Errol tried to ignore the implication of that look, but a small voice reminded him of who Tek was. The little sea captain didn’t flaunt it, but he was solis. Errol didn’t want to think of himself as a miracle—it meant death.
Rale leaned in. “What news do the ships bring from Erinon?”
Mederi waved an arm toward the strait. “The people on the Green Isle are no better off than we are here. Each vessel brings different tidings, but they all say the Judica is desperate. They’ve ordered the conclave to work without ceasing until the soteregia is found. The thunder of hundreds of casts fills the halls, but every one fails.”
Mederi shook his head. “The latest news is the worst. The archbenefice is ill.”
“How ill?” Rale demanded.
“He suffered a stroke. Bertrand Canon lies near death if he has not passed over already. I have withheld the news from my command.” He spread his hands. “Our battle is hopeless enough.”
Rale and Tek groaned, but Merodach stiffened and his eyes grew moist. Deep within Errol’s chest, the smoldering hope for the kingdom’s unlikely victory guttered and blew out. Without Bertrand Canon to head the Judica and advise the council of nobles, Illustra was bereft.
“A ship without a rudder finds the shoals,” Tek said.
“A double succession,” Rale said. He shook his head. “Who rules?”
Mederi’s shoulders lifted then settled before he answered. “Duke Escarion’s voice carries the most weight with the nobles, and most of his orders get carried out. Primus Sten still heads the conclave. The last report stated that he continues to seek the soteregia, despite the failure of their craft.”
Merodach shook his head. “It’s not the craft that’s failed, Captain. It’s the question.”
“How can that be? There is either a soteregia or there isn’t.”
Rale waved a hand dismissing the rest of the discussion. “We can’t stay here, Captain. We need the fastest ship you can spare to get us back to the isle.”
“I can’t give you anything. If we intend to clog the shallows with wreckage, it’ll take everything I have.”
“We do be willing to trade,” Tek said. “My ship be not so big as your cogs, but its larger than what the watchmen require to speed back to Erinon.”
A lump in Errol’s throat made it difficult to swallow. “You’re going to scuttle your own ship?”
Tek rested a hand on Errol’s shoulder. “She’s been a fair vessel, lad, and more faithful than most, but even with dry dock she’ll never be right again. This be the best service she can offer.” He turned to Mederi. “I’ll throw myself in as well, if you’ll have me.”
Mederi’s face flashed from shock to grudging admiration. “I’d rather have you with me than against me, pirate though you are.”
Tek laughed. “Reformed pirate.”
Mederi inked a command to release one of his ships back to Erinon, and then he and Tek turned their attention back to the charts as Errol and the rest left the cabin.
They stepped aboard the Waverider an hour later, the smell of tar and naptha strong in Errol’s nose. Scorch marks covered the topmost deck of the ship near the catapult fastened ahead of the foremast. In the distance, Illustran ships made for the shallow parts of the strait as smoke stained the early spring sky.
Two weeks later they slipped into Erinon’s western port. As they entered the harbor, they passed ships headed the other way, ships that were hardly more than fishing vessels capable of offering little more than token resistance to the fleet of longships Merakh sent against them.
Errol pointed at one. “Can they hold?”
Rale’s eyes reflected the gray-green of the sea. “If any man can wring victory from the strait, Amos Tek can.” He blinked twice. “But no, they cannot hold. At best they can make the cost in lives and time too high for the Merakhi to be willing to pay.”
“The malus don’t have a price,” Errol said. “We’re going to lose.”
Rale nodded, still looking across the harbor toward the docks of the city. “It seems to me we had this conversation once before, Errol. The only battle that’s been lost is the one that’s already been fought.”
Errol’s chest ached to ask Rale what he thought about the soteregia, but he was too afraid of the answer to voice the question. Deep within, surrounded by layers of distraction and denial, lay the conviction he must die. He didn’t want to hear it confirmed by any of his friends.
As they glided to the pier, the sound of bells, deep and melancholy, drifted across the water. Errol didn’t ask, and neither Rale nor Merodach offered an interpretation, but he knew the meaning.
