Kell lifted his hand, his face hard. “Surely you do not expect us to believe you have read the book unless you offer some token of the truth.”
The archbenefice spoke. “Earl Stone’s testimony has been verified by cast.” Canon looked directly at Benefice Kell. “But for those who doubt, you have access to the conclave. Test the truth of his words for yourself.”
One of Kell’s blue-veined hands waved the archbenefice’s offer away. “Duke Weir and his brother have taught me to question the surety of lots. I would hear Earl Stone speak so that I can determine the truth or falsehood in his words.”
Errol shifted to face Benefice Kell. “A token?”
Kell nodded, his assent backed by the avid postures of the rest of the Judica.
“‘The three are these,’” Errol quoted, “‘Deas the creator, Eleison the son, and the spirit, Aurae, who is knowable but incomprehensible.’”
Silence so heavy its stifled breath covered the hall for the space of half a dozen heartbeats before it erupted. Errol covered his ears, but Martin hid his face in his hands.
“You lie!”
Errol heard the words echo over and again, hammering at him like the pounding of water beneath the falls of the Sprata, but Kell only stared silently. As the clamor began to subside, he tottered forward on his spindly legs—his benefice’s robe hanging on him as if he’d shrunk under the weight of his responsibility—and came to stand within an arm’s length, searching Errol’s face.
The hall stilled, waiting.
Kell’s lips quivered. “It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what the book really said.”
Errol nodded.
Tears hung in the old man’s eyes, and he put his hand on Errol in a gesture of infinite longing. “Has he spoken to you?”
Errol ducked his head from the weight of Kell’s regard. “I’m not sure, but he has spoken to Martin.”
The priest jerked at the mention of his name.
“Truly?” Kell asked.
Martin darted a look at the archbenefice before answering. “Yes. I’ve heard Aurae in a voice like the wind.”
A red-faced benefice stood at the back. “I will not believe it. Not until I see the book for myself.” He flung his arms at the rest of the Judica. “Any man could say he has heard the voice of Aurae, and there would be none to gainsay him. How can we test the truth of his words?”
“By lot, Benefice Tomah, as we always have,” Canon said.
Tomah shook his head, his dark hair and dark eyes intent. “No. I do not question the lot, but I can no longer give unquestioning authority to a conclave made of men. I ask again: Without lots how can we verify the truth of a man’s claim of Aurae?”
A hum filled the hall as nobles and churchmen muttered asides, grappling with Errol’s revelation and Tomah’s insistent question.
Martin shook his head. “That was poorly done, Errol.” He pointed over Kell’s shoulder toward the Judica, where men squirmed as if they’d suddenly been stripped of their authority. “The Judica is broken. Until they can answer the question of their own authority, they’ll scarcely be able to exercise it.”
Kell turned his stricken face to Errol, his rheumy eyes spilling his grief. “Why didn’t you bring it home?”
A puff of wind washed the heat from him and Errol turned to address the Judica. “Benefice Tomah, since you no longer trust the conclave to verify questions placed before you, what would you trust?”
The churchman’s mouth worked in silence, as if he labored to articulate his desire. “The book,” he blurted. He turned a tight circle, looking for support from his fellow benefices. “What other truths have the ravages of time taken from the church? Deas forgive us. We may have been the authors of the very heresy we have striven to prevent. We must have the book.”
Benefice Kerran stood amid a hundred murmured conversations that filled the hall like the droning of a beehive. “Where is the book now?”
Errol sighed. “I hope Hadari lived to retrieve it, but I do not know.”
“You didn’t cast for it?”
A laugh that touched the edge of hysteria bubbled up from his chest. “I have not been afforded the opportunity, Benefice.”
Kerran flushed and nodded. “My apologies, Earl Stone. I spoke without thinking.”
Errol shrugged. “If Hadari lives and the book is in his possession, he is likely in Ongol by now.”
Benefice Kerran nodded and turned to Canon. “Archbenefice, with your indulgence I would ask Primus Sten to cast for the location of the book.”
