She gave the briefest incline of her head. “What might that be . . . Your Grace?”
A smirk creased his face, and his gaze became avid. “Rumor has it that your uncle made use of a nuntius just before he died.” He shrugged, no doubt in an attempt to appear casual, but his shoulders jerked as if he wrestled. “Yet there is no record of a nuntius sent to him in the logs of their office. Doubtless you would wish to hear your uncle’s dying words and there may be some knowledge he would wish passed on to me, his successor. Who was his messenger?”
She did not need to feign surprise. News of a nuntius taking her uncle’s dying words stunned her, and the room wavered in and out of focus. She shook her head, both to clear her vision and to respond. “My uncle did not trust the nuntia. He seldom used them. He would certainly not give his dying words to one of the crows.”
Weir’s mouth tightened. After a moment he forced it to relax. “Perhaps you will recall the name of the king’s nuntius later, after encouragement.” He waved his hand at last in dismissal. “We’ll talk anon, Princess. I have a kingdom to run and a coronation to prepare. Oh, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning my daughter, the lady Sevra, to be your chief lady-in-waiting. I’m sure you remember her. She’ll be your constant companion.”
Adora walked between the guards to her quarters, her feet finding the way without direction. She could hardly forget Lady Sevra. In the duke’s daughter all the haughtiness and arrogance of Weir and his son had been distilled to purity without the slightest hint of compassion or mercy.
They entered the portion of the palace containing the royal family’s personal quarters. Adora grieved the absence of any familiar faces among the staff who walked the halls. She sighed. Weir’s suspicious nature would allow for no less than a complete purge. She ascended a broad spiral staircase to the upper floors, then moved down a hallway wide enough to hold ten men abreast to the large double doors of her private quarters. One of the guards stepped forward and opened the door for her, the first sign of deference she’d seen, admitting her to her own waiting room.
Sevra stood waiting. The duke’s daughter, gangly and fierce, gazed at her with a pair of ladies she could not recall seeing around the palace before. Doubtless Weir had imported them from his provincial stronghold.
The duke’s daughter smiled, and for a moment Adora felt again the chill wind from the Beron Strait. With a flick of her wrist, Sevra signaled her ladies, who came forward. Too late, Adora noticed the riding crop in Sevra’s hand and surmised her intention. Hands strong enough to belong to milkmaids clamped her arms.
Adora allowed the scorn she felt to narrow her glance, used her anger to stifle the quiver that threatened to rob her voice of its strength. “Have a care, lady. My memory is long, and your father is not yet king.”
Sevra hesitated but then straightened, as if ashamed of her momentary weakness. “My brother is dead because you chose to consort with that peasant.” She ran the tip of her crop along Adora’s jawline, the leather smooth and cold to the touch. “You are nothing but a strumpet, a gutter woman, with your base desires that you misname love.” She smiled, and her voice dipped to a purr. “Father has given your discipline into my hands. I will train you as I would a reluctant brood mare.” She nodded to the women, who forced Adora around.
Sevra’s hand yanked Adora’s cloak from her shoulders, the fabric scraping across her neck. Then the duke’s daughter ripped her shirt, exposing her back.
Sevra’s mouth rested against Adora’s ear. “Such beautiful skin, strumpet. It’s a shame, really, that Father has forbidden me to mark you until you’ve given him an heir, but that won’t save you. You’re about to discover how much pain I can inflict without leaving a scar.”
The crop whistled before it fell across her back to lace her skin with fire. She jerked and for a moment managed to pull one arm free. She doubled her fist and punched the nearest lady in the nose before a blow like a hammer to her stomach doubled her over.
Sevra’s lash fell again, and Adora’s arm was caught once more. “Be still, little princess.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Learn to accept your penance with such royal reserve as you can muster, and perhaps I will shorten your punishment.”
Adora knew Sevra spoke the simple truth. Yet she realized with a clarity that squeezed her insides with fright that she must fight. There would be no going back if she surrendered. One act of concession would surely lead her to ever greater acts of submission until Sevra owned her. She did not have to win. Indeed, she could not. The two women who held her arms were each stronger than she, and even if she managed to break free, one cry of alarm would bring the guards stationed outside the door.
