A Draw of Kings

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SHE PULLED HIM CLOSE, unmindful of the archbenefice or his attendants, and kissed him, letting her lips linger against his. The sensation of melting into him overtook her, and she felt his heartbeat as if it were her own. When they parted, his breath stroked her neck and ear.

“Make me your wife.”

He smiled, equal parts eagerness and rue, and she realized he would refuse.

“Gladly, maitale.” He kissed her on the forehead as if she were his sister. “If I live.”

His tone said plainly he didn’t expect to. “Would you deny me? After I have waited for you?”

His smile and dimples faded. “I will never deny you anything, my heart, but I think Liam will eventually rule Illustra, and I will not take you for myself for a night or two and deprive another man of his gift.”

Her skin heated as though his denials had the ability to stoke her desire rather than cool it. “How do you know I will survive you?” She gestured to Martin, who tried and failed to keep the knowledge of their conversation from showing on his face. “The ceremony need not be lengthy. He can marry us now.”


Errol faltered, the deep blue of his eyes intent, his pupils dilating with a mix of emotions. She saw love and fear, but most of all she saw longing. With her hands tangled in his dark brown hair she pulled him close.

A pounding at the door startled them, and a moment later Captains Rale and Cruk came in, urgent and grim. No. Please, no.

He pulled away from her, not jerking as though ashamed, simply parting as if their need for him had been expected.

“Archbenefice,” Rale said, “our scouts have returned. The Merakhi are farther north than we realized.” He turned to Errol. “We need to march, or we’ll lose the southern gaps.”

Desperation flamed, prompting her plea. “Can he not wait a few days, Captain?”

Rale shook his head, but it was Cruk who spoke. “Not even a few hours, Your Highness. If we don’t beat the Merakhi to the gaps, we’ve lost.”

“Can’t you send someone else?”

“All the captains are marching,” Rale said.

“But night approaches,” Martin said. She wanted to kiss the bulky old priest in that moment for sparing her dignity.

“There’s enough moonlight to move by,” Cruk said. “A few miles tonight might make the difference.”

The archbenefice nodded. He had no choice, really.

The captains discussed specifics that fell on her ears like disregarded conversations in a crowded room. Then Errol simply bowed over her hand and kissed it, because of where they were and who she was, and left.

Except for her the room was empty. No. Martin remained, his attendant dismissed on some errand. Thick hands pulled her into an embrace that swallowed her. She stiffened, but the warmth of his arms eroded her resolve like a wave pulling sand from beneath her feet. Tremors worked themselves loose from her control until she could no longer keep them at bay. She clutched Martin’s stole of office, and he held her until the wracking sobs subsided.

“Have faith, child,” Martin said. “Deas hears.”

She wanted to accept the hope he offered, but she’d lost Errol too many times. Try as she might, she could not refute his acceptance of death, and the shadows of hope people offered against it lacked enough conviction to contravene Errol’s simple acknowledgment. The man she loved would die, required as a sacrifice by Illustra’s need. There was no hope.

She left.

Rokha found her wandering about Escarion’s palace, her emotions both numb and raw. Adora sought her gaze. “He’s gone.”

Brown eyes more used to laughter than sympathy acknowledged her. “I heard.”

Adora lifted her head. “Why are you still here? You’re a watchman.”

The well-muscled shoulders, strong without being mannish, lifted in response. “I prefer my battles small and personal. Trouble follows you, Your Highness, the way it follows that crazy boy you love.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Errol’s absence created an emptiness she hadn’t realized existed until she met him, and each time he left she became half a person. She hadn’t felt this hollow since discovering her uncle Rodran had died. Old grief mingled with new. She hadn’t even been given the chance to say good-bye.

She stopped. Oliver Turing’s contorted face appeared, telling her to find her father. What had he meant? Prince Jaclin had been a stranger to her. She’d been scarcely four when he died, but even then he’d been a distant memory, campaigning at the kingdom’s borders since her mother’s death at her birth.

