with the archbenefice and Earl Stone.”

Errol’s gaze locked with Martin’s, but he could find no evidence of subterfuge there. Surprise wreathed the man’s face, then embers of rekindled anger, coals that threatened to roar back to flame.



“You do not have to do this,” Martin said to Errol again. “It is not required.”

Errol turned that over in his mind, nodding at the sound of truth within it, but just because something sounded true, didn’t make it so. “Did you have Luis cast the question, or did Aurae tell you I shouldn’t meet with . . . with . . . him?” He couldn’t bring himself to call Antil his father. As if he shrugged off a mental weight, he rejected Antil’s claim on him. The priest was not, had never been, his father.

“Neither,” Martin answered, “but I can inquire if you wish. If there is any mercy in Deas, he would not require it of you.”

That drew Errol up short. Mercy? He’d never thought of Deas in that way. After having been driven like an ox before the goad for over a year now, that would be the last quality he’d ascribe to Deas.

“Is Deas really merciful, Pater?” Errol asked.

Martin stiffened, whether at the question or the lesser title, Errol couldn’t tell, but a moment later, he nodded. “I believe He is.”

“He doesn’t seem so to me.”

“Do you believe Him cruel, then?” Martin asked.

Errol shook his head. “I used to think so, but now it seems everything just comes down to what’s necessary. Rodran died without an heir. So it becomes necessary to find a new sacrifice to renew the barrier.” He avoided saying the sacrifice would be himself. The argument would be pointless.

“If it’s successful, other people will see it as merciful,” Martin said.

“I guess so,” Errol said. That truth failed to touch or warm him in any way. He pointed to the broad doors of the archbenefice’s offices. “We’re here.”

“I speak for the church now, Errol. There is no compulsion, literal or figurative, that requires this of you.”

Martin’s eyes were tear-filled.

Errol nodded. For a moment, he considered turning back, but for too long he’d sought a family, seeking origins, hoping to understand himself. Despite it all, he remained hopeful that something good would come of this. He opened the door, followed Martin into spacious chambers, and stopped. Interim quarters for the archbenefice they might be, but they impressed nonetheless. A gilded chair filled a dais surrounded by rich red tapestries, and to one side an altar offered the archbenefice a luxurious backdrop to celebrate the sacrament. A setting more unlike Martin’s cabin in the Sprata would have been hard to imagine.


An attendant helped Martin into his robes and slipped his symbol of office over his head. The transformation from hermit to archbenefice was accomplished, and Errol bowed as Martin Arwitten took his seat.

The attendant stepped forward. “Archbenefice, Her Highness and Pater Antil await your pleasure.”

Martin looked at Errol before he answered. “Admit the princess. Inform Pater Antil that we ask him to abide yet awhile.”

Adora entered. Errol’s vision blurred, and then she filled his arms and he held tight, fighting to keep himself from crying aloud with relief. He tasted salt from their tears as her lips found his.

“You don’t have to meet with him, Errol.”

He kissed her cheek and brushed away the rest of her tears. “I want to know who I am.”

Her fists knotted in her shirt. “I know who you are.” She shook him a little. “And by now, you should know as well.”

“She is right,” Martin said.

Errol nodded, but said nothing. His desire to see Antil went deeper than logic or reason could define. He would because he must.

“He hates you,” Adora said.

In spite of himself, Errol laughed. “I think I knew that.”

Adora shook her head. “He changed his story from what he told to Martin—and . . . I believe him. He was going to leave the priesthood. The woman he loved, who died giving birth to you, was his wife.”

Errol nodded. “Ah.” It didn’t really matter, but it was good to know. He turned to the archbenefice. “I think I’m ready now.”

Martin signaled his attendant. “Escort Pater Antil into my presence.”

Antil, dressed in the clean black robes of a priest, walked the strip of crimson carpet to approach the dais where Martin awaited. At the first step, he knelt on both knees. “As you have commanded, Archbenefice, so have I come. How may I serve?”