A sparse collection of dockhands, remnants of a thriving concern, tied their ship to the pier and they disembarked. A pair of nobles, alike in face but different in coloring, stood on the weathered timbers of the pier to take their report—Derek and Darren, the sons of Duke Escarion. At seeing Errol’s face, they started in surprise.
“Well met, Earl Stone,” Derek said. Darren nodded his agreement behind him. “Your arrival is an unexpected pleasure.” The ever-present smile, gentle and mocking, was gone from Derek’s face. Darren had always been quiet, but now his silence seemed weighed with grief.
He didn’t want to ask. For as long as he kept the question to himself he could hope that it might not be true. Errol shook his head. That was a boy’s way of thinking. Such hopeful denials wouldn’t serve him.
“We heard the bells,” he said into the silence. “How long ago did the archbenefice die?”
Derek’s gaze went past him. “Three days.”
“Who leads in his place?” Rale asked.
“No one.” Derek hurled the words as if they offended him. “The benefices can’t figure out which of them is supposed to be the salvation of the kingdom.” Derek closed his eyes and sighed. “Every last one of them claims to feel the call of Deas to lead.”
Darren put a hand on his older brother’s shoulder. “Go easy, Derek. They are ordinary men caught in extraordinary circumstances.”
“Then we need extraordinary men,” Derek said, but the heat had gone from his voice.
Errol nodded. Illustra required heroes. Liam was one and Pater Martin another, but they were few, too few.
He shifted the pack that hung from his shoulder, tightened his grip on the metal staff Martin had given him. “I must go to the Judica.”
The light of hope flared in Darren’s eyes. “You were successful?”
“Yes.”
A smile like a glint of sunlight grew on Darren’s face. “Perhaps that will embolden the benefices to make a decision.”
Errol shrugged, the weight of the book and its revelations suddenly heavy. “That depends on how they receive it.”
29
Knowable
THEY ASCENDED the rough granite steps that led from the docks to the royal compound, where the Judica, the conclave, and the watch made their home. Questions gnawed at Errol, queries he’d denied himself during his journey.
“Do you have any news of Princess Adora?” he asked.
“No.” Derek shook his head. “Nor of Pater Martin.”
Errol stumbled, and his foot slipped back to the previous step. “What of Martin?”
Derek grimaced, his hands fluttering in the air. “My apologies. You departed before he left with the secondus and Captain Cruk. They sent some messages back, but no one’s heard from them since they passed into the eastern parts of Bellia.” He tapped his head with one finger. “That small man went with them.”
“Karele,” Errol said. “But why Bellia?”
Rale made a sound behind him. “Caves. Martin seeks another way onto the steppes, but to what end I have no idea.”
But Errol suspected. Karele’s adoptive father, Ablajin, held authority of a sort with the horsemen. Had the horse master gone seeking to make peace? But why take Martin and Luis with him?
“If they have gone to the steppes, it is unlikely we will see them again,” Derek said.
&nb
sp; Errol wanted to argue, but his hope seemed too uncertain to offer.
As they entered the compound, word of their arrival ran ahead of them. Servants, nobles, and churchmen alike gaped in wonder, the faces sloughing off mourning as they passed. Their regard weighed on Errol like a millstone around his neck. Against the might of Merakh and the unlikely hope of Martin’s mission, the recovery of the book seemed insignificant. What good would doctrine do against such odds?
Men in heavy crimson robes raced ahead of them toward the meeting hall of the Judica, but when Errol arrived at the official entrance, the guards bade him wait while the rest of the benefices gathered.
At last the way swung open to reveal a sea of florid faces wreathed in mixtures of hope and fear. The temptation to draw out the moment, to keep the benefices in suspense, washed over him for an instant, but only for a pair of heartbeats. He unslung his pack and with simple movements untied the oiled skin that protected the ancient book, the source of Magis’s folly. A collective gasp filled the hall. Some of the older benefices wept openly, uncaring, while others reached toward him with outstretched arms as if they could touch the hope of their salvation despite the distance between themselves and the dais.
