A Draw of Kings

by Patrick W. Carr

  Rale winced but otherwise kept his composure. Errol saw the archbenefice ball his hands into fists. Bertrand Canon might have balked at physical violence; Martin Arwitten would not. Illustra’s archbenefice took a deep breath, as if preparing for a renewed attack. “What makes you think—”

  “We cast for it,” Rale said.

  Martin gurgled, his tirade cut off in midthreat. “Who authorized you to approach the conclave on this matter?”

  Errol wasn’t sure he liked Martin’s soft-spoken tone any better than his screaming.

  “Did you cast this?” Martin asked him.

  “No, Archbenefice,” Errol said, bowing his head.

  Martin snorted. “Now he shows respect.” He leveled that gaze back at Rale. “You do not have access to the conclave, Captain. No one does at this point except me, and I never authorized such a cast. So either you are lying, or you’ve managed to convince a reader to do this without my authorization. Either way, I am very displeased.”

  Rale nodded. “I understand, Archbenefice, but neither of those happened. Captain Merodach performed the cast.”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. “Ah. I see.” He turned to the chair where Luis Montari sat in silence. “Secondus, please confirm the cast.”

  Luis pulled a pair of blanks and his knife from his pocket. “What was the question?”

  Martin’s eyes lit with the possibility of hope. “Yes, Captain Rale, what was the question?”

  “Whether Errol should take command of one of the gaps to protect the Arryth. Then we cast to see when.” He shrugged. The motion brought a flash of annoyance to Martin’s face. “Captain Merodach was quite thorough, Archbenefice.”

  A muscle in Martin’s cheek jumped. “Yes. I’m sure he was.”

  A knock at the door interrupted Luis’s twelfth draw. Nine times the lots indicated Errol should take command. Martin pointed to Rale, gestured for him to open the door. A low-voiced conversation took place between the captain and an animated guard.

  Rale nodded and closed the door. “A messenger just arrived from Princess Adora,” he said, facing Martin. “She will be at Escarion before nightfall.”

  Errol’s chest struggled to contain the pounding of his heart. He wanted to shout in celebration and cry in relief. The conflicting emotions conspired to root him to the spot, staring in dumbfounded wonder at Rale.

  But the captain’s gaze found his, then darted away to Martin. “Pater Antil, the former priest of Callowford, accompanies her. She requests an immediate audience with the archbenefice and Earl Stone.”

  Errol’s gaze locked with Martin’s, but he could find no evidence of subterfuge there. Surprise wreathed the man’s face, then embers of rekindled anger, coals that threatened to roar back to flame.

  “You do not have to do this,” Martin said to Errol again. “It is not required.”

  Errol turned that over in his mind, nodding at the sound of truth within it, but just because something sounded true, didn’t make it so. “Did you have Luis cast the question, or did Aurae tell you I shouldn’t meet with . . . with . . . him?” He couldn’t bring himself to call Antil his father. As if he shrugged off a mental weight, he rejected Antil’s claim on him. The priest was not, had never been, his father.

  “Neither,” Martin answered, “but I can inquire if you wish. If there is any mercy in Deas, he would not require it of you.”

  That drew Errol up short. Mercy? He’d never thought of Deas in that way. After having been driven like an ox before the goad for over a year now, that would be the last quality he’d ascribe to Deas.

  “Is Deas really merciful, Pater?” Errol asked.

  Martin stiffened, whether at the question or the lesser title, Errol couldn’t tell, but a moment later, he nodded. “I believe He is.”

  “He doesn’t seem so to me.”

  “Do you believe Him cruel, then?” Martin asked.

  Errol shook his head. “I used to think so, but now it seems everything just comes down to what’s necessary. Rodran died without an heir. So it becomes necessary to find a new sacrifice to renew the barrier.” He avoided saying the sacrifice would be himself. The argument would be pointless.

  “If it’s successful, other people will see it as merciful,” Martin said.

  “I guess so,” Errol said. That truth failed to touch or warm him in any way. He pointed to the broad doors of the archbenefice’s offices. “We’re here.”

