A Draw of Kings

5

WHAT MUST NOT BE READ





ERROL’S STOMACH COMPLAINED of the lack of food, curiosity gnawing at him as well. Was depriving him a conscious act or an oversight? He hoped it to be the latter. Perhaps events had conspired to spiral out of Duke Weir’s control.

His cell offered nothing in the way of diversion, so he’d slept to pass the time of his imprisonment, but now a cascade of footsteps sounded in the hall, sharp and harsh with the heavy-heeled walk of military men. The darkness receded in half-seen flickers of torchlight as the footsteps approached the door. Someone thrust a flaming brand into the cell, and Errol threw up an arm.

“Come. Duke Weir requires your presence.”

Errol suppressed a snicker as half a dozen guards escorted him. What did they think one peasant without a weapon could do? Weir either believed in taking no chances or he lived in fear. Such knowledge of the duke might be important if he managed to escape. A man prone to overplanning might be surprised. A leader who lived in fear of betrayal might see enemies where none existed. Either could prove useful.

He followed the guards through levels of the church offices that sounded and smelled of occupants and out onto the imperial grounds toward the king’s palace. As they crossed the space, led by sickly yellow puddles of firelight, a gibbous moon drifted through clouds overhead. It felt late, but he couldn’t be sure of the time.

At the entrance to the king’s audience chamber, another half dozen guards stood around Martin and Luis. By the exit stood a benefice, robed in the rich red of his office, though such formality would not be required apart from the deliberations of the Judica. Errol recognized the twisted smile almost as quickly as the shock of red hair above it. Dane.

“I think your time in contemplation has improved your appearance, if not your odor,” Dane said. His eyes glittered with joyful malice as his gaze surveyed the three of them. “Let us hope isolation has brought about that change of heart that will allow you to reveal to Duke Weir the knowledge he requires.”

Martin cleared his throat and spat to one side. “You’re mad, Dane. Don’t you understand what Rodran’s passing means? Illustra needs a king, a true king.”

The benefice smirked, his lips pulling to one side beneath his broad nose. “You refer to that drivel about the barrier falling.” He made a show of looking around the guard chamber. “I don’t see any malus-possessed monsters here to slay us.” He turned to the soldier beside him. “Do you?”

The soldier stared ahead, unblinking. “No, Excellency.”

Dane simpered. “There. You see. The barrier was a myth. Just another of the outmoded beliefs the church ascribed to simply because it was old.”

His mouth turned up at the corners, and he wheeled, his soft red boots whispering against the floor. “Bring them.”

Soldiers surrounded them on every side. Errol squinted against the glare of unaccustomed light. When they passed through double doors large enough for eight men to walk abreast, the absence of the usual courtiers and functionaries in the king’s audience chamber struck him as another loss. Rodran had endeavored to keep as much of the kingdom’s business in the open as possible. But the only person of note in the chamber besides the duke himself was Benefice Weir, the duke’s brother, who stood to one side of the throne.

Errol started and corrected that observation. Partly obscured by shadows, stood a pair of readers. On a table in front of them, Errol could see blanks, knives, and rubbing cloths. He peered into the gloom but couldn’t discern whether the two were the same who had visited him in his cell.

Duke Weir meant to test them.

The guards led them forward before they formed ranks, the majority between the three of them and Weir. The duke looked at them as if the taste of spoiled meat lingered on his palate. Errol noted the duke’s flat-eyed glare but refused to respond. The division of the guards told him the answer to his earlier question—the duke trusted no one. Errol resolved to keep his silence at whatever cost.

“You have information I require,” the duke said without preamble. “Give it to me.”

Martin bowed, his manner deferential but nothing more. “If you would provide me the context of this information you seek, I would be happy to provide you with an answer . . . so long as it does not contravene the authority of the church.”

The duke slapped his palm against the ornately carved arm of the throne. “I think you know what information I seek, priest. Do not think the Judica will save you. Those who were loyal to that traitorous archbenefice have wisely fled.”

Martin nodded. “Then who governs the Judica, Your Grace? The question of the succession, once taken up, must be answered.”

