A Draw of Kings

44

THE WEDDING AND THE FEAST





ADORA MOVED THROUGH THE CASTLE, drifting on the tide of humanity that had come to witness the wedding of their king. It seemed as though Erinon had recovered its populace overnight. The streets close to the royal compound were filled with bustling merchants and churchmen, but she knew better. Much of the outlying city waited for shopkeepers or tradesmen or guards who would never return.

And the provinces were no different.

Adora slipped from room to room, avoiding contact when she could, acknowledging the endless offers of commiseration when circumstance required.

A touch on her arm surprised her, and she turned to find light-blue eyes—no longer stoic—regarding her. On his right, one arm looped through his, stood Rokha. Merodach’s left hand gripped a cane. The harsh clench of the fingers holding it testified to its necessity.

He bowed to her, held it longer than her position or bereavement required. “Your Highness, how may I serve you?”

His regard threatened her resolve. With a sharp intake of breath she steeled herself. “You are too kind, Captain.” She reached out to finger the rich blue of his robe. “Or should I say, Tremus?”

Rokha didn’t laugh, but her face glowed and the look she gave her husband held all the fierce pride Adora remembered. “Luis claimed him for the conclave, despite his marital status. He is a man of many talents.” Now the laughter came, and the former watchman’s face heated, making him appear boyish.

Adora nodded, her heart filled with longing at the acute emptiness of her arms. “New things come. Would you accompany me to the throne room?” she asked. “I’m hoping your presence will keep others from offering condolences.”

“Is it bad?” Rokha asked.

She nodded once, pausing to consider her words in case they were overheard. “Yes, but I think time and distance may help somewhat. Avenia is remote. Few there have ever been to Erinon, and fewer know what I look like. With care, I can move about at need, unknown and unremarked.”


Merodach’s slow pace served to provide a measure of privacy as they traversed the royal palace to Liam’s throne room. The three of them slipped in through a side entrance and took their place at the front as befitted the last princess and the tremus of the conclave.

Moments passed as the hall filled, nobles, churchmen, and functionaries jockeying for seats on either side of the promenade beneath banners of purple, red, or royal blue.

The immense chamber hushed, and a fanfare announced Liam’s presence. He approached the dais from the right, resplendent in white, Magnus’s crown catching the wealth of his hair.

“He looks as perfect and untouchable as ever,” Rokha said.

Adora couldn’t deny it, but her mind drifted home, aching for something less divine, and a stab of longing threatened her.

Rale, Waterson, and Reynald came to stand by him, austere in the black of the watch, standing as his seconds if anyone dared challenge. The trumpets voiced a different call, and Martin approached down the center aisle, the crimson train of his archbenefice’s cloak trailing behind like a victory banner. Luis followed in the cerulean robes of the primus, only slightly less grand.

They took their place on top of the dais, above Liam and the captains, and the hall quieted as everyone held their collective breath.

“The conclave chose his wife,” Rokha said. “Martin ordered the cast in stone, but I’ve heard rumors that it only confirmed the girl he said Aurae had already named for our king.”

Merodach nodded. “It’s true. Some in the conclave think the archbenefice is a sorcerer.” One side of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. “The knowledge of Aurae will take some getting used to.”

Adora digested this last remark, but it did not lessen her discomfort. She wanted nothing more than to escape the gaze of people who looked upon her as the embodiment of Illustra’s loss. “Who did they choose?”

Rokha smiled and pointed. “Here she comes now.”

The trumpets blew a slow march, and a woman of an age with Adora appeared, tall and raven-haired, draped in shimmering folds of blue silk. Her breath exploded from her, and she clamped her teeth against the noise. “Liselle?” she asked. “She’s going to be queen?”

Rokha nodded, her raven hair bouncing with mirth. “You should have seen it, Your Highness. Every time she came into Liam’s presence, she looked at him with a gaze that could have set rocks afire, and he stuttered and stumbled over his words like a schoolboy.” Her laugh made it plain she supported Liselle’s approach. “I think she’ll be good for him. Every man should know a little doubt and uncertainty.”

Something in Adora’s mind clicked, and she turned to search Merodach’s face. “Was the cast true?” she asked. At Merodach’s nod, she forgot herself enough to smile. “Of course.”

“What?” Rokha asked.

Adora bent close as the bride approached the altar and her betrothed. “Liselle is the great-granddaughter of Lorelle.” She shook her head, amazed still. “The conclave chose Lorelle to marry my grandfather, King Rodrick, but he refused. The church said Rodran’s sterility was Deas’s judgment for Rodrick’s pride.” A tear found its way down her cheek and she smiled. “I suppose Deas does give second chances.” She paused. “Sometimes.”

Merodach and Rokha nodded.

Adora left the Green Isle soon after the ceremony. She tried to ignore the way people she’d known her whole life relaxed at her departure, as if a burden had been removed.

Four weeks later she passed through the arched gate of the earldom far to the east. She was almost home.



The farmwoman stood in the doorway, bathed in the last light of a spring day. The chopping sounds of food being prepared by the couple behind her made a counterpoint to the movements of the man who floated across the hard-packed dirt of the yard between the cottage and the barn. She heard music as he moved, the wooden staff in his hands spinning as though he sought to weave a tapestry in the air.

