He gazed around the room, forced his eyes to see past his dread and fear, gauging these men. The faces surely wore expressions that reflected his.
“We are undone,” Duke Batten said.
Several men nodded. One—Martin thought his name was Torin—filled a wine glass with careless movements, unheeding that it overflowed onto the polished wood of the table, and drained it. Bleary eyes testified to the number of times he’d made those same gestures already.
“We are not. Not while we have breath,” Martin said. Inside, he snorted at the inefficacy of his words.
“The gaps are failing,” Escarion said. To his credit, his tone did not accuse but rather informed, inviting strategy or suggestion. “Those possessed by a malus within the Merakhi army are able to control the spawn. We cannot stand against them. Our forces must retreat here to Escarion. We possess the high ground, Archbenefice, but the natural defenses here do not match those of the Arryth.”
Martin nodded. He wanted nothing more than to shut himself in his rooms and leave the fate of Illustra to Deas, but some remnant of hope or will refused to let him surrender. He was probably a fool.
The map before him showed Escarion’s lands. He traced the rivers to the south with a thick finger. “The spawn we encountered in Bellia succumbed to the water.” The nobles around him nodded in agreement, but their eyes betrayed their doubt. “And we must trust to Deas,” he added, but his thoughts accused him as a deceiver.
Torin snorted, his lips flapping in the pause. “Show me some sign of Deas’s favor.” He stood, looking around the room as if searching for some evidence of deliverance. The count shook his head, wavering on his feet in time to each blink. He gripped a bottle of wine in each hand and staggered away. Martin envied him the luxury of his retreat.
Duke Escarion stood, signaling an end to the meeting. “We’ll need sappers to take down the bridges.”
He left with the other nobles in his wake, leaving Martin to sit in the empty room. The fire at the far end, set to drive away the spring chill, made joyful cracking sounds, and the flames danced as if happy to provide warmth.
The deep cushions of the chair invited him to remain, but the failure of their forces to hold against the Merakhi horde placed requirements on him. Not many, true, but certain tasks must be completed. He rose, took his staff in hand, and made for the door. His page, Breun, stepped in beside him, his round face curious and a little frightened.
When Martin turned from the wing of the castle that housed both the conclave and the Judica, the lad missed a step.
“Are we not returning to your quarters, Archbenefice?”
Martin shook his head. “I need to see an old friend, Breun. Come, we’re going to drop in on Primus Sten.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Every line of the boy’s posture showed he longed to ask why. Martin hadn’t visited the primus since Sten had withdrawn from active participation in the conclave upon Canon’s death. Luis and Willem had split Enoch’s duties in his absence. The primus rarely left his rooms.
At the thought, a chill crept up one arm and down the other. Like Sarin, he thought. He waved his hand in the air as if he could physically brush the comparison aside. “I find myself in need of counsel, Breun.”
The eyes widened in wonder. “You, Archbenefice?”
Martin chuckled in spite of himself. “Me perhaps more than any other, lad. The higher you rise, the greater your need for advice.” He caught the boy’s gaze. “I hope you will remember that.”
“I will, Your Excellency.” His hair flopped in agreement with his earnest nod.
They ascended the steps of the south tower. At his knock, the door opened to reveal the head of the conclave. At seeing Martin, Sten bowed. “Please come in, Archbenefice.”
Martin bent in appreciation and stepped across the threshold. Sten had picked out his own room, a modest affair with a single window that faced south. A chair sat in front of it surrounded by the implements of Sten’s craft. “Thank you for seeing me, Primus.”
Sten noted Martin’s inspection. “I don’t really own that title anymore.” His thin shoulders lifted beneath the weight of his heavy blue reader’s cloak. “They’re coming, but the lots are misbehaving, preventing me from determining exactly when. Perhaps it is me. I find it difficult to concentrate on the present or the future. I keep replaying the past, altering it within my mind to see how the present would change.” He laughed. “We tried to prepare for this—the three of us, Rodran, Bertrand, and I—but the war didn’t come in time. We aged until we became three old men guarding their secrets.” He pointed out the window. “None of our machinations mattered in the end. Rodran couldn’t father a child, and all the children we got from Prince Jaclin were killed. We turned the prince out to stud to save the kingdom, and it didn’t help us at all.”
He gave Martin a sad little smile. “All we accomplished was to deprive the princess of her father. The royal line failed, the church failed, and then the conclave failed. Luis blames himself, but the cast didn’t work for me either.”
Martin leaned forward. This was why he had come. “I need those secrets, Primus.”
Sten’s smile grew sad. “You know them already.”
“Who is supposed to be king and savior of Illustra? One of you must have known.”