Adora lifted her leg and kicked the other lady in the stomach. Once again she was free. She jumped and twisted, taking the blow intended for her gut on the thigh. As she descended she head-butted the woman on the nose. Blood spurted across her face.
Before the first woman could catch her, Adora launched herself at Sevra. The duke’s daughter gaped as if the princess had turned into something unrecognizable, and she shrank away, eyes wide. Adora managed to land a blow between Sevra’s eyes that dropped the fiend to her knees.
Then the women were upon her, their weight bearing her to the floor, their fists pounding into her until the blows forced her to curl into a ball. The pointed toe of a lady’s boot joined in after a moment, and Adora covered her head and chest.
“Courtesan! Strumpet! How dare you strike your better!” Sevra punctuated her screams with kicks to her legs and arms. The door creaked and for a moment the blows stopped. “Get out of here! The affairs of the duke are not your business.”
Then the beating began again. A kick landed between her hands and the room went black.
Less than an hour after Errol entered the postulate’s cell, the door opened to admit Benefice Dane, his blue eyes glittering with malice, his grin splitting the face under the crop of red hair, showing full white teeth. “I see you are surprised to see me, boy.”
Dane gave Errol an indulgent smile. “There are pressing duties that require our attention.” He gave a theatrical shrug. “Alas, the business of the church compels us to ever greater efforts on her behalf.”
Errol didn’t rise, but despair bubbled behind the mask he made of his face. No trace of reason or pity marked the benefice’s demeanor. Only the fact Duke Weir hoped to use Errol in some way kept him alive.
Dane crooked a finger at the door, where two hooded figures waited. They entered, knives drawn.
“I find myself in your debt, Earl Stone,” Dane said. “Your return to Erinon has bolstered my argument before the duke that every remaining member of the Judica and the conclave should be tested for their loyalty.”
Errol forced himself to speak past his revulsion. “It is unlawful for the church to cast against its own.”
Dane’s smile grew. “It was unlawful, true, but it seems that Duke Weir’s ascension has provided those who remain in the Judica the motivation required to change the law.” He neared until Errol could smell the sour wine on his breath. “Once those remaining in the Judica and conclave have passed their test, we will turn our attention to hunting down the pretender.”
Pretender? Someone else had laid claim to the throne? “Who is it the duke fears so much?”
Dane shrugged away the question. “We have not yet discovered his identity, but when the purity of the conclave is established we will find him, along with those of the watch who think to support him, and root them out of their hiding places.”
Errol coughed to hide his surprise. Dane didn’t know the results of Luis’s cast. More, Liam must have survived Weir’s coup.
With a snap of his fingers, the benefice signaled the men in hoods, who disappeared into the hallway and then returned, each carrying a large crate of pine blanks. Errol sighed. Dane meant to cull the Judica and the conclave without delay, but it would take days to cast so many lots.
The benefice pulled several sheets of parchment from his
robes and showed the first one to the hooded men, who nodded and began carving, their hands moving with the fluid motions of those who’d exercised their art for years. Desperation welled in Errol. If Weir and Dane felt compelled to test everyone, there must be some remnant still loyal to Illustra, men willing to risk their lives to save the kingdom from Weir.
Errol could not allow the cast to proceed. That they used him at all meant that even these two readers were not completely trusted. Could he turn the duke’s distrust to his advantage? Possibly. If he refused to verify the cast, Dane would be less than sure of the results and only a fool killed his allies.
He looked up to see the benefice eying him with amusement. “We hold the princess. Failure to cooperate would prove . . . unpleasant.”
Inside he raged. Dane held his aid captive. Once the Judica and conclave were tested, the duke would force him to confirm the read for Liam’s location. There had to be something he could do. Adora would never forgive him if he sacrificed the kingdom to save her.
If he sacrificed her to save Illustra, he would never forgive himself.