  “I speak for the church now, Errol. There is no compulsion, literal or figurative, that requires this of you.”

  Martin’s eyes were tear-filled.

  Errol nodded. For a moment, he considered turning back, but for too long he’d sought a family, seeking origins, hoping to understand himself. Despite it all, he remained hopeful that something good would come of this. He opened the door, followed Martin into spacious chambers, and stopped. Interim quarters for the archbenefice they might be, but they impressed nonetheless. A gilded chair filled a dais surrounded by rich red tapestries, and to one side an altar offered the archbenefice a luxurious backdrop to celebrate the sacrament. A setting more unlike Martin’s cabin in the Sprata would have been hard to imagine.

  An attendant helped Martin into his robes and slipped his symbol of office over his head. The transformation from hermit to archbenefice was accomplished, and Errol bowed as Martin Arwitten took his seat.

  The attendant stepped forward. “Archbenefice, Her Highness and Pater Antil await your pleasure.”

  Martin looked at Errol before he answered. “Admit the princess. Inform Pater Antil that we ask him to abide yet awhile.”

  Adora entered. Errol’s vision blurred, and then she filled his arms and he held tight, fighting to keep himself from crying aloud with relief. He tasted salt from their tears as her lips found his.

  “You don’t have to meet with him, Errol.”

  He kissed her cheek and brushed away the rest of her tears. “I want to know who I am.”

  Her fists knotted in her shirt. “I know who you are.” She shook him a little. “And by now, you should know as well.”

  “She is right,” Martin said.

  Errol nodded, but said nothing. His desire to see Antil went deeper than logic or reason could define. He would because he must.

  “He hates you,” Adora said.

  In spite of himself, Errol laughed. “I think I knew that.”

  Adora shook her head. “He changed his story from what he told to Martin—and . . . I believe him. He was going to leave the priesthood. The woman he loved, who died giving birth to you, was his wife.”

  Errol nodded. “Ah.” It didn’t really matter, but it was good to know. He turned to the archbenefice. “I think I’m ready now.”

  Martin signaled his attendant. “Escort Pater Antil into my presence.”

  Antil, dressed in the clean black robes of a priest, walked the strip of crimson carpet to approach the dais where Martin awaited. At the first step, he knelt on both knees. “As you have commanded, Archbenefice, so have I come. How may I serve?”

  “Arise, Pater,” Martin said. “My loyal servant and the kingdom’s hero, Earl Errol Stone, has questions he wishes to put to you. I command you to answer him honestly and without reservation.”

  Antil’s jaws clenched, but his head jerked in affirmation.

  Errol considered his tormentor. Antil stood below him, yet even were they side by side, the priest would still have been shorter than he, but there were similarities between them he could not deny. A memory of dimples showed in Antil’s cheeks, however long it had been since he’d used them, and the nose might have been the same had the priest not broken his more than once.

  But there the similarities ended. Antil’s expression was twisted, as if the circumstances that had taken his life from its desired path had bred a deep and abiding resentment that could not be overcome. What might have the priest been if his wife hadn’t died? What might Errol himself have been?

  Antil fidgeted, but Errol ign
ored his agitation, intrigued by the question. What would he, Errol Stone, have been? Loved? Probably. If a woman had loved Antil, there must have been something in him she found worthy. Errol might have grown up with a family, his real family, with all the warmth and security that went with it.

  And what then? At fourteen, he would have been tested, discovered as an omne, and sent to Erinon to die at Sarin Valon’s hand. Errol snorted, then laughed at the affronted expression that twisted Antil’s face a little more.

  The laughter in the presence of his enemy cleansed him. He would not waste his time or emotions hating Antil. He could not excuse the vicious little priest’s behavior, but Antil’s deeds no longer held him captive.

  Did he want anything from him? The answer came to him.

  “Do you have any living family?”

  The priest’s eyes widened at the unexpected question before he jerked a nod, but he didn’t speak.

