Adora watched Waterson’s antics with the trace of a smile, still turning Rokha’s suggestion over in her mind. “Lord Waterson, please convey my invitation to Pater Antil to dine with me tonight in my tent. It has been a long time since I have availed myself of the solace of the church. I find myself in need of her advice.”
Waterson’s eyes lit with savage amusement before he galloped off.
“Very good, Your Highness,” Rokha said. Her alto voice purred with approval. “But what exactly do you intend to do with him?”
Adora pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure. Let’s find out who Pater Antil is.”
Later that day they entered the interminable track of forest that bordered the Stones River and stretched all the way to Escadrill. They pitched camp three days short of their goal. Parties were sent to procure firewood, and the wagon masters took the opportunity to replace or repair axles that required attention. As dusk deepened, Liam and the solis returned to camp with news written on their faces.
Adora took one look at Marya and suspected grim tidings. A glance at Garet confirmed it. Rula beckoned them to a large table, where a map of all Illustra was spread before them, complete with topographical annotations.
At a gesture from Adora, Liam leaned over the map, his thick finger pinpointing their position. “We are three days from Escadrill, Highness. Another two weeks from there to the merchants’ center at Longhollow and another ten days to make the safety of the Arryth.”
“What of the Merakhi?” Rula asked.
Garet cleared his throat. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and kept his gaze focused on the map as if he feared to meet Adora’s eyes. “With the help of Aurae, we have masked our passage and sent their army south toward the swamp of southern Lugaria.” His fingers tapped the area on the map in a brisk staccato. “Your Highness, we have managed to send them on a delayed route back into their own vanguard.”
“But . . . ?”
Liam leaned forward, catching her attention. “Their army travels more quickly than we. If we do not split our military forces from the refugees, they will beat us to the Arryth despite their longer route.”
“We would be trapped on this side of the mountains,” Marya said.
Adora’s face heated. “You’re asking me to abandon the refugees of two countries to the Merakhi and the Morgols.”
Liam shook his head. “If we don’t beat the Merakhi to the Arryth, Your Highness, our presence will hardly help them. If we get there first, we can try to hold one of the northern passes open.”
“If,” Adora said, not bothering to hide the doubt in her voice. “Try.” She turned on the members of Haven’s council. “You are amenable to Captain Liam’s suggestion?”
As one, each member of the council looked at Liam, looked at him in a way they looked at no other man or woman of the kingdom, and nodded. What hold did he have over them?
“And if we do not make it to the Arryth before the Merakhi or cannot hold a passage open for the refugees?”
Garet, still looking at Liam, nodded as if he were accepting a burden or condemnation. “Take what men we have left under arms, Your Highness. We refugees will follow as best we can.”
Adora shook her head as a bitter chuckle escaped her lips. “No, my lord councilor. Martin Arwitten spoke at length about you and the rest of the council. Illustra cannot afford to lose you or the abilities you bring.”
Garet and Marya looked stricken, their faces blanching until they matched the wan light of the lamps. “We cannot leave our people, Your Highness.”
“But you expect me to leave mine? No. If I go, you must come with me. I will not leave behind a weapon that can hide us from our enemy at a crucial moment. I have seen what Solis Karele is capable of.”
Again the council looked at Liam as if seeking his blessing or permission and then nodded acquiescence. “It shall be as you say, Your Highness.” Garet shrank further under the weight of his abdication, and the fire highlighted crevices of worry in his face.
“Tomorrow, then,” Adora said. “Those of the watch and what remains of your army will make for the Arryth.” She sighed, then straightened. “Now, if you would please leave me, I have matters to attend.”
The small crowd shuffled from her pavilion as though she had placed them under judgment. Lord Waterson stood by the entrance, Antil at his elbow, waiting for permission to enter.
“Lady Rokha, Captain Liam, would you please remain?” She glanced at the priest. “I may find your counsel useful.” Let the little toad interpret that how he would.
For once, Naaman Ru’s daughter didn’t laugh at her weakness, only nodded, checking the position of the sword at her hip.