If only Karele were there. The head of the solis had shown himself superior to the conclave. That thought brought Errol up short. It hadn’t been Karele. The former Morgol captive had said so himself. It had been Aurae working through him.
Which only made sense. The book of Magis said Aurae, the spirit of Deas, was knowable. And Errol believed it. Could someone besides the head of the solis call upon Aurae?
The readers had almost completed their lots. Errol floundered. How did one call upon Aurae? Karele had never explained.
In the vault of his mind, he blindly cried out to Deas, Eleison, and Aurae.
Nothing happened. Only a puff of wind swirled through the crack under the door, lifting a bit of sawdust from the floor. The readers continued to sand the first pair of lots they would use to test some reader’s loyalty, while Dane wore his triumph like a jackal over his kill.
The lots went into the drawing bags. Oh, Deas. He hoped Adora would forgive him. The men drew, tallied their results before passing the lots in turn to Errol. He turned them in the light of the lantern. “This one says Traitor.” He gave the lot back to the reader who cast it, then read the other one. “This one says Loyal.”
Dane’s brows, red like his hair, furrowed over his aristocratic nose, but the smile of triumph remained. The readers drew again. Errol looked at the writing. It seemed unfamiliar. His time in the conclave had been short, but he’d thought he’d seen an example of every reader’s script. These readers were unknown to him. “Loyal. Traitor.”
Dane shrugged, but his smile slipped.
The third draw swapped the results again. Traitor. Loyal. When the fourth draw changed the results once more, Dane confronted the readers.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The reader on the left spoke, his voice dusty, unfamiliar. “I don’t know, Benefice. But he tells the truth, we are reading the same.”
Errol stood. “You’re not from the conclave.”
Dane pointed at him. “Is he doing this?”
The reader shook his head. “An omne does not have the power to confound the draw.”
Errol couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe the duke’s readers lack the proper training to cast, Benefice Dane. Of course the use of unlawful readers would explain the duke’s vast wealth. Perhaps if he petitions the rightful king, he’ll be granted some measure of mercy.”
Dane confronted him with a snarl. “Are you doing this?”
Errol allowed all of his joy to show in his smile. “No.”
The benefice snapped his fingers at the two readers. Ten minutes later, their lots confirmed what Errol had spoken. Led by Dane, they left.
Errol’s heart exulted in his triumph—and somehow in the victory of Deas.
Hours passed. Martin kept his ear to the door while Luis, head bowed and eyes unseeing, turned and scraped without ceasing. Martin’s sense of time became confused. Finally, Luis’s hand on his shoulder startled him, though his eyes were still open.
“The first one is done.”
Creases lined Luis’s face, and sweat beaded on the dome of his bald head despite the chill, and his eyes appeared even deeper set.
“Is it so difficult, then?” Martin asked.
He nodded. “The concentration required is no more than for an ordinary cast but must be held without interruption. I can assure you, stone-ground lots will never come into favor in the conclave. My shoulders ache.”
Martin sighed. They were so close, but the effort would be wasted if fatigue ruined the cast. “Rest, my friend. We appear to have all the time you will need.”
Luis nodded and slumped down the wall to sit with his head on his arms. Soft snores echoed in the cell moments later. Martin slid down next to him and pulled Luis toward him so his friend would not fall in his slumber.
The sound of footsteps woke him, and he jerked. Luis came awake, rubbing his shoulders and wincing. A sneeze and a clank of metal just outside their cell brought him to his feet, his hands groping the air. In the gloom a tin plate came through, filled with water. There was no food.
Martin pushed his face against the small barred window. “Guard, what time is it?”
Rough laughter answered him. “Morning or evening,” the guard said. “What does time matter to you?”
“I wish to know whether to offer the prayers for lauds or vespers.”
“Ha. You and all those other churchmen caught in your own web. Do you think your prayers will make it to Deas from here?”
“Deas is everywhere,” Martin said without anger. “If you tell me the time of day, I will pray for you.”
Silence greeted his request for a moment.
