The church messenger tried to prostrate himself. “I did what you asked, Excellency. I can only recite their conversation, not control it. Please, forgive me.”
Weir glowered. “Of course I forgive you. I must. I am a benefice in the church, after all, but forgiveness without penance is useless. Guards, find him a cell.”
The nuntius’s eyes bulged. “For how long?”
Weir shrugged. “Forever.”
The benefice turned his attention to Luis. “What was the outcome of the cast, reader?”
Luis shook his head. “The archbenefice, the primus, or the Judica has the authority to compel the answer from me. A single benefice does not.”
Blood turned Weir’s face crimson. “In this place I am Deas. Do you hear me?”
Martin kept his voice level with an effort. If he responded to Weir’s anger in kind, he and Luis might well end up on the rack. “Only a joint decree from the king and the archbenefice may put a reader or priest to the question, Excellency. It has not been done since Magnus’s time.”
“Times change,” Weir snarled and turned to Luis. “If you will not disclose the cast, reader, there is someone who will. The omne is also our guest, as is the princess.”
Luis smiled. “He can only read the lots, Excellency. He cannot tell you the question that was cast.”
Weir laughed. “Weakly played, reader. The peasant has been in your confidence since the beginning, and he loves the princess. If you will not reveal the name, perhaps he can.”
3
Taken
COLD WOKE ADORA to a room bereft of light or warmth. Sevra and her ladies had withdrawn. The polished stone of the floor pressed against skin laced with welts and bruises. She pushed herself up, gasping with pain as tortured muscles trembled and protested against the movement. Limping to the fireplace, she struck steel and flint into the tinder until a blaze started. For long moments she measured by shuddering breaths, she nurtured her flesh with the feeble warmth.
She turned at last to retrieve her shirt and found it discarded to one side of the couch, the fabric shredded, useless. She huddled into the rough wool of her cloak. The wood in the fireplace caught at last, providing light enough to see by and Adora considered her situation.
Sevra’s beatings would eventually wear away her resistance, and the duke’s daughter meant to make quick work of any defiance Adora mustered. Errol and the rest of her companions were in no position to help her. She had to escape on her own.
Logic only tempted her toward despair. She moved to her bedroom, lighting candles as she went. Everything remained as she had left it. She moved to a broad wardrobe on the wall opposite the balcony and searched for warm clothes.
Silks and satins spilled across her hands like water, but most of the dresses she’d delighted in before traveling to the sand kingdom seemed frilly and superfluous to her now. As she moved them aside, her gaze fell on a pile of plain, sturdy clothes in muted shades of brown and gray. She fingered the breeches and tunic she’d used to disguise herself for her visits to the healer, Norv.
A foolhardy idea formed in her mind, but she grasped it with the desperation of a drowning woman. She lifted the pile, her heart drumming against her ribs.
It was still there. Adora raised the heavy key to the garden gate as if it were holy.
Replacing it, she moved to the balcony and surveyed the torch-lit courtyard. Her plan would require preparation, but if she could forego the sleep she so desperately needed, she might be able to make the attempt the following night.
The air blew off the great sea to the west of Erinon, but rather than chilling her, it invigorated her and filled her with hope. She looked across the broad courtyard waiting for the telltale movements in the darkness that would tell her how many men patrolled the grounds. There. A shift in the shadows betrayed the presence of a guard.
After a few minutes, the cold forced her back into her bedroom to fetch a blanket off the bed, but she quickly settled herself into a corner of the balcony to watch. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and she sought to memorize the movements of the guards. By the time the moon set some four hours after midnight, she felt confident in her ability to evade Weir’s men. With reluctance, she retreated back into her room. If fatigue caught her unaware and Sevra found her on the balcony, the duke’s daughter might suspect she planned to escape.
She climbed into bed still dressed. Sleep claimed her almost before she laid her head on the pillow. Her last thought was of Errol. Unconsciousness overtook her in the midst of a prayer to Deas on his behalf.