  Martin’s voice curtailed Errol’s next question. “You are in the presence of one of the greatest heroes in the kingdom’s history, Pater Antil.” His voice hardened into steel. “I pray you remember that you are a representative of the church. This is Earl Stone, omne of the conclave, captain of the watch, and betrothed of her Highness, Princess Adora. Come, loosen your tongue . . . if you wish to keep it.”

  Antil bowed his head at the archbenefice’s command, but his answer was sharp. “My father is dead, but I am told my mother still lives, along with a brother and a sister.” He shrugged. “They both have children. I don’t know how many.” He bit his words as if they offended him.

  “And where are they?” Errol asked.

  Antil glared at his superior. “You speak of respect and yet you allow him to address me without my title?”

  Martin’s laugh, filled with derision, bounced off the walls, the echoes mocking Antil’s protest. “Under the circumstances, Pater Antil, you are fortunate he doesn’t take that stick of his and offer you the recompense you so richly deserve. I will not abide stalling. Answer the question.”

  “Here, in Gascony.”

  Errol lost track of his heartbeat for a moment. It returned with the roaring sound of blood surging through his veins. “Names. I want their names.”

  Antil glared at him as if he’d already guessed his intent.

  “Answer please, Pater Antil,” Martin said. “If you force me to send functionaries to dig the information out of the church archives, I shall become bilious.”

  The priest refused to meet Errol’s gaze. “The family name is Ariel.” He made a gesture as if he were throwing something away. “Simple craftsmen close to the border with Talia.”

  Errol turned, gave Martin a formal bow. “Archbenefice, I would ask your indulgence.”

  Martin nodded. “Done.” His eyes betrayed a sudden unease and something else Errol couldn’t identify.

  “If I should survive this war, I want to meet my family, but I want him forbidden to acknowledge me.”

  He faced Antil. “I’m sorry she died. I could say that it might have been Deas’s way to spare me from the murderous plans of Sarin Valon, but I believe Deas will still demand my life. If it’s my death you’ve wished, then I would say you are still likely to get it.”

  “There, Pater Antil,” Martin said. “Though you have not asked it, you have mercy. Had Earl Stone demanded your life, I would have searched church law and tradition for a way to grant his request.”

  “May I withdraw now . . . Archbenefice?” Antil asked.

  Martin smiled, but the expression held no warmth or humor. “You may, but stay close. There remains the matter of your penance.”

  32

  Search

  SHE PULLED HIM CLOSE, unmindful of the archbenefice or his attendants, and kissed him, letting her lips linger against his. The sensation of melting into him overtook her, and she felt his heartbeat as if it were her own. When they parted, his breath stroked her neck and ear.

  “Make me your wife.”

  He smiled, equal parts eagerness and rue, and she realized he would refuse.

  “Gladly, maitale.” He kissed her on the forehead as if she were his sister. “If I live.”

  His tone said plainly he didn’t expect to. “Would you deny me? After I have waited for you?”

  His smile and dimples faded. “I will never deny you anything, my heart, but I think Liam will eventually rule Illustra, and I will not take you for myself for a night or two and deprive another man of his gift.”

  Her skin heated as though his denials had the ability to stoke her desire rather than cool it. “How do you know I will survive you?” She gestured to Martin, who tried and failed to keep the knowledge of their conversation from showing on his face. “The ceremony need not be lengthy. He can marry us now.”

  Errol faltered, the deep blue of his eyes intent, his pupils dilating with a mix of emotions. She saw love and fear, but most of all she saw longing. With her hands tangled in his dark brown hair she pulled him close.

  A pounding at the door startled them, and a moment later Captains Rale and Cruk came in, urgent and grim. No. Please, no.

  He pulled away from her, not jerking as though ashamed, simply parting as if their need for him had been expected.

  “Archbenefice,” Rale said, “our scouts have returned. The Merakhi are farther north than we realized.” He turned to Errol. “We need to march, or we’ll lose the southern gaps.”

  Desperation flamed, prompting her plea. “Can he not wait a few days, Captain?”