“It is evening. Say your vespers.”
The footsteps moved away.
He turned his attention to the water. It held the same musty smell as the air in their prison, but other than that it seemed safe enough. He took a sip, then drank half.
“Here.”
Luis drained the tin, and when the guard’s footsteps receded from their hearing, Luis took the other blank and began grinding.
Hours slipped by, measured by the increments in which Luis ground a cube into a sphere. When, wan and lined by the effort, he held it up to the light, Martin rejoiced. “Circumstances have taught me to doubt everything now, my friend. Draw and let Deas’s truth be known.”
Luis dropped the lots into his oversized cloak pocket with a soft clack, shook the garment, and drew. He rotated the wood against the faint light, squinting with the effort. Then he nodded. Eleven more times he drew before his smile blazed like a torch in their cell.
“He lives.”
For a brief instant, Martin’s heart leapt. Illustra could still be saved if they could somehow free Errol. If they could determine whether he or Liam should be king. His joy faded as he tallied up all the ifs.
Boots thundered in the hallway, coming for them. “Quickly, hide the lots.”
The door flew open and guards entered, steel drawn. Lantern light filled their cell, and Martin shielded his eyes against the glare, but not before he saw a hole in the back wall and furtive movement beyond it. They’d been heard.
“Search them.”
Martin knew that voice. He’d spent decades despising the self-indulgence of its owner. He lowered his hands and squinted against the light. “Benefice Weir.”
Duke Weir’s brother didn’t bother to reply. Two guards ran hands up and down his clothing, searching. Another pair copied their movements with Luis. When they got to his cloak, one of the guards thrust his hand in and pulled out the lots. The smile Benefice Weir bestowed on Luis reduced his eyes to slits. “Thank you, reader. Your information is timely.”
Martin kept his face neutral as he faced the benefice. “And what information would that be?” He didn’t trouble himself to add Weir’s title.
The benefice’s eye twitched. “Lowborn priests are tiresome, always forgetting y
our manners. I refer to the identity of the pretender who thinks to challenge my brother for the throne.”
Martin laughed while his mind raced across his conversation with Luis. Had they mentioned names? “Interesting supposition. I don’t seem to recall knowing any pretenders—outside of the obvious one, of course.”
Weir laughed in return. “You were always so impressed with your own cleverness, Arwitten.” He turned to the guards. “Fetch him. Let the former benefice hear his words.”
The guards left and returned a moment later with a man between them, thin, with a receding hairline and a hooked nose, his cloak emblazoned with the red-stitched scroll of a church messenger.
Martin’s insides clenched. A church messenger would be able to recite every word uttered within their hearing. Oh, Deas. Had they mentioned names?
Weir addressed him. “Nuntius, discharge all you’ve heard.”
Inside his chest, Martin’s heart hammered against the restraint of his ribs. If Weir discovered Liam’s identity, the boy would be hunted with all the resources at the duke’s disposal. Casts might be diverted by Aurae’s power, but if Liam remained in the city, enough money would buy his location.
The nuntius, his eyes devoid of thought, spoke in a low monotone, extended gaps revealing those times Martin and Luis had whispered or been out of earshot. His guts knotted as the messenger replayed the conversation about the cast. The nuntius imparted the last of the conversation and stilled. The knot in Martin’s chest slipped away, and he took a deep breath. Liam was safe. When the messenger’s eyes returned to awareness, Weir gaped. “Where’s the rest?”
The nuntius shook his head. “That is the conversation in its entirety, Your Excellency.”
Weir’s mouth worked as he tried to find words. “That can’t be all, blast you. The name, Nuntius, I need the name.”
The messenger’s eyes grew round and he stammered. “I . . . I’m sorry, Your Excellency. If I repeated no name, it’s because they didn’t use one.”
Weir flicked a finger, and one of the guards slammed the nuntius against the wall so hard his eyes went out of focus. “I am displeased. You were to listen until they mentioned the name of the pretender and then summon us.”
A Draw of Kings Page 3