A stinging slap across her face brought her awake. She rolled, ready to fight, but the sight of Sevra’s ladies at the foot of her bed armed with cudgels stopped her. Laughter rasped in her ears.
“That’s good, strumpet. If you step out of line—and I’m sure you will—you’ll find the penalty to be quite severe.”
Adora noted that none of the women seemed in a hurry to approach her. She chose to take that as a sign of caution and savored the thought she’d won that much. Seating herself as if entertaining friends, she skewered Sevra with as much disdain as she could muster. “What do you want, Lady Sevra? Your father wishes to cement his power in the kingdom, but until he’s proclaimed king, it appears he has no need of me.”
Sevra laughed. “I’ve told you, strumpet. I am to train you to be a dutiful queen. Come. I will show you the price of disobedience.” Sevra turned on one heel and left the bedroom. For a moment the temptation to ignore the command raged hot in her chest, but curiosity won out. She rose and followed. Outside her suite of rooms, the two guards fell in line to accompany her, one in front and the other behind.
The sight of the lead guard’s sword on his left hip made her fingers twitch with need. She would require a weapon. They proceeded down the long marble staircase into the main hall of the palace with its gilded bannister and heavy chandeliers. The furnishings, which should have been as familiar as her own reflection, struck her as though she were unaccustomed to them.
They left the light of the palace to venture into the leaden gray of Erinon in winter. The blue of the guards’ uniforms, vibrant under bright torchlight, faded to slate. They passed through the broad archways that led to the courtyard used by the watch. The absence of the black-garbed men struck Adora as an immense corruption, a disease that raged within the compound.
“Your father will doom us all.”
One of Sevra’s women approached Adora, her cudgel held high, ready to strike, but Sevra held up a hand, restraining her. “And how would a cloistered princess know such a thing?”
Despite the cold, Adora threw her shoulders back. “The Merakhi and the Morgols mobilized their countries in preparation for King Rodran’s death. Your father squanders the kingdom’s strength on his bid for the throne.” Adora could not help but shake her head at the brazen stupidity. “Without an omne to confirm his ascension, competing factions will divide Illustra at a time when every man is needed to fight the threats from the south and east.”
Sevra laughed and favored Adora with a gaze that traveled slowly from head to foot. “You are ignorant, Princess. If not for your bloodline, you would doubtlessly have had to find work in some menial trade.” She turned to continue toward the far end of the yard, where two guards and a cloaked and hooded figure waited. “There will be no war. Father has already struck an agreement with the Merakhi.”
Adora’s laughed cracked in the cold air. “Then your father is a fool. The Merakhi are led by a man possessed by a malus. Belaaz will not settle for rule. He longs for destruction.”
Sevra nodded to one of the women, who thrust her cudgel into Adora’s midsection. She doubled over, retching, gasping for breath.
“When you mention my father, Princess, you must speak with respect as befits a queen of her king. Come.”
They drew closer to a hooded figure, his hands tied behind his back. The hood concealed his identity, but his height was just slightly less than average.
Errol.
No. Please, Deas, no.
Sevra smiled, her eyes glinting, lit by avid cruelty. She flicked her wrist, and one of the guards reached up to yank the hood off. Adora found herself facing Oliver Turing, Rodran’s flamboyant chamberlain. Bruises marked his face like splotches of plague, and one eye was swollen shut, but his insouciant smile remained despite a pair of broken teeth.
Adora’s relief flooded through her, taking her to her knees. Guilt at feeling it brought the tears that Sevra’s beatings could not.
“Your father’s chamberlain refuses to tell me the name of his nuntius,” Sevra said. Her voice rasped with frustration. “There is information that I require. I am merciful, strumpet. I am giving you a chance to provide it.”
Above her, she heard Turing sigh. “The Merakhi sun favors you, Princess. The freckles give you a fresh, girlish air, but you shouldn’t cry. Your eyes and nose turn red. It completely ruins the look.”
“I want the name!” Sevra screeched.
Turing looked heavenward and sighed. “I told you already, his identity is hidden. I’m no more able to identify him than be him.”