Her back straightened, purpose giving her strength. “We need to find my father.”

Rokha’s brows rose. “Why?”

Adora turned to face her. “Turing took my uncle’s confession. I had no idea his chamberlain could function as a nuntius, but Sevra killed him before he could give me the full message. He was only able to tell me to find my father.” She shook her head at the rest of the memory. “I assume he meant the location of his grave.”

“Shouldn’t he be buried on the Green Isle?”

“I would think so. I didn’t really know him, so I never asked about his grave. It seems I would have gone to his funeral or visited his grave at least once . . . but I have no memory of it. I was only four. ” She smiled a sad smile at Rokha. “But I suppose the answer is just a few blocks of wood away.”

“The archbenefice has restricted the conclave to questions of the succession.”

“The new tremus is an old friend,” Adora said. “I’ve known Willem since I was old enough to toddle around the palace.”

They found him in his quarters in the lower halls of the castle. The dank air chilled her, but the sight of Willem, a lanky scarecrow in his blue reader’s robe, warmed her, and his oversized hands pulled her into his embrace.

He looked around before he spoke. “How are you, Snub Nose?”

She pushed away. “I haven’t been snub-nosed since I was twelve.”

Willem sighed and rubbed his own beaklike appendage. “I know. You were so much cuter then. Now you’re all willowy womanhood.”

He was impossible.

“I need a cast, Willem.”

The smile remained, but the eyes grew serious beneath the bushy eyebrows. “Every reader has been ordered to bend their efforts to finding the next king.” He sighed. “The church’s new archbenefice is disconcertingly direct. We are forbidden to do anything else.”

Adora nodded, trying to look confident. “I think this may help you do just that.” She outlined the circumstances of Oliver Turing’s message.

Willem’s long face pulled to one side. “That may be stretching it a bit, Your Highness. There’s nothing there that gives me the latitude to disobey the archbenefice’s directive. I’m sorry.”

Rokha laid a hand on his arm and gave him a dazzling smile. “But wouldn’t you say there is enough doubt to test Her Highness’s request?”

Willem’s face unknotted and he smiled. “Clever girl. It’s really too bad we don’t consider women for the conclave.” He gave Adora a wink. “I think she’s right—at least that’s what I’m going to say if the archbenefice presses me on it.”

“How long will it take?” Adora asked.

Willem shrugged. “That depends on how precise you want us to be, Your Highness. We’ll narrow it to a specific province first and then work in progressively smaller grids. We can send you to the exact building so long as we have the time as well as readers familiar with the area.”

“Erinon would be the most likely place to start,” Rokha said.

Adora shook her head, moved by intuition. “He’s not there. Oliver wouldn’t have needed to tell me to find him if he were.”

Tremus Willem shooed them from his presence. “This will take time, my ladies, and your startling beauty will only delay me. Come back in a few hours. Perhaps Deas and luck will be with us.”

She bowed, indicating her thanks, and left, Rokha at her side. They ascended the stairs until she came out on the uppermost parapet of Escarion’s castle to see the sun still floating above the horizon, a circle of dying fire. Far below her, figures milled about in preparation to leave. She looked from figure to figure, searching for a man of average height holding a gray metal staff. The wind, warm with the promise of spring, lifted her hair and fanned it out behind.

There was no sign of Errol.

“I’m standing here like some silly damsel from the tales,” she said at last, “waiting for a last glimpse of my betrothed before he goes off to battle.”


Rokha chuckled. “There is a lot of truth in those tales.”

Adora bit her lip. “And sometimes the hero dies.”

She hadn’t thought the whisper would reach Rokha’s ears, but Ru’s daughter nodded. “Yet sometimes he lives.”

She positioned herself against the early-evening light. He might not see her, but she would honor him even so. He deserved that much and more. After a few minutes, she turned to go in, but Rokha grabbed her arm and pointed.