She moved to a small table, hardly more than a couple of boards thrown across crude trestles, and bade the rest of them to join her. Waterson escorted Antil into the tent. The priest’s eyes were filled with the fear of her until he saw Liam. With a wordless cry of joy, he closed the space between them to grip the captain by his arms.
“Liam, my boy, my precious boy, how are you?” He tried to give the captain a friendly shake, but only succeeded in rocking himself.
Liam gripped Antil’s forearms in return, his smile easy and natural. “Well, Pater. I am well.”
The display shocked her. How could Liam stomach to have that vile priest touch him, fawn over him like a dog eager to see its long-gone master? “Come, gentlemen,” she said, her voice clipped. “I would ask you to renew your acquaintance while we refresh ourselves.”
Waterson eyed the rations on the table. Despite the abbreviated area, there remained plenty of empty space. “I think refresh might be a bit generous, Your Highness. Perhaps we should say, ‘fend off the worst of our hunger.’”
Rokha laughed and seated herself on Adora’s left. Waterson sat on her right with Antil next to him while Liam filled the chair at the foot of the table.
“Liam is a captain of the watch,” Adora said. “He was my uncle’s chief protector prior to his death.”
Antil puffed up as if Adora had complimented him. “I have no doubt of it, Your Highness. Since Liam was a boy, I have seen the hand of Deas on him.”
Adora toyed with the undersized piece of cheese on her plate. “It’s interesting you should use that term, Pater—the hand of Deas. I have heard many people describe Errol Stone the same way.”
Antil’s face flushed, but he refused to rise to the bait. “So the priest, Martin, told me.”
Adora leaned back, warming to her task. “In fact, my uncle, King Rodran, elevated Errol to the nobility for his courage and service to the crown. Imagine that, Pater Antil, an orphan so distinguishing himself that the king made him an earl. That certainly sounds like the hand of Deas to me.” She shifted. “What do you think, Lady Rokha?”
“Absolutely, Your Highness,” Rokha drawled. “When Errol joined my father’s caravan . . . Excuse my manners.” She inclined her head toward Antil. “My father was Naaman Ru, the finest swordsman of his generation. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Anyway, when Errol joined my father’s caravan, he knew something of the staff, but even I was surprised at how quickly he became nearly invincible with it.”
Antil ripped his bread in half, thrust a piece in his mouth as if he were trying to stifle his tongue.
Rokha leaned forward. “What do you think, Captain Liam? Is Errol not accomplished?”
Liam nodded. “The one time we sparred, he defeated me, though I have improved since then.”
“There,” Adora said. “You see, Pater Antil. You’re a man of the church, after all. Doesn’t that sound like the hand of Deas is on Errol Stone?”
He swallowed thickly, his eyes burning. “That Liam does not contradict you tells me you must be speaking the truth of his exploits.”
Adora’s face heated at the slight, and she reached for a sword she no longer wore. Across the table she saw Liam lean back with wide eyes.
“Priests,” Waterson muttered into his wine. “Slow to admit a wro
ng, slower still to apologize for it. It’s too bad Abbott Lugnar is dead. I would love to discuss some finer points of theology with him.” He tapped his sword as he took another drink.
Waterson’s aside gave Adora the time she needed to compose herself, and an unexpected opening. “Slow? No, Lord Waterson. Not all priests are slow. Some are very quick to act, and it is not always to punish a perceived sin.” She leered at Antil. “Especially if they happen to see an exposed bit of leg or bosom. Wouldn’t you say, Pater Antil?”
The priest’s face reddened and boiled as he panted in his extremity. “Filth!” He spat. “Born in filth and baptized in the mire. Stone is nothing. Whatever fortune or circumstance has come to him will soon end. The higher his elevation, the greater his inevitable downfall. And on that day I will celebrate.”
Liam, his face hard, rose from his seat. “Do not ever seek to speak to me or come into my presence again. Until now, I thought you only too zealous in the pursuit of your duties, but I see I was wrong.” He strode from the tent without looking back.