Adora laughed and raised her head to meet Oliver’s gaze through a fresh onslaught of tears, but the chamberlain’s expression, deadly serious, bored into her, as if commanding her to understand something. Then the moment passed.
A guard struck him, and he staggered. Turing rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically. “These people have no sense of style. There’s just no color that goes with facial bruises.”
Sevra’s mouth compressed into a line. “You have more to worry about than style, popinjay.”
Turing donned a look of exaggerated horror. “You mean you’re going to force me to make you presentable? I’m sorry. It just can’t be done. You can’t make silk from burlap, you know.”
A guard clubbed Turing across the mouth with the hilt of his sword. The former chamberlain dropped to the ground spitting blood. At a nod from Sevra, the guard kicked him in the head so hard he flipped to land on his back.
Weir’s daughter snapped her fingers, and two of the guards hauled Turing to his feet. She turned to Adora. “This is your first and most important lesson, Princess. Every time you contest me, every time you think to thwart my desire, one of your friends will die.”
Adora shook her head. “Please, you don’t have to do this. I won’t fight you anymore.”
Sevra’s smile stretched her face into an obscene parody of childlike joy, her eyes wide. The expression chilled her. “Then tell me the name of your uncle’s nuntius.”
Adora gaped, desperate to surrender a name she didn’t possess.
“Well then, Princess, I’m not killing him.” Sevra motioned and the guard next to her drew his sword and ran Turing slowly through the chest. “You are.”
The guard pulled his weapon from Turing’s body, his face blank. The chamberlain collapsed, his arms and legs folding in on themselves like discarded rags. Adora fell to his side, pulled his head to her lap. Turing smiled through the blood on his lips.
“Take . . . care . . . Princess . . . Don’t ruin . . . the . . . look.”
Sevra laughed like a child at play as she turned back toward her quarters.
Adora’s hair cascaded down, hiding Turing’s face and hers. The chamberlain inhaled wetly. His eyes glazed, bringing a stab of grief, but the chamberlain forced air through his lips. “I swear the message I am to deliver is the word of Rodran son of Rodrick, king of Illustra.” He stiffened, desperate to force the words of her uncle’s disclosure through his lips, his hands clutching at her, their strength fading as he spoke. “You don’t look like your father.” The fingers slipped. “Find him.”
Turing’s head rolled to one side. The king’s nuntius was dead.
4
Flex
ADORA SHOOK WITH EACH STEP she took back to her quarters, her body aching with the suppressed need to strike Sevra Weir. If she had to spend the rest of her days enduring one beating after another, she would find a way to make an answer to Oliver Turing’s death, but no recompense could be made until she escaped.
She drew a trembling breath that mirrored the shaking in her hands. Sevra must not be allowed to suspect she intended to escape. The consequences of discovery chilled her more than the wind that cut across the island. The duke’s daughter had killed Turing both as a punishment and as a goad. Sevra wanted her to fight back. It would give her the justification she needed to have her beaten again.
And Adora would have to allow it. Sudden compliance on her part would arouse Sevra’s suspicions. Yet her response would have to be measured. If she pushed Sevra too far, the woman would have her bound or placed under constant watch. Escape would be impossible.
Dread of another beating compressed the time it took to make the trip back to her quarters. Inside the sitting room with the guards posted outside once more, Sevra regarded her with a broad, condescending smile, which did nothing to relieve the cruel severity of her features. The duke’s daughter resembled a gleeful vulture, feasting on another’s death. Adora waited. Nothing she did could appear premeditated. She allowed all the disdain and contempt she felt to show in her eyes.
Sevra’s head rocked with laughter. “I’m surprised you haven’t thanked me yet, Your Highness. After all, that could have been your peasant lover.” She came forward, her head jutting forth on her neck like a stinkweed blossom on its stalk. “He’ll die, Princess, and I promise you’ll be there to see it. Thank me, Highness. Thank me for allowing you to see your filthy little peasant one last time.”