The duke smiled with the look of a man about to kill a long-hated adversary. “Benefice Weir has assumed the chair.”

“Ah. The deliberations must have been done in haste, Your Grace. It usually takes weeks to select a new archbenefice.”

Dane moved forward to stand beside Benefice Weir. Errol shook his head in disbelief. Other than red hair, Dane’s resemblance to the duke and Benefice Weir was startling.

“I am through dissembling, priest,” Weir said. “I require the name of the man you thought to put on the throne.”

“I’m so very sorry, Your Grace.” Martin fixed his eyes on Dane. “I think you’ve been misinformed. Even before I was stripped of my orders, I was only one of many in the Judica. It is not within my power alone to put anyone on the throne.”

Weir fumed. Errol could hear him grinding his teeth from where he stood. The duke’s dilemma became clear: though Martin and Luis had broken church law to cast for the next rightful king, Weir could not broach the subject in that way. To do so would mean acknowledging a monarch other than himself.

Errol drew a slow breath. Martin played a very dangerous game. The duke, paranoid and fearful, would not tolerate being balked. He might have them killed from sheer frustration.

Duke Weir jerked forward, his face florid. “We have traced your movements for the past six years, priest.” He glanced at Luis. “And you took a reader with you. Give me the name.”

Martin folded his hands across his stomach. It was smaller than it used to be. “If you would speak plainly, I would be most happy to comply.”


Weir jerked out of his seat, shaking with rage. “Curse you! I want the result of your cast for king. Give me the name, or I will have it wrung from you.”

Martin smiled. “Out of your own mouth you acknowledge the existence of a rightful sovereign. Alas, Your Grace, I do not know who is supposed to be the next king.”

“You lie.”

Martin’s smile widened as he gestured toward Weir’s readers. “Do I?”

At the duke’s furious wave, the readers behind their table picked up their knives and began the process of casting. Duke Weir paced the floor, sword in hand, his face a storm about to break.

The readers each cast a dozen times. “He speaks the truth,” the first reader said. Weir’s gaze latched onto the second, who nodded.

The duke’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around. Weir gestured at Benefice Dane with his sword. “What is the meaning of this? How am I to rid myself of this rival if we cannot discover his identity?”

Dane smiled, looking confident. “All transpires to your benefit, Your Grace. If the cast was made but the answer was inconclusive, then no one can gainsay your own claim to the throne once the conclave announces it. And they will choose you, Your Grace, as the only logical choice.”

Dane paused to give the two readers a look that carried portents of death. “But perhaps the omne can shed some light upon this rival’s identity.”

Duke Weir’s sword blade appeared against Errol’s throat. “You are an omne. Yes?”

Errol nodded, careful to avoid contact with the edge.

“I require your services, omne.” Weir waved his free hand, and his brother came forward and placed two rough pine lots in Errol’s hands.

Two lots?

Errol looked to Martin and Luis for guidance. The two men held worried looks in their eyes, but nothing in their expression explained why two wooden lots carried such importance. Luis had cast for Illustra’s king in stone, and when the cast had brought up his name and Liam’s in equal numbers, he’d destroyed them, convinced the cast had failed. The sword slid a fraction along Errol’s skin. He hoped the duke possessed more skill with a blade than his late son. An inadvertent slip could be fatal.

“You will give me your utmost attention, boy,” Weir said, “and tell me what is written on these lots.”

“No.”

The duke pressed forward, a small motion. A trickle of warmth worked its way down to Errol’s collar. He held his breath.

“Read them.”

His answer was already framed on his lips, his neck tensed against the cut that would kill him, when he saw a glimmer of writing on one of the lots. He nodded. Weir removed the sword and stepped back.

With a negligent twist of his wrist, he held the lots against the light. How would Weir react? “This one says Yes, the other No.”

The duke snapped his fingers and the readers cast again. Errol pressed his hand against his neck. It came away with a smear of blood, half dried. Only a scratch, so far.

The older reader spoke first. “He speaks the truth.” The second nodded affirmation.