Antil watched him leave, his mouth open in a soundless cry, stricken, as if his hope of salvation had left the tent with Liam.
Adora allowed herself a small smile. “It may be beyond my power to assign the penance you deserve for your deeds of spite and hatred, but as a member of the royal house, I have the right to retain my own personal priest, one of my choosing. It is an honor that has been bestowed upon benefices and even the occasional archbenefice in Illustra’s long history. I choose to bestow it upon you.”
She let her smile grow, allowed the pleasure at her inspiration to show without restraint. “You will be my confidant, Pater Antil. From this day forward I will confess to you every thought and deed of Errol Stone that has captured my heart.”
She leaned forward, holding him with her gaze. “And you will listen, my priest. You will listen until you can recite them back to me word for word.”
28
Return
ERROL STOOD ON THE DECK as the Penance creaked and groaned with the smallest of swells, its ribs loose and complaining after a second trip through the maelstrom. Errol chafed at the slower speed, but Tek refused to add more sail.
“She be bruised and battered, lad,” the sea captain said. “Adding to her pain would be poor gratitude for her service.” He shrugged. “Besides, I do not think we be wanting to swim in these waters.”
They had traveled for weeks without a Merakhi ship in sight, but now as they sailed toward Illustra’s western coast, the ocean current swept them east toward the Forbidden Strait between the kingdom and Merakh. Nervous, Errol pulled a pair of blanks and his reader’s knife to cast for the presence of Merakhi ships.
“You needn’t bother,” Merodach said. The watchman’s eyes held confidence but a hint of perplexity as well. “The closest Merakhi ships are just offshore of Bota in Basquon.” He flexed his hands. “It took me a dozen casts to pinpoint their location.”
Errol rolled his shoulders, shedding a burden he hadn’t realized he carried until that moment. “The way is open. We can go home.” He prayed Adora would be there waiting for him. They wouldn’t have much time together before . . .
“I think we should find the reason behind this, lad.” Rale chewed his lower lip in thought for a moment. “Good news in wartime makes me suspicious.”
Merodach nodded.
Errol sighed his disappointment as he pulled a pair of blanks from his pocket to test the safest choice, but a sudden diffidence overtook him. How long had it been since he’d cast? He bounced one of the blanks in his palm, felt the open grain of the pine against his fingertips, before he returned it to its place inside his cloak. If Deas meant him to die, why bother casting for choices?
“Let’s see what lies inside the strait, Captain Tek.”
“Aye, lad.” Tek spun the wheel, and the ship hauled over to starboard, the sails clapping with the direction change. “Hands forward on arms,” Tek said. The mate relayed the order in his brazen-throated yell, and every man left on the ship came forward to man crossbows and longbows.
They anchored that night a mere five leagues from the strait, Captain Tek unwilling to brave the narrow entry in the dark. At dawn the next morning, they crept eastward, every man tense by his weapon.
“You know, lad,” Tek said, “if we be spotted by Merakhi, we will have to make for the kingdom side of the strait.”
Errol looked north toward the cliffs that towered over them, weather-smoothed rock running vertically until it ended in churning surf below. “How close is the nearest Illustran port?”
Tek’s mouth pulled to one side. “Too far to be of any use.”
A cry from the crow’s nest startled him, and he jumped, his hands gripping the metal staff that never left his side.
“Masts ahead.”
Merodach nodded as if he expected no less. “Unless casting no longer works, they’ll be kingdom ships, such as we have.”
Rale’s brows lowered at that and his eyes grew dark. “It’s a shame that death has put Weir beyond our reach. I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to kill him myself.”
The forest of masts grew closer until Errol could make out the composition of Illustra’s navy. A more mismatched collection of ships would have been hard to find. Nearest to them, a single cog, the largest ship in sight, held its position just outside the mouth of the strait.
“That would be the flagship, lad,” Tek said. “It be the fastest ship of the lot. Having it on the outside of the strait do not bode well for what be going on.”
“What do you mean?” Errol asked.
Tek’s gaze ran back and forth over the odd collection of ships. “They be hailing us. I think we better swing alongside and find out how bad things be.”