Before Sevra could dodge, Adora leapt forward and backhanded her across the mouth. Savoring the impact of Sevra’s skin against her knuckles, she clenched her fist for a return strike, but the women were on her with cudgels, pounding her into submission. Sevra’s boots beat into her with the force of hammers. Adora rolled away, toward the cudgels, but the duke’s daughter followed.
Adora tried to rise, but the women pressed her down while Sevra continued to kick her. Several times she missed, connecting instead with her ladies-in-waiting. Adora squirmed in their grasp, trying to spread the blows. Her plan would fail if she could not stand or lift a sword.
At last they stopped. She made no attempt to hide her tears, vowing instead to make them serve her.
Sevra backed away. “Let us see what a few days without food will do for your temperament.”
When the door closed after them, Adora wanted to cry in triumph. Instead she raised herself off the floor on arms and legs mottled with new bruises and tottered to the window. Sunset would be six hours or more in coming.
Ignoring the screams from her abused muscles, she moved through her bedroom to the balcony. The sight of the drop made the world pitch, and she grabbed the stone rail in an attempt to force her vision to normalcy. Heights always appeared greater looking down. Still, the distance had to be thirty or forty feet. A jump from such an elevation would at least break her legs if it didn’t kill her. Despair crashed in on waves as grim and cold as any in the Beron Strait. She needed a sword and a way down. Impossible.
Tears, hot against her skin, wet her cheeks. No. She pounded her fist against the stone. The attempt must be made. She returned to the bedroom and began ripping blankets into strips, testing and tying, working the cloth in an attempt to keep visions of falling from conquering her resolve. She considered it might make more sense to forego a weapon and simply sneak over the balcony under the cover of night, but when she envisioned discovery, the need for a sword consumed her.
At sunset she knotted her improvised rope to the heavy baluster, set a pack carrying her disguise on the balcony—in case she had to attempt a quick exit—and moved to the door in her sitting room that opened onto the hallway. She curled up in her cloak on the floor with her ear to the crack and listened. Church guards split the day into four watches and changed duty near sunset when vespers rang, but did Weir’s men follow the same schedule? The sky outside darkened from crimson to purple to black, and still th
e same two voices carried on their murmured conversation. The bruises on her legs throbbed in time to the grief measured by each sluggish pulse of her blood. She closed her eyes.
Adora started awake, her heart hammering with the realization she’d fallen asleep. No. She couldn’t have. The sky outside was still black, but no voices came from outside the door. Had the guard changed?
She cursed herself. How could she have fallen asleep? Breath shuddered into her lungs. The attempt must be made. She stood, shed her cloak, and ripped her clothes to reveal as much skin as she dared.
Shame heated her face, but she rebuked it. If she could stand being paraded in silk inside the ilhotep’s harem, she could endure this charade. She ripped the back of her shirt. The bruises needed to show. If Weir’s men retained any sense of justice or chivalry, they would help her. If not . . .
Adora shrugged away the thought of what might happen when the guards saw so much of her. She stepped to the door and threw it open. Before either man could react, she fell against the nearest, clutching at his hand. “Please. You have to help me.” She allowed enough of her fear loose to make her voice tremble. “She’ll kill me.”
The guard smiled at her, but his gaze lingered on her torn clothing. “I’ll help you, Highness.” One hand wandered to a hole in her shirt, his fingers rough against her skin.
The other guard stepped in. “If the duke discovers you’ve had her, he’ll have your head.”
The first guard gave a coarse laugh. “The way the lady’s been training her, the princess would say anything now, wouldn’t she? Nobody will believe her.” His gaze met Adora’s at last, looking at her as if she were a thing to be taken.
She let her eyes grow wide. Now. It had to be now, before he took hold of her. With a sob she brought her knee up to the guard’s groin and yanked his sword free. Instead of doubling over, the guard lunged at her. With a twitch of her wrists, she brought the point in line . . . and watched in horror as the blade slipped between his ribs like a knife falling into water.
A Draw of Kings Page 4