Weir screamed curses that echoed from the walls, and his eyes became vicious in the lamplight. “Princess Adora is housed two floors above us. Her safety depends on your cooperation, omne. I had planned to take her for my wife to replace the son you killed, but I can always give her to my men. I don’t think she’d like that.” Froth appeared at the corners of his mouth, and he stabbed the air toward Martin. “Tell me the name of the man they mean to put on the throne. Tell me what I want to know.”

Errol wet his lips. If he tried to lie, to tell Weir he didn’t know, the duke’s readers would strip his pretense away and leave him helpless. “I didn’t kill your son.”

The duke’s eyes widened at the diversion.

“He lies,” Dane said. “This is a mere distraction. The information we have from the minister of Merakh was quite specific.”

Weir glowered at Dane and his voice dropped to a murderous whisper. “My son is not a distraction. You will remember that.”

Benefice Weir looked on the verge of stepping between his brother and Benefice Dane.

Martin cleared his throat. “Your readers seem to have plenty of wood left.”

The duke glared at Martin’s interjection, but a moment later he threw a savage nod toward the readers, and the smell of pine drifted to Errol from their table. If the two men who served Weir decided to falsify their cast, there would be no way for Errol to disprove their tale.

But if the readers lied, their own lives were in jeopardy. Weir needed them to lie, but only once—when the cast for king would be made. Other than that one instance, the duke needed undoubted truthfulness from the conclave as much as any king.

Errol wiped his palms on his cloak as the readers drew. One of them, short, with the silver-blond hair of a Soede, jerked in surprise at the first draw, and his expression grew worried as he drew time and again. The other man, wrinkled with age spots dotting his hands, took his lower lip between his teeth.

“Well?” the duke demanded.

The readers eyed each other, hesitating. The Soede spoke first. “Any cast from wood has a possibility of error, Your Grace, but it appears that Earl Stone is telling the truth.”

Martin nodded affirmation. “I was there, Your Grace. One of the Merakhi guards killed your son for a perceived insult to the ilhotep.”

Dane moved to stand between Martin and the duke. “Your Grace, it hardly matters how your son died. To a man, these three are against you. The peasant boy stole the princess from your son. Had she not followed him to Merakh, your son would still be alive.”

The duke nodded. “Yes. They have much to answer for.”

For a moment, palpable relief flooded across Dane’s features.

The door to the audience chamber opened and a soldier in blue, a captain, hustled toward the duke. He stopped just short of the guards, who stood regarding him as if he might be a threat, and went to one knee.

Weir snapped when the man did not speak. “What?”

The captain, head bared, kept his eyes on the carpet. “Your Grace, the palace guards report the princess has been taken.”

Weir threw curses toward the officer, punctuating them with slashes of his sword. “Impossible. Bring me those witless dolts who allowed her escape.”

The captain licked his lips. “I cannot, Your Grace. They were found inside her apartments, dead.”

The duke’s gaze darted around the chamber as if he suspected the marble busts and statues of conspiring against him. “He’s penetrated the palace.”

Martin smiled, his eyes radiant with savage joy.

Weir snapped his fingers at his readers. “Find the pretender.”

His brother stepped forward, one hand reaching as if to offer comfort, but his hand shook and the gesture appeared fearful. “Might it not be best to enlist the conclave in this?”

The duke’s head jerked in denial. “No. Not until I am assured there are no traitors remaining. One false reader could cost us days.” He turned to the two men with their blanks spread before them. “You will work until he is found. Success brings reward. Failure . . .” He didn’t bother to finish.

“What of these, Your Grace?” Dane asked, pointing toward Errol, his eyes hungry. “Would it not be best to dispose of them now that your victory is at hand?”

Again Weir shook his head. “Your zeal becomes you, Benefice Dane, but men are a resource, like oxen or horses. In time we may do without the priest and the reader, but the peasant has services to render to us.” He gave a careless wave. “Put them beneath the watch.”


His gaze lashed at them all. “Men loyal to me will be posted outside your door. If I fall, you will die.”