“Arise, Pater,” Martin said. “My loyal servant and the kingdom’s hero, Earl Errol Stone, has questions he wishes to put to you. I command you to answer him honestly and without reservation.”

Antil’s jaws clenched, but his head jerked in affirmation.

Errol considered his tormentor. Antil stood below him, yet even were they side by side, the priest would still have been shorter than he, but there were similarities between them he could not deny. A memory of dimples showed in Antil’s cheeks, however long it had been since he’d used them, and the nose might have been the same had the priest not broken his more than once.

But there the similarities ended. Antil’s expression was twisted, as if the circumstances that had taken his life from its desired path had bred a deep and abiding resentment that could not be overcome. What might have the priest been if his wife hadn’t died? What might Errol himself have been?

Antil fidgeted, but Errol ignored his agitation, intrigued by the question. What would he, Errol Stone, have been? Loved? Probably. If a woman had loved Antil, there must have been something in him she found worthy. Errol might have grown up with a family, his real family, with all the warmth and security that went with it.

And what then? At fourteen, he would have been tested, discovered as an omne, and sent to Erinon to die at Sarin Valon’s hand. Errol snorted, then laughed at the affronted expression that twisted Antil’s face a little more.

The laughter in the presence of his enemy cleansed him. He would not waste his time or emotions hating Antil. He could not excuse the vicious little priest’s behavior, but Antil’s deeds no longer held him captive.

Did he want anything from him? The answer came to him.

“Do you have any living family?”

The priest’s eyes widened at the unexpected question before he jerked a nod, but he didn’t speak.

Martin’s voice curtailed Errol’s next question. “You are in the presence of one of the greatest heroes in the kingdom’s history, Pater Antil.” His voice hardened into steel. “I pray you remember that you are a representative of the church. This is Earl Stone, omne of the conclave, captain of the watch, and betrothed of her Highness, Princess Adora. Come, loosen your tongue . . . if you wish to keep it.”

Antil bowed his head at the archbenefice’s command, but his answer was sharp. “My father is dead, but I am told my mother still lives, along with a brother and a sister.” He shrugged. “They both have children. I don’t know how many.” He bit his words as if they offended him.

“And where are they?” Errol asked.

Antil glared at his superior. “You speak of respect and yet you allow him to address me without my title?”

Martin’s laugh, filled with derision, bounced off the walls, the echoes mocking Antil’s protest. “Under the circumstances, Pater Antil, you are fortunate he doesn’t take that stick of his and offer you the recompense you so richly deserve. I will not abide stalling. Answer the question.”

“Here, in Gascony.”

Errol lost track of his heartbeat for a moment. It returned with the roaring sound of blood surging through his veins. “Names. I want their names.”

Antil glared at him as if he’d already guessed his intent.

“Answer please, Pater Antil,” Martin said. “If you force me to send functionaries to dig the information out of the church archives, I shall become bilious.”

The priest refused to meet Errol’s gaze. “The family name is Ariel.” He made a gesture as if he were throwing something away. “Simple craftsmen close to the border with Talia.”

Errol turned, gave Martin a formal bow. “Archbenefice, I would ask your indulgence.”

Martin nodded. “Done.” His eyes betrayed a sudden unease and something else Errol couldn’t identify.

“If I should survive this war, I want to meet my family, but I want him forbidden to acknowledge me.”

He faced Antil. “I’m sorry she died. I could say that it might have been Deas’s way to spare me from the murderous plans of Sarin Valon, but I believe Deas will still demand my life. If it’s my death you’ve wished, then I would say you are still likely to get it.”

“There, Pater Antil,” Martin said. “Though you have not asked it, you have mercy. Had Earl Stone demanded your life, I would have searched church law and tradition for a way to grant his request.”

“May I withdraw now . . . Archbenefice?” Antil asked.

Martin smiled, but the expression held no warmth or humor. “You may, but stay close. There remains the matter of your penance.”