He died before he hit the floor.
Adora danced backward, but the other guard only looked at her. The sole evidence of any concern he had lay in the increased distance between them.
“Barda never was too bright.” He shrugged as if he’d just noted the weather. “I imagine most people would say he got what he deserved.”
She’d killed him. A minute ago there’d been a man—a cruel, opportunistic brute of a man, but a living being. Now there was just a corpse, a hunk of meat, as Rokha would say. Blood dropped from her head into her stomach at the thought, and the taste of bile rested on the back of her tongue. If she’d been allowed to eat, she’d be throwing up.
“I wouldn’t let it bother you none, Princess. There’s no shortage of people, women mostly, that would thank you.” He drew his sword, gestured toward the door of her apartment. “Drop the sword, Your Highness. I’ll tell Sevra what happened.”
Adora almost succeeded in keeping the hysterical tone from her laughter. “Do you think she’ll care?” She straightened so the guard could see the evidence of Sevra’s abuse, but she continued to grip the sword like a club, with the point trained on the guard’s chest. “You know her. What kind of punishment will she contrive for this?”
The guard’s face went cold and flat as he advanced. “That’s not my place. You don’t even know how to hold a sword, Your Highness.”
She didn’t want to kill again. This man wasn’t her enemy. “Help me escape.”
The guard shook his head. “No, Highness, a man who changes sides is never trusted. I’m the duke’s man until he dies or I do. You can’t hope to get away. The moment our swords cross, the rest of the guards will come running.”
He was right. Without changing her grip, she shuffled her feet into position, as Count Rula had taught her. She would have only one chance. The guard glowered at her in frustration and stepped forward, his blade whistling to knock the sword from her hands.
Now. She dropped her left hand from her sword and pivoted to present her right side. With a flex of her wrist, she forced her blade down, out of the path of his strike. The guard’s stroke met nothing but air, leaving him exposed.
Adora lunged, saw the guard’s eyes widen as he realized his mistake. She saw his brows lower as he braced for the blow that would kill him. The tip took him in the chest.
Time slowed. The guard tried to counter. Adora’s sword entered his side. His riposte came at her, a final attempt to rouse the guards. She pushed and twisted, striving for his heart. She wasn’t going to make it. The swords were going to hit.
Adora fell into her thrust, taking the guard’s stroke along her shoulder. The blade found one of the rents in her shirt, bit into her flesh. She twisted her wrist, tried to ignore his shuddering gasp as her sword found his heart.
The guard sighed. With her free hand, she grabbed his hilt. The thud of his body against the floor sounded no louder than a casual footfall.
The hall remained empty.
Her hands trembled so violently she almost dropped the swords she held. She stumbled to the sitting room and tossed the bloody weapons onto a couch. Shaking, she dragged the dead weight of the guards just inside the door and wiped the blood from the polished marble of the hallway. Deadweight. The thought threatened to send her into hysterics until her hand closed on the red-stained tunic of one of the men she’d killed.
Killed. She threw the door closed and shot the bolt home as sobs wracked her body. Her breath came in shuddering gasps as her fury drained away. She’d killed two of her own subjects, one of whom had committed no wrong other than to be loyal to the lord who’d employed him.
She cursed Duke Weir and his entire questionable lineage. After her weeping subsided to tremors, she extinguished the candles in her sitting room, recovered her pack of clothes from the balcony, and donned the disguise she’d worn numerous times to sneak out into the city to help Healer Norv with the sick. The practice, almost forgotten after all she’d been through in past months, stilled the trembling in her chest as she became “Dorrie” once again.
Pocketing the key, she extinguished the last of the candles in her rooms. Before she moved to the balcony, she smudged her face and hair with ash from the fireplace. She threw her makeshift rope over the balcony . . . and stopped. The sword. She’d nearly forgotten. She groped her way back to the sitting room for the weapon.
A knock at the door pulled a frightened gasp from her lungs. She’d floundered back to her balcony when the knock came again, insistent and pounding. The fabric of her knotted sheets burned her hands as she slid toward the ground. Above her, heavy impacts sounded against the wooden frame.
Her heartbeat screamed at her to run straight for the garden door. With an effort she ignored it. No one had noticed her descent. The winter cloud cover obscured the moon, and unless she drew attention to herself, she would be difficult to spot.
How long before they broke down her door?
Adora merged with the shadows and moved as quickly as she dared toward the gate. Halfway there, she stopped. A guard, walking with the bored gait of a soldier in peacetime, blocked her path, standing within feet of the thick ivy that hid the gate. She crouched beneath the boughs of a holly tree, willing him to make his turn and go back.
A retort of splintering wood sounded from the area of her apartments.
“Guards!” a man’s voice yelled. “Someone has taken the princess. Search the grounds.”
Adora stared. They believed someone had taken her? The guard by the gate peered into the darkness but made no move. A reckless ploy took root in her mind. She twisted the sword belt around to hide the weapon behind her back, then she broke cover and ran toward the guard.
“Over there,” she gasped, pointing back the way she’d come. “They’re behind those trees.”
The guard followed her point and nodded. “Guards, to me,” he yelled and charged away, his weapon flashing.
Men with weapons and lanterns cascaded into the courtyard as Adora squirmed behind the thick wall of ivy, trying to ignore the scratch of vines against her skin. She pulled the key from her pocket.
“Where’s the princess?” The voice, uncomfortably close, belonged to the guard she’d sent away.
A detachment of guards milling beneath her balcony headed toward her. The lock wouldn’t turn. No, it had to. With both hands on the key she wrenched at the mechanism. Then, with a soft groan the tumblers moved, and the door swung open. She slipped through into another mass of ivy that hid the door from the other side, pausing just long enough to lock the gate and pocket the key. Hugging the wall, she inched along behind the vines until she emerged into the open air forty paces later.
A clean wind lifted her hair. Adora loosed the restraint that had bound her movements in stealth and ran toward the city.
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 imperi
al 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 smea
r 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.
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