Errol crossed the heavy-timbered drawbridge on his black horse, Midnight. Some instinct must have alerted him, because neither of them called, but he turned. Seeing her, he lifted a hand in a hesitant wave, then rode toward a mass of men waiting in the meadow.

She pulled a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. “It’s bad luck to watch someone disappear in the distance.” With decisiveness she didn’t feel, she made for the steps that led back down into the castle. “Willem will be waiting.”

They found him in his workshop, standing at an elevated table with a pair of readers facing him. He appeared displeased.

One of the readers, who looked very young, ducked his head. “I’m sorry, Tremus, but that’s all I know.”

“I understand, Sando, but it is a reader’s obligation to be a student of all things. Wood and stone, boy, you know less of your home than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Sando ducked his head again. “I haven’t been there since I was tested, Tremus.”

Willem closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders lowering a fraction. “Yes. Yes, you are right. Thank you. And there is none other in the conclave from that region?”

“No, Tremus.”

Willem dismissed the readers with a motion of one oversized hand. “You may return to your duties.”

He followed behind them and closed the door. “Once we had the province narrowed down to Basquon, it became increasingly difficult to find readers with intimate knowledge of the region.” He sighed, his eyebrows drooping a fraction. “I fear I was harsh with Sando. Expecting him to remember details from his boyhood is unreasonable.”

“I am half Basqu,” Rokha said. “Might my knowledge help?”

Willem brightened. “It might. Come.” He moved to a table that held a map of Illustra and pointed to an area where the Basquon and Gascony border met the Western Ocean. “How familiar are you with this area?”

Rokha’s dark hair followed the shake of her head. “Not at all, I’m afraid. My family is farther east, where the border runs into Talia.”

Confusion jumbled Adora’s thoughts into a heap. “Why would my father be buried there?” She stared at the spot on the map as if she could force it to surrender its secret by dint of will alone.

“How closely were you able to narrow the location?” Rokha asked Willem.

“Down to the village of Tacita. Sando knows of it, but that was as far as we could go. Even as a lad, he went there seldom. A few buildings and a couple of remote estates are all he could recall.” He lifted those expressive hands. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“On the contrary, Tremus. You’ve given me a chance to find my father’s resting place and perhaps discover the secret behind Oliver’s message.” She turned to Rokha. “Will you go with me?”

Rokha laughed a deep velvet sound. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“How long will it take us to get there?” Adora asked.

Ru’s daughter peered at the map. “That depends on how many people we take and how many horses you can commandeer.”



A hawk-nosed watchman met Errol at the end of the drawbridge and drew his horse alongside to lead him out to the meadow. “I’m Lieutenant Pick. Captain Elar sent me to introduce you to your command, Captain Stone. Your troops should be ready to ride within the hour. Each man will be given enough food for a week. That should give the supply wagons time to reach your position.”

“And which position is that, Lieutenant?”

“Cruor Gap, sir.”

They stopped in front of a group of mounted men. Errol’s first impression was that his command looked pitifully small, perhaps three thousand soldiers in all. He pointed to his troops. “How many men are we expected to face, Lieutenant?”

“Our scouts say ten thousand, sir.”

Errol tried to keep his face neutral. They would be outnumbered by more than three to one. “Spawn?”

Pick looked confused. “Sir?”

Errol allowed his frustration to show. “Ferrals, Lieutenant. What did the scouting report say of any spawn the Merakhi have with them?”

Pick wet lips that had gone white. “Th-there was no mention of them.”

Errol exhaled. “Please inform Captain Elar of our conversation and relay my suggestion he find scouts who can provide an accurate report. Now, tell me how my force is divided.”

The lieutenant ducked his head as if glad to move on to a different subject. “Equal parts pikemen, archers, and swordsmen, Captain Stone. I’m sorry to report many of the blades are irregulars.”

Errol arched his eyebrows. “Did you spar with any of them, Lieutenant?”

“No, Captain. I did not think it prudent to expend my effort on such.”