The primus stood. “I would gladly honor your request, Benefice, but a cast to pinpoint the book may take some time.”
“Can we not simply test to see if it lies within the domain of the Ongolese?”
Martin turned to Benefice Tomah. “Will you trust the conclave in this?”
At Tomah’s nod, Sten pulled his knife and began, and bare minutes later, Sten held the lot aloft as if the assembled nobles could read the answer he held. “The book of Magis lies in Ongol.”
“We must retrieve it,” Tomah demanded, but more than one noble and churchman shook their head in denial.
“Benefice Tomah,” Canon said, “as much as I appreciate and share your desire for surety in this time, the book is beyond our grasp. Ongol lies to the south of Merakh. Even in peace the route is closed to us.”
“Then send a ship!” Tomah cried.
Canon shook his head, heavy with regret. “You know we cannot. No mariner has ever succeeded in sailing to the people of the verdant.”
A draft touched Errol’s face, as though the air in the hall had twisted upon itself. Oh, Deas. He knew what he had to do.
“No ship sent to Ongol has ever returned,” Martin echoed.
Even if they did not ask him, he would volunteer. A pang of sorrow threaded through the lightness in his heart at the thought of seeing Hadari and the book again. He looked at Adora, the amazing green of her eyes a mixture of pride and grief. She knew.
He faced the archbenefice. “I will go.”
“No!” Martin cut the air with one hand, his gesture a duplicate of Canon’s. “You cannot.”
Errol smiled. “Even if Deas commands it?”
Canon made a motion that sent Martin to Errol’s side. The heavy priest took his arm, pulled him close to hear soft imprecations. “You know you cannot, Errol. You or Liam will be king. This much we know. Illustra cannot let you go on this fool’s quest.”
“How many times have I almost died?” Errol asked. “You keep saying Deas’s hand is upon me.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “If that’s true he will bring me back to . . .” His voice caught, and he forced himself to continue, “ . . . to do whatever he has planned.” He leaned closer so only Martin could hear him. “Inquire of Aurae, Pater.”
Martin held his heavy jowls tight with stubborn refusal, before his brows lifted in surprise. “Deas, have mercy.”
Like a man lifting burdens, he turned to the archbenefice. “I think we should cast the question, Your Excellency. I have lived to regret my assumptions before. I would not have the kingdom suffer for them now.”
“You know what they’ll find,” Errol said.
Martin nodded. “Yes, and I also know that most of the men in this room are not prepared for the implications of your discovery.”
Twenty minutes later a dozen readers reached the same conclusion: Errol was supposed to go to Ongol.
The archbenefice stood and then lowered, and for a moment Errol thought the old man had lost his balance. But Bertrand Canon righted himself and on one knee addressed him. “Errol Stone, your sacrifices are beyond our power to repay, and I vow no compulsion will ever again be placed on you while I lead the Judica. Despite your willingness to go, and despite what the lots say, you are free to refuse this request.”
The hall waited for it, every man and woman present.
“Will you bring the book home?”
He nodded. No thunder of cheers greeted him. Their hope was too dee
p and desperate for sound.
11
Partings
THE FAMILIAR CLACK of practice swords filled the watch yard, though the sharp retort of strokes being parried came less frequently than it had prior to Weir’s attempt for the throne. Adora, bundled into a heavy, fur-lined cloak, sat at one of the tables with Errol by her side. Her left arm felt the chill of Green Isle’s winter, but Errol held that hand, and she would not willingly surrender his touch. She let her gaze trace the fingers that held hers, surprised by the size and strength in them. It could have been a carpenter’s hand or a musician’s.
“How long before you leave?” Adora bit her lip, frustrated with herself for bringing up his departure.
His hand squeezed hers before he replied. “As soon as Tek is ready.” His shoulders lifted beneath the dark wool cloak. “Two days, perhaps three.”
She braved the cold to touch the skin of his face with her other hand. “There is no one left to contest your suit, maitale.” When he looked at her, uncomprehending, she grunted her vexation. “We could be married.”