“Don’t you ever get tired of watching him?” the sultry voice behind her asked.

She turned with reluctance to regard the dark-haired woman who’d spoken and nodded toward the silver-haired man who supported himself with a cane next to her. “Do you?”

The throaty laugh filled the cottage, and the man blushed, his blue eyes bold against the flush of his skin. The woman patted the swell of her belly. “No. Your priest, Pater Conger, came by to bless the child. I think I liked it.”

She moved to stand next to Adora in the doorway. “He’s a strange man. I can’t think of any other captain or noble who would willingly pose as their own servant.” She could feel the dark eyes of the woman on her as if there were questions she wanted to pose. “Lorre seems a bit obvious, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “People see what they expect to see. Errol Stone is dead and already a myth. Heroes are seven feet tall, aren’t they?”

The silver-haired man stumped over to join them, the rhythm of his good leg and the cane loud against the rough boards of the floor. “No,” he said, his voice quiet. “They are not.”

The sound of a carriage broke Adora’s contemplation, and she stared as she saw four men of various ages in plain clothing departing the conveyance, one rubbing his backside in obvious dissatisfaction.

“Beastly things,” he muttered, his lips twisting beneath the thick gray hair. “Given my experiences of the last few months, I think I prefer walking.” He sighed. “Ah well, it couldn’t be helped.” The four turned to the man in the yard but waited for him to approach.

Lorre put away his staff as the light dimmed to crimson, reflecting off the keep in the distance. He flexed his hands, working to extend the fingers, stretching to open them.

Martin Arwitten and Liam bowed as Lorre approached. Rale and Luis echoed their move a heartbeat later. Lorre waited for them to straighten and speak, questions plain on his face.

The archbenefice spoke first. “We’ve come to ask you to reconsider.”

Melting sensations ran the length of Adora’s body as she saw him smile in return. Despite his experiences, his face still carried a trace of the open boyishness he’d owned when they’d first met.

“Why?” Lorre asked.

Liam stepped forward, put a hand on his shoulder, the gesture friendly, not commanding. “Illustra . . . ” He paused to laugh. “The world owes you recompense, and I think it would cheer many in the kingdom to know you survived.”

Lorre shook his head. “I don’t want payment or recognition.” He paused to send a glance Adora’s way that brought a blush to her cheek. “What can you offer a man who has everything?” He shook his head. “I am Lorre. Errol Stone died along with Cruk and countless others who were the true heroes of the kingdom. Don’t worsen the grief of those who lost their beloved by telling them otherwise.”

Rale nodded as if the man before him had passed one final test. “You’ll teach the lads hereabout, I hope. You have much to offer.”

Luis smiled at Martin. “I told you he would feel this way.”

Liam and Martin sighed. “We suspected as much,” Liam said.

Luis stepped closer to him, the ghost of a smile pulling his mouth to one side. “May I ask you a question, Lorre?”

He nodded. “If I may ask you one in return.” His gaze took in all of them.


“What was the last question you cast before you left Escarion’s castle?”

Lorre’s mouth pulled to one side, but his eyes clouded. “I asked if it was possible to deceive the malus.”

Luis straightened in shock, a motion echoed by the other men.

Lorre nodded. “Adele and Radere had never been wrong. Not once. I knew I had to die, but Belaaz had no intention of killing me. So I led him to believe that Liam’s crowning would be his undoing.” He smiled. “Once he believed that, I was just another man to be killed.”

The men around him smiled. Then joy burst from them in gales.

“Well done, lad,” Martin said. “So very well done.”

Lorre shrugged, but his face glowed beneath their praise. “Why have you come?” he asked. “Avenia is a long journey from the Green Isle. You could have sent a nuntius.”

Martin came forward to gather him in a rough embrace. “Because we missed you, lad.”

The other three men stepped forward to place their hands on Martin’s and Lorre’s shoulders, enfolding the pair. When they parted, Lorre stepped toward the cabin, beckoning them in to dinner, and the group approached, their faces radiant.

At the doorway he took her in his arms as he always did, no matter who was present, kissing her without hesitancy or restraint.

Laughter filled the cabin.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





To say this last volume of THE STAFF AND THE SWORD was the most difficult of the three books is a huge understatement, and I would like to thank the people in my life who provided the margin required to bring it to fruition.

So many people have helped make this a work of which I could be proud. Chief among them are Deede Melder, Debbie Smotherman, and Sharon Smith, three fine math teachers at MLK High School who helped me through a year of working and writing under a deadline. I would also like to thank Mickala Murphy, who allowed me to use her name and likeness for one of the characters in my book.

Most recently, I have been aided by Emma Fischer and Joel Sinha, my teaching assistants at MLK, who have been more helpful than I can say and helped provide the time I needed to edit this final volume of the trilogy. I also want to thank Doug Dabbs, who loaned his incredible artistic ability for the first book cover.

Finally, thank you, dear reader. The desire to bring you a tale that you come to regard as a friend is my greatest hope and ambition.