Adora made her way to the poor quarter and Healer Norv’s shop. The streets held fewer people than she remembered, and more guards. Many of them wore blue, and when those who didn’t crossed paths with those who did, they gave way. She followed their lead, keeping her head down and her hair tucked into the dingy cloak she wore. Taverns and shops threw yellow puddles of light into the street, beckoning with promises of warmth and laughter she spurned. When strangers approached, she put her hand on the pommel of her sword. Better if everyone assumed her to be a man.

When she arrived at her destination, a low-slung building with a healer’s sign of the sheaf and pestle over the entrance, she nearly sobbed with relief. The thick door rattled in its frame with each strike from her clenched fist. Norv lived above his shop; the healer never turned anyone away.

Steps sounded from within, but instead of welcoming her, the door creaked open less than a handsbreadth before it stopped. Norv’s disheveled face filled the crack.

“What’s your business? I don’t see people after dusk.”

Adora rushed forward to put her face in the dim light of Norv’s lamp. “Healer, it’s me.”

His eyes squinted beneath grizzled brows that were whiter than she remembered. “I require a name, lad. State your illness and go away until tomorrow. I’m old.”

She reached back to free her hair from the confines of her clothing. “I’m not a lad. It’s me—Dorrie.”

With an oath, the healer thrust open the door and yanked her inside. Swearing under his breath, he slammed it shut again and barred it. “Are you daft, Highness, running the poor quarter after dark with the duke’s men busting the skull of anyone who looks at ’em crossways?”

Adora reeled, put out a hand against a nearby table to steady herself. “How long have you known who I am?”

Norv gave an exasperated sigh. “Do you think you can be a healer if you’ve got mush for brains, lass? I suspected the second time you came. I had Denny follow you to make certain.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You never said anything.”

“Ha, and lose my best assistant? After you started working here, Rodran started to take notice of things in the poor quarter.” He dipped his head, eyes closed. “I don’t think Duke Weir likes them that live here. The place is worse than it ever was. I don’t much care for our next king.”

“He’s not going to be king.”

The healer grew still. “I’m supposed to turn you in to the guard for saying such a thing, Princess. The duke issued the edict himself just after your uncle died.”

Adora stepped back in case she needed room. What had happened to him? “If you’re too scared to stand up to the duke, then say so and I’ll leave. There must be a man on this island somewhere.”

Norv’s face softened until she recognized him once more. He turned to address the shadows at the back of the room. “Is that enough for you? It’s the princess, for Deas’s sake.”

Out of the blackness that shrouded the rear of Norv’s shop stepped a god. Thick blond hair cascaded to shoulders broad enough to grace a blacksmith, yet he moved with the grace of one born to the saddle. When he smiled in greeting, his blue eyes caught and amplified the light of Norv’s lamp until they twinkled. Then he knelt.

Liam.

But he had changed. He rose from the floor like a lion rising from rest. The innocence of the village youth had been quenched and tempered into something more, the open look once in his face gone, replaced by a gaze that bored into her, weighing, measuring. She caught herself on the verge of bowing, as if in recognition of his nobility. Instead, she bent from the waist, deeper than his station required, but no less than her heart demanded. “Captain Liam.”

“Your Highness, if you’ll accompany me, I’ll take you to a place of greater safety.” He shrugged as if in apology. “I would have said ‘someplace safe,’ but Weir’s men have begun searching the poor quarter of late, so there is no place safe, and we dare not risk attack until reinforcements come from the mainland garrisons.”

Liam clasped hands with Norv, then led Adora through the back of the shop. The alley stank of rotting food and other smells she didn’t want to think about. Unexpected turns down narrow ways and back onto broad streets in decline brought them to the rear of a large inn. Raucous laughter told her the sort of establishment they’d entered. They passed through a dirty kitchen staffed by heavy men in greasy aprons to a common room lit by dirty lamplight.

Men with hard faces and harder eyes watched them pass between rough trestle tables blackened with age. Liam nodded absently to them as he passed, oblivious to the threat of violence in the way they leaned forward in their chairs or in the way they kept their hands close to weapons.

The muscles in her back clenched. Where had he brought her? Duke Weir wanted to use her as a pawn to secure his grip on the throne. Did Liam intend to as well?

His boots thumped against the boards like a drummer’s call to war. He opened a door and motioned her inside.