Errol noted the presence of Benefice Kell, who had brought the accusation against him of consorting with spirits and had unwittingly been the means of his survival. Thin wisps of his ancient hair wafted back and forth as he rocked on his feet, tears tracking down his face. Benefice Kerran, one of his few defenders from the first, looked upon him like a man given his greatest hope.
Kell came forward, stumping on his old man’s legs until he stood within arm’s reach of Errol. “I know you’ve no cause to look upon me with benevolence, Earl Stone, but I confess before Deas and all these men that I was wrong to accuse you. Only Deas’s chosen could have brought the book back.”
It was meant to be praise; Errol knew that, but Kell’s pronouncement stabbed him like an omen of prophecy. Deas’s chosen would die.
The other benefices remained in their seats—held by reticence or protocol, Errol didn’t know which—but Kerran came forward to join Kell on the dais, his hands extended.
Errol’s fingertips caressed the thick leather cover of the book, brushed the brass binding that held it closed.
“The church and its Judica owe you much, Earl Stone,” Benefice Kerran said. “How may we repay you?”
Errol surrendered the book with a pang of loss. Other than himself, Kell, and Kerran, no one stood on the dais. No one ruled. “Who commands in Canon’s absence?”
Kerran sighed. “No one at the moment. The duties of archbenefice are carried out by an appointee chosen each week.”
Again, the traditions of the church escaped Errol. Why did the Judica insist on doing everything the hard way? “Why haven’t you told the conclave to cast for the next archbenefice?”
Kell and Kerran exhaled in unison. “It’s not that simple, lad,” Kell said. For once his weathered features didn’t appear stern, only tired. “The corruption within the church carried out by Benefices Weir and Dane has taught us to be suspicious of each other.” He snorted. “As if we weren’t already.”
Kerran nodded. “Also, there has been no omne to verify the cast. Suspicion runs to the conclave as well.”
Kell put a hand on Errol’s shoulder. He could feel nothing except earnest sincerity in the old man’s touch. “You may be the weight that tips the scales, Earl Stone. You have returned the book to us, and you are the omne. As such, your integrity is unassailable. The Judica is in your debt.” Kell leaned close, beseeched. “You could use that debt to force us into action.”
He felt the extremity of Kell’s need as Benefice Kerran nodded assent behind him.
“No.” He tried to ignore the look of shock that twisted their faces. “It won’t work. If you need me to tell the Judica what to do now, who will you turn to next—someone like Weir?
“Archbenefice Canon had the Judica and the conclave tested—each and every member, including the primus. You can trust each other.” He shrugged. “You just have to make the decision to do it.”
He favored each of them with a bow. “Benefices, if you will excuse me, I need to report to the council of nobles.” He gestured toward the book. “And you have much to do.”
Their gazes followed him as he departed, but he left without regret. If he allowed them to make him their leader, their reliance would lead them to helplessness.
When he arrived at the hall the council of nobles used as their meeting place, he was surprised to find a mere fraction of the men present who’d attended months before. Duke Escarion had eschewed the seat of authority on the dais. Instead, the space was filled with maps of the kingdom spread on a dozen trestle tables that had been shoved together in the center of the room. Every noble present clustered around as the duke used a pointer to brief them all. Rale and Merodach stood on each side.
“We’ve got every tub not committed to the Forbidden Strait ferrying men from Soeden to Einland.” He shifted his pointer. “Most of the Fratalanders have already made their way south into Bellia. Those that remain are too few to threaten the Morgol army pouring through the gap.”
A noble with a florid complexion and a bushy red mustache pointed to the inlet that reached far into Bellia. “Can we not hold the Morgols here? The landscape would pinch them into a longer column. Pikemen and archers would be able to stop their cavalry.”
Escarion glanced at Rale, who pointed to a pair of markers just west of Bellia in Dannick. “It’s a good suggestion, Duke Hoffen, but the men you need are too far away to get there before the Morgols.”