Errol laughed, and then saw how his laugh caught the lieutenant by surprise. “Some of those irregulars trained me, Pick, and I beat all five watchmen on my challenge.”

Pick simply nodded, so Errol continued, impatient to see him gone. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You may return to Captain Elar now.”

His troops were split into ranks by their weapons: pikes to the left, swords in the center, bowmen to the right, each man standing ready by his horse.

Errol smiled for the first time since leaving the castle. The swords in front were known to him. A lump formed in his throat as nine men came forward and went to one knee, led by a Soede big enough to make three, possibly four, of Errol.

Despite himself he laughed. “Get up, Sven. You all look ridiculous down there.”

Sven shook his head. “I wouldn’t do this for just any man, my lord, not even Naaman Ru, but I . . . we heard what you did. Our swords are yours for as long as you want them.” He cleared his throat, his extra chin moving with the effort. “That means we’re yours.”

Errol shook his head. The man’s regard settled on him like a weight, bestowing responsibilities he didn’t want. He searched for someone who might see him in a less exalted light, but the rest of them mirrored Sven’s regard. Even Onan, who doubted everything the church claimed, looked up at Errol as if his mere presence guaranteed their victory.

He drew breath to dispel the stupid notion their regard implied, to insist they rise, but Conger, the ex-priest, stood and hurried to his side, leaning in to whisper to him. “Have a care, my lord. Every man here with a spit’s worth of sense knows what we’re headed into, but they’ve chosen to hope in something they think will see them through to wives and children after the fighting. That something is you. Your next word will confirm or destroy that hope.”

Errol kept his face smooth, but he wanted to rail against Conger, to deny the truth the ex-priest spoke. He didn’t want to be anyone’s hope. The rest of his troops, all three thousand of them, copied the caravan guards’ gesture.

He wanted to groan. What was he supposed to say to men who would most likely die before a fortnight passed? In the end, the words refused to come. He simply slid his hands down the metal staff and thrust it into the air. Thousands of voices roared their approval.


“That was nicely done,” Conger said. “It reminds me of the time—I think it was three hundred years ago—Dorian, the one the Lugarian’s call ‘The Great,’ had to lead—”

Errol sighed. “Conger, do we have time for this?”

The former priest scuffed the ground as he scratched beneath his arm. “Ah, no, probably not.”

The troops still knelt, waiting. Errol looked at them with a weary sigh. “Please get up, Sven. You’re too heavy to have all that weight on one knee.”

The Soede gave a grateful nod, and Errol raised both hands to signal the rest of the men to rise as well, before he turned to Conger. “Does anyone know how to get to Cruor Gap?”

Vichay A’laras, who’d been tenth in Ru’s caravan, stepped forward. “We all know the way, my lord, but I was raised in the southeast part of Gascony. I am more familiar than most.”

“How quickly can you get us there?”

The setting sun, shining from behind Errol, lit A’laras’s face with ruddy light, as if he’d already been wounded. “Four days.”

A puff of air, sweeping in from the distant shore of the Western Ocean, lifted the hair on the back of Errol’s neck, and a sense of urgency tightened his gut. “Can we do it in three?”

A’laras nodded. “There is a path over the Guerre Spur that will save us time.” He shot a look toward Sven. “But we may lose some of the horses.”

Errol understood. The rocky climb and Sven’s weight would be too much for a normal horse. “Conger.”

“Yes, my lord?”

Errol squeezed his eyes shut. “Stop calling me that unless there are people around I need to impress. Commandeer a draft horse. If anyone complains, tell them to take it from one of my supply wagons. We’ll be on the road south. Catch up to us.”

Conger nodded. “Yes, my, uh, Captain.” He mounted and rode off toward the quartermaster’s tent at a gallop.

Errol turned to Sven. “You’ll be my second for the swords. I want you and the seconds for the pikes and bowmen to ride up front with me. We’ll plan on the way.” He looked at the rest of the ten. “I need someone to relay orders. Which one of you has the best voice?”