He swallowed. “Wouldn’t the wedding for a princess take a long time to plan?”
She sighed. “I don’t want a wedding for a princess; I want to be married, to you, now.”
His eyes grew moist, as if she’d somehow managed to touch a wound with her words, but even before he spoke she could feel his denial in the loosening of his grip.
“I cannot.”
She clenched his hand, refused to be denied. “You mean you will not.”
His face softened, melting her anger the way a summer sun would reduce frost to water within moments. “It amounts to the same thing, Adora. If we married, if you took me to be your husband, do you think I could ever suffer to leave your side? For anything?”
He laughed, but tones of rue and loss wove threads through the sound as he looked away, and his voice softened almost to a whisper. “There is no book or destiny that could compel me from you, nothing that would make me surrender your touch. Do not ask this of me.” He rose, bolting from his seat, but she caught his hand, keeping him close enough to read his face.
“I would rather have two days with you than a lifetime with another.” A thousand strands of fear blanketed her. “You mean to die. If not in Ongol, then back here in Illustra.”
He stilled at her words, became as quiet as an oak in winter, and his expression calmed until he might have been a statue of some long-dead churchman, utterly peaceful, inhumanly content.
“Someone has to.” He smiled at her. “But it’s fitting. In the end, the kingdom will be saved through sacrifice, but hasn’t it always been? The life of Illustra is bound up in the small sacrifices that people make constantly for the ones they love—husband for wife, mother for daughter, brother for sister. I didn’t have the eyes to see it until Merakh, but it’s always been there.” He shrugged. “There’s not so great a difference between living your sacrifice and dying it. One’s just a little more . . . final than the other.”
He pulled her to her feet. “I will live if I can, and I won’t pretend to be without fear, but I will do anything to keep you safe.” He turned, his grip on her hand tightening. “Come. The only parts of Erinon I’ve really seen are in the royal compound. I would like to see the island through your eyes, the parts you love, the places where you played.”
She nodded, trying to content herself with the short time they would have, but failed.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “We’ll need an escort.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
Errol favored her with an arch of his dark brows. “In spite of my best intentions, I don’t trust myself alone with you”—his gaze turned hot—“Your Highness.”
Two days later, gales of wind stabbed the isle as winter deepened its grip. Frustrated by grim stone, the gusts turned to drafts that sought openings in castles and clothes alike, the needlelike cold serving to remind Adora of her loss. Her time with Errol had raced past, and now she was leaving before he started his journey.
She’d volunteered to go to the shadow lands under the assumption Errol would accompany her, before he’d made his grand offer to recover Magis’s book. But the conclave, restored to a semblance of confidence after its members had been tested, informed her that Liam and Rokha would be the ones to accompany her, along with a quarter of the watch currently in Erinon to guarantee their safety.
Desperate activity covered the isle as the kingdom’s political infrastructure struggled to recover from Weir’s brief reign. Members of the guard, those loyal to Rodran, had returned in the crimson of their uniforms. One of the king’s quartermasters, Nob, checked the load on the horses carrying supplies to support her journey.
A border of hair, red like many native to Erinon, framed the bald dome of his head like a fringe of carpet around a bare floor, but his smile, bright and youthful, drew her gaze down to crystal blue eyes. “We’re almost ready, Your Highness.” His voice held a light singsong, as if his words followed a melody only he could hear. “The horses will be loaded within the hour.”
She nodded. Her trip to the shadow lands would be far different than Martin’s earlier journey there. Letters of authority from Archbenefice Canon and Duke Escarion rested in her pack, wrapped in waxed cloth. Once they left the isle and crossed the Beron Strait to Port City, they would break to the south and thread their way east through the provinces of Gascony, Basquon, Talia, and Lugaria. At any city or village along the way, she would have the power to commandeer whatever supplies necessity required.
The captains had told her the trip should be quick, so long as the Merakhi did what was expected. She sighed. It seemed people rarely did what was expected—in fact, they often made a point of doing the opposite.