A different noble made a strangled noise in his throat. “Do you know what you’re saying? There’s nothing but rolling plains from there to the mountains of the Arryth. You’ve just surrendered Bellia, Dannick, and Einland to the Morgols.”
Duke Escarion gestured at the map, pulling the noble’s attention and ire away from Captain Rale. “Count Hessen, even could we hold the Bellian inlet against the Morgols, that portion of the army would be trapped by any force coming against them from the south.” He smacked his pointer on the border between Lugaria and Sorland. “We know the Merakhi have already crossed from the shadow lands into this region. Were they to march north, any force in Bellia would be caught between them and the Morgols. They’d be totally wiped out.”
The duke’s words went into Errol’s side like a sword thrust. He tried to keep his voice neutral, failed. “What of Princess Adora? Is she . . . Did her mission succeed?”
Escarion’s expression was unreadable. “No, Earl Stone.”
The room spun. Errol thrust out an arm, groped for the nearest shoulder to support his weight as the duke’s voice came to him from a distance. “The princess and Captain Liam are unharmed, but the Merakhi landed a large force of soldiers and spawn on the southern coast of the shadow lands. Haven’s army was wiped out buying their civilians enough time to escape. The princess and Captain Liam will meet our forces in Gascony.”
“They aren’t coming here?” Errol asked.
With a gesture to Rale and Merodach, Escarion shook his head. “We’ve already sent word for them to await our arrival. The Forbidden Strait cannot be held indefinitely. We must engage the Merakhi in the Arryth and hope we can defeat them before they can land a force behind us.”
Errol looked into the shadowed gaze of the duke, tried not to see the despair Escarion fought to keep from his eyes. Around the tables, the nobles paled and most of them wore resignation. To win the war, they would have to engage a superior force from not one but two countries and triumph quickly. Then, assuming enough of their army survived such a victory, they would have to turn and defeat whatever force the Merakhi sent to attack them from the west.
“How soon do we leave Erinon?” he asked.
Escarion exchanged a glance with Rale and Merodach before he answered. “The captains will leave in the morning with the remnants of the watch still on the island. The rest of us wi
ll follow as soon as we can.” He sighed. “We will have to convince the Judica and the conclave of their peril. They will not want to leave.”
“I will depart with the captains, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem convincing the Judica, Your Grace,” Errol said. “They have something they will dearly want to protect.”
A whisper of breeze, no more than a suggestion of air movement, brought Antil’s scent to Adora as they rode west. The odor nauseated her, and like rotted meat eaten unawares, everything about the man turned her stomach. Not for the first time she regretted her decision to make the bitter little man her personal priest. In the beginning she thought she might change him, might force him to see the nobility that lay within his son, but she’d underestimated Pater Antil.
No endorsement, however sincere, no matter the source, would convince him of Errol’s worth. Antil’s own self-loathing went too deep. Several times she’d found herself on the verge of striking him, only to stop just short, her arms shaking with the suppressed violence of withheld blows. Rokha, her jaws and shoulders clenched, had quickly left her company, only returning to her side if Antil rode elsewhere.
Adora could hardly blame her.
Weary of Antil’s denials, Adora now considered a different approach. “Tell me about her,” she said at last.
Antil looked at her with eyes that shared Errol’s color but not his openness and squinted in suspicion. “You will have to specify, Your Highness. Callowford is a small village, but I am acquainted with more than one ‘her.’”
That was another thing she despised about him; his corrections never ceased and the superior smirk that twisted his lips into a parody of a smile made her sword arm itch. “Pardon my mistake, Pater. I thought you to be a more discerning man.” She smiled as his grin faded. “There is only one ‘her’ I have any interest in: Errol’s mother. I want to know what my future husband’s mother was like.”
Antil set his jaws, didn’t speak.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.”
“Your Highness”—Antil bit his words off one at a time—“I am your priest. You are not my confessor.”
A Draw of Kings Page 30