Diar Muen, the redheaded native of Erinon who’d been Ru’s third, stepped forward. “I think I can do that job, Captain.”

Errol nodded. Muen’s clear tenor would do well. “Tell everyone to mount up. We ride by moonlight tonight and the night after.”



In the end only Lord Waterson accompanied Adora and Rokha to Tacita. Each rode a horse loaded with provisions for the journey. “We’ll be lucky to make it in two weeks,” Waterson said. He gave one of the horses a disgusted slap on the rump. He gave Adora an accusing look. “You could have gotten us better mounts.”

She nodded in acknowledgment of the simple truth. The stable master had even offered them to her. “And how would I justify taking them from men who need them in battle?”

Waterson shrugged. “By saying, ‘I’m the princess and I want a better horse.’”

Adora closed her eyes for a moment. “Were you always this cynical, my lord?”

He smirked at her. His time in exile had clearly robbed him of all respect for the crown. “It’s a recent development.”

For two days they rode through and around a press of refugees—men, women, and children with a thousand different shades of fear painted on their faces. Much of the traffic headed west toward the coast, but a fair portion went in the opposite direction as temperament and rumor dictated.

“Fools,” Waterson said. “No place is safe.”

Rokha nodded her agreement. “All they know is their fear and the need to flee, even if they don’t have a good idea of where or why. They’re like animals running from fire.”

Adora wanted to offer some argument to Waterson’s and Rokha’s judgment of the refugees, but too many times she saw terror on those faces, robbing them of reason.

On the third day they turned from the main road that led to the great cities opposite Erinon and headed southwest toward Tacita. The endless knots of refugees thinned to nothing within a few miles.

“Perhaps they’re smarter than I thought,” Waterson mused. “If we fail to hold the strait, Tacita will be overrun in a day.” He pursed his lips. “And I’m headed straight for it. Perhaps I’m more stupid than I thought.” He shook his head. “No. I knew I was an idiot for agreeing to come with you.”

“You didn’t agree,” Rokha said. “You volunteered.”

Waterson waved a hand in the air. “Semantics. A gentleman is honor-bound to offer his protection to his liege and a lady.”

Rokha looked toward the sky and snorted. “You said pitched battle was an exercise in tedium and terror. You came because you wanted to.”

He looked offended. “Please, Countess Rokha. It sounds better my way.”

“I’m not a countess.”

Waterson laughed. “Do you think Her Royal Highness will allow you to remain untitled after all your service to the crown?”

“Over my dead body.”

“It may come to that.”

Their banter grated on Adora’s nerves. The mention of battle conjured images of the nightmares Errol must fight. “I am pleased you have joined us, Lord Waterson. An extra pair of eyes and another sword are most welcome.”

Waterson bowed low over his saddle. “I’m grateful that you find my talents useful, Your Highness. I was just about to mention that I think we’re being followed.” He sent Rokha a smirk, clearly pleased to have been the first to mention it.

Adora searched behind her. The terrain, a series of low rolling hills that flattened as they approached the coast, prevented seeing for any great distance. “Are you sure?”

“Follow me and watch.” He kicked his horse into a canter, but as they approached a stand of trees split by the road, he detoured around and returned to the rutted track farther on. He kept to his pace until they placed another low rise between them and the copse of cedars.

“Look at the sky.”

They waited. A few minutes later a flock of gray-beaked rooks took to the air, their plumage dark against the blue. Waterson nodded, his face lacking all traces of the amusement it had worn moments before. “I hate being right. Your Highness, I would suggest you and Lady Rokha ride quickly ahead, but not too quickly. I’m curious to see who might have an interest in us. If they’re trying to catch up to you, they won’t be looking for me.”

Adora nodded. “How will you find us?”

Waterson blinked. “Find an inn at the next village. Get rooms under the name of Tanner.” He slapped his horse with the reins and rode south away from the road.