The first mate relayed Tek’s orders as the captain swung the wheel, and they slowed to a crawl and sailed to within a half dozen paces of the flagship. Sailors dressed in the red livery of Illustra’s royal house used grappling hooks to bring the ships together, their movements crisp with discipline, but they didn’t wear the look of men hopeful of victory.
The first mate of the other ship beckoned them aboard. “Welcome to the Fearless, my lords. We were told to watch for your passing. Captain Mederi awaits you in his cabin.”
Tek winced at the name.
Errol judged the Fearless to be roughly one and a half times as big as Tek’s ship, the forward and aft decks large and high enough to make a longship think twice about attacking. In addition, the masts were heavier and taller, capable of nearly twice the sail.
“Last resort,” Rale said as he surveyed the vessel. At Errol’s bidding he continued. “Weir spent decades consolidating the naval and shipping power of Illustra in his own hands. Without his ships the best the kingdom can hope for is to keep the Merakhi bottled up in the strait. Deas help us if they break through and sail up the western coast. Instead of fighting a two-front war, it’ll be three, and that last one will be at our backs.”
Captain Mederi’s cabin was nearly twice the size of Tek’s. Trestle tables nailed to the floor and covered with a pile of charts filled the space. Mederi, a gangly Talian with a large hooked nose and thinning black hair, rose to greet them with quick, jerky motions.
He shook hands with each of them, but at the sight of Tek, his face darkened. “I see you survived the mission to Ongol. Pity.”
Rale’s mouth pulled to one side. “You two know each other?”
Tek coughed into his hand. “It’s an old misunderstanding.”
Errol stepped forward, drawing Mederi’s attention. “We don’t have time to settle scores, Captain.” He gestured toward the charts. “What’s happening here?”
Mederi sagged as if his anger had been the source of his fortitude. “We’re outmatched, but we knew that going in. The kingdom’s aim is not so much to win the strait, but to keep the Merakhi from leaving it. We’re only a league from Bota, the narrowest point.” He pointed to an oversized chart showing the Basquon port and the por
tion of the strait they now occupied. “The longships have a shallower draft, so they can sail closer to the coast, but we’ve installed trebuchets on the cliffs to hurl anything we can find at them.” He traced a finger between Illustra and Merakh. “What cogs we have fill the strait, driving the longships close to our shore, where the siege engines can pick them off.”
“They’ll catch on sooner or later,” Tek said. He leaned over the map engrossed in the layout of the two navies. “Then they’ll come at you in force or try to slip your blockade at night.”
“Aye.” Mederi gave Tek a grudging nod. “They started as much a few nights ago as soon as the moon became too dim to light the water. We barely held. They nearly sank two of the cogs. Fortunately, they had to withdraw, but we don’t have replacements.” His chest rose as he pulled the sea air into his lungs. “We can hold them once, maybe twice more. Then they’ll be through and headed up the coast.”
Tek nodded, his eyes intent on the chart. Small numbers next to sinuous lines indicated the depth in fathoms at the bottleneck. “There’s only one thing you can do.”
Mederi’s face chilled. “They’re not as honorable as you, Tek. They don’t leave their prisoners on some Deas-forsaken island to wait for rescue. They kill them.”
Instead of growing angry, Tek laughed. “You misunderstand me, Mederi. There be no surrender to the Merakhi. You’ll have to let them sink your ships.” He paused to run a hand across his grizzled chin. “And if they won’t do it, you’ll have to.”
Mederi inhaled, his face thunderous. Then he caught sight of Tek tapping the chart and leaned over it. “Blast me, it might work.”
“What might work?” Errol asked.
Mederi tore himself from the chart. “Narrowing the strait even more. If we sink the ships too damaged to be of use to us, the longships will be limited to the center of the strait.” He turned back to Tek. “We still can’t hold forever.”
“No, Captain Mederi, you can’t,” Tek said. “But you might buy Illustra enough time for a miracle.” He glanced at Errol.
A Draw of Kings Page 29