Her mind slipped to Sevra, and her hand clenched her sword. Despite the frowns of many of the nobles and most of the ladies at court, she no longer went anywhere unarmed. Duke Weir’s daughter had escaped on one of the few ships that weren’t burned in Erinon’s western harbor. To a man, the captains of the watch dismissed Sevra as a threat. Adora wasn’t so sure.
She looked to Liam, where he sat his horse like something from legend, and past Rokha, hawklike and ill-tempered, to the stretch of ground where people milled around beyond them.
Wasn’t he coming? Disappointment flashed to anger, then relief as she saw him slip through the crowd with that strange metal staff in the crook of his arm.
“I didn’t know two days could pass so quickly,” he said after they parted from their embrace.
She nodded, not looking at him for fear of crying. “The captains tell me it will be a close thing to make it back before spring breaks winter’s grip. I’ve always hated the cold, but now I find myself praying for a long winter.”
He should have laughed. Instead he just stood there, looking at her as if trying to memorize her face. She bit her lip against the desire to hold him again, let him gaze at her until the sweet earnestness of him overpowered her and she pulled him close. “Why does it have to be you?”
His arms, strong and sinewy from countless hours with his staff, bonded her to him. His voice was calm when he spoke, so unlike the awkward young man he’d once been. “I’m the only one Hadari knows. I doubt he would surrender the book to anyone else.” He shrugged as if he didn’t quite believe his words. “If we start asking why, Adora, we’ll be here until summer. I’m sure Deas has his reasons. Maybe he’ll even explain it someday.” He laughed. “But I doubt it.”
A couple of paces away, Nob coughed, scuffing the grass with his foot as he examined the ground. “We’ll need to be leaving, Your Highness, if we’re to make the tide.”
She nodded and moved to turn away, but Errol caught her by the arm and spun her back to kiss her softly despite the fierceness of his embrace.
“I will survive this,” he said.
She tried to take comfort from his parting words, but the way he’d stressed the last word only reminded her of Martin’s confession and a choice of
Deas she didn’t want to think about.
Hours later Errol stood by the King’s Port docks, facing the Western Ocean. Workers in heavy cloaks used long rakes to pull burnt flotsam from the water, their breath misting the air. The smell of charred wood and seaside detritus blended in his nose and he sneezed. The objects of his farewells remained behind him in fire-warmed rooms in the palace, cathedral, and watch barracks. He strode up the gangplank to the three-masted cog, gnawing zingiber root against the seasickness that plagued him whenever Deas or circumstance contrived to put him on a ship.
Merodach and Rale waited for him on deck, though Rale’s presence surprised him still. Both had been chosen by the conclave’s cast, but Rale’s departure meant Illustra would prepare for war without one of its best tacticians. For the first time in anyone’s memory, the Judica had nearly voted to ignore the outcome of a cast. Luis Montari had been pressed to verify the decision in persimmon wood. Two lots had taken him four hours and uncounted strokes against a whetstone to complete, but in the end the original cast had been confirmed: Rale was coming with him.
Amos Tek descended the ladder from the aft deck to greet him, the small man’s face enthusiastic—an eternal boy with an unexpected plaything. “Welcome aboard the Penance, lad. She be a fine ship, eh?”
The ship’s name seemed too appropriate. He hadn’t asked about the story behind it on their previous voyage, but his curiosity was piqued now. “How did you come to choose that name, Captain?”
Tek rubbed his jaw as he stared over the rail. “In truth, I thought of naming her Contrition, but being on the sea makes me too happy.” He nodded, confirming his own argument. “But since we be likely to die on any venture we take, Penance seemed a good name.” He shrugged. “Plus it might give enemy ships pause. They may think I be referring to them. Ha.”
“Why are we likely to die on this trip, Captain? We won’t be sailing into the strait, and I’m told Merakhi longships don’t venture into the Western Ocean.”
Tek laughed. “And why do you think they stay in the strait, lad? They be afraid of something.”
A Draw of Kings Page 11