  Rale shook his head, but it was Cruk who spoke. “Not even a few hours, Your Highness. If we don’t beat the Merakhi to the gaps, we’ve lost.”

  “Can’t you send someone else?”

  “All the captains are marching,” Rale said.

  “But night approaches,” Martin said. She wanted to kiss the bulky old priest in that moment for sparing her dignity.

  “There’s enough moonlight to move by,” Cruk said. “A few miles tonight might make the difference.”

  The archbenefice nodded. He had no choice, really.

  The captains discussed specifics that fell on her ears like disregarded conversations in a crowded room. Then Errol simply bowed over her hand and kissed it, because of where they were and who she was, and left.

  Except for her the room was empty. No. Martin remained, his attendant dismissed on some errand. Thick hands pulled her into an embrace that swallowed her. She stiffened, but the warmth of his arms eroded her resolve like a wave pulling sand from beneath her feet. Tremors worked themselves loose from her control until she could no longer keep them at bay. She clutched Martin’s stole of office, and he held her until the wracking sobs subsided.

  “Have faith, child,” Martin said. “Deas hears.”

  She wanted to accept the hope he offered, but she’d lost Errol too many times. Try as she might, she could not refute his acceptance of death, and the shadows of hope people offered against it lacked enough conviction to contravene Errol’s simple acknowledgment. The man she loved would die, required as a sacrifice by Illustra’s need. There was no hope.

  She left.

  Rokha found her wandering about Escarion’s palace, her emotions both numb and raw. Adora sought her gaze. “He’s gone.”

  Brown eyes more used to laughter than sympathy acknowledged her. “I heard.”

  Adora lifted her head. “Why are you still here? You’re a watchman.”

  The well-muscled shoulders, strong without being mannish, lifted in response. “I prefer my battles small and personal. Trouble follows you, Your Highness, the way it follows that crazy boy you love.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” Errol’s absence created an emptiness she hadn’t realized existed until she met him, and each time he left she became half a person. She hadn’t felt this hollow since discovering her uncle Rodran had died. Old grief mingled with new. She hadn’t even been given the chance to say good-bye.

  She stopped. Oliver Turing’s contorted face appeared, telling her to find h
er father. What had he meant? Prince Jaclin had been a stranger to her. She’d been scarcely four when he died, but even then he’d been a distant memory, campaigning at the kingdom’s borders since her mother’s death at her birth.

  Her back straightened, purpose giving her strength. “We need to find my father.”

  Rokha’s brows rose. “Why?”

  Adora turned to face her. “Turing took my uncle’s confession. I had no idea his chamberlain could function as a nuntius, but Sevra killed him before he could give me the full message. He was only able to tell me to find my father.” She shook her head at the rest of the memory. “I assume he meant the location of his grave.”

  “Shouldn’t he be buried on the Green Isle?”

  “I would think so. I didn’t really know him, so I never asked about his grave. It seems I would have gone to his funeral or visited his grave at least once . . . but I have no memory of it. I was only four. ” She smiled a sad smile at Rokha. “But I suppose the answer is just a few blocks of wood away.”

  “The archbenefice has restricted the conclave to questions of the succession.”

  “The new tremus is an old friend,” Adora said. “I’ve known Willem since I was old enough to toddle around the palace.”

  They found him in his quarters in the lower halls of the castle. The dank air chilled her, but the sight of Willem, a lanky scarecrow in his blue reader’s robe, warmed her, and his oversized hands pulled her into his embrace.

  He looked around before he spoke. “How are you, Snub Nose?”

  She pushed away. “I haven’t been snub-nosed since I was twelve.”

  Willem sighed and rubbed his own beaklike appendage. “I know. You were so much cuter then. Now you’re all willowy womanhood.”

  He was impossible.

  “I need a cast, Willem.”

  The smile remained, but the eyes grew serious beneath the bushy eyebrows. “Every reader has been ordered to bend their efforts to finding the next king.” He sighed. “The church’s new archbenefice is disconcertingly direct. We are forbidden to do anything else.”