Sten shook his head. “At the end we didn’t even trust each other, not really. Bertrand and I saw how Rodran took to Liam, but the cast came up the same.” He tottered to the chair that faced the south-looking window and took his seat with trembling, searching hands. He spoke to Martin as he gazed out across the meadows. “I think Rodran might have been the wisest of us all. Not once did he ask to have the question cast. Whenever we broached the subject, he just smiled and looked at Liam.”
37
Chosen
ADORA HADN’T REALIZED she’d fallen until hands took her by the arms and lifted her. Inside she despised herself even as her heart beat its exultation. Liam was Illustra’s soteregia, and Errol would live. The torchlight, seen through the film of tears that filled her eyes, flowed in her vision until the entire cavern danced in the orange-yellow glow.
“We promised Oliver we would stay until someone came,” Charlotte said. “The villagers never knew we were here.”
Her words washed over Adora, noted but having no impact. She stepped forward to her father’s crypt, the father she hardly remembered, and pulled her dagger from her belt. Using the point like a chisel she beat and pried at the bas-relief, working to loosen the mortar that attached the likeness to the surrounding rock.
Waterson stepped in opposite her, working at the joints on the far side. “One of his sons survived after all.” He sounded amazed. “How is that possible? Rodran searched the entire kingdom for an heir who survived the Merakhi assassins. There weren’t any.”
The herbwomen. “He was guarded,” Adora said. With a grinding sound of rocks sliding against each other, the carving of Jaclin came loose. “The ghostwalkers never knew he was there.”
“This is probably the only likeness of Prince Jaclin left in Illustra,” Waterson said. “Nobody remembers him before age or the scars or without the beard. If Liam dies in combat without being crowned king . . .”
Adora shook her head. “He will not. Deas has appointed him to save us at the determined time.” She wrapped the carving of the stranger, of her father, and of Illustra’s salvation—and her own—in her cloak and turned to the four people who stood waiting for her command. “We have to get back to Escarion as quickly as we can. I have coin. We can buy horses on the way.” Her mouth tightened. “I speak for the king.”
They ascended the stairs, Charlotte and Will in front of Adora with Rokha and Waterson behind. Adora followed in the dim light. The sound of a blade biting into flesh warned her, and she threw herself to one side. A splash, hot and sticky, hit her in the face, and the flare of a torch made her wince. She came up, sword in hand, to mocking laughter. Will and Charlotte lay dead. A pair of blades, both stained r
ed, pointed at her.
“Hello, strumpet.”
Disbelief clattered through her mind. “Sevra.” The face was that of Duke Weir’s daughter, or it would have been, had it not grown hideous, surmounting a seven-foot frame. The duchess’s eyes, so wide they appeared nearly lidless, stared and vibrated.
“We have unfinished business, little one,” Sevra said. “I owe you a debt, and a Weir always pays in full.” The sword bobbed in time to the words, the length of steel a hand longer than any other sword in the room.
“Skorik,” Rokha said. The man with Sevra jerked as if stung. “This is treason.”
The scar on his face contorted, but he gave no sign of being possessed. “No. This is vengeance.”
Rokha laughed, but the sound held none of its usual warmth. It crackled with derision like a whip striking flesh. “Because I found you an unworthy suitor? And this will elevate you in my eyes? You’re a fool.”
He spat. “I want no part of you, and your father is not here to protect you. You all should have died in Merakh.”
Sevra cut Skorik short. “The day marches on, strumpet.” She pointed the tip of her massive sword at the bundle that lay at Adora’s feet. “I see you found something of interest. Did you really think Turing’s last message escaped me?” She looked around the room, her lips curled. “So this is where they brought him.” Her gaze narrowed into a look of deadly concentration. “Lift it, human. Let me see it.”
Adora shot a look at Rokha. They faced only two opponents, and they held three blades of their own. Ru’s daughter gave a slight shake of her head. Breathless, Adora bent, her movements slow and unthreatening, and lifted the stone with her father’s image on it.
Sevra flicked her wrist, impatient, and Skorik thrust his torch forward to illuminate the stone visage. “A mystery. How quaint. Why would the image of a captain of the guard be in this abandoned place?” She stilled, and her eyes slowed their vibration. “There would be no need for you to come all this way for such inconsequence.”
Duke Weir’s daughter and the malus housed in her body leaned forward, still out of sword reach, to peer at the sculpture. “It is Captain Liam . . . and yet it is not.” Her eyes widened. “I know this one. We hunted his offspring, my brothers and I.” She gasped. “And one lived.” Laughter echoed from the stones. “Oh, strumpet, you have given me a gift beyond measure. Almost I am tempted to let you live to see the disaster you’ve wrought.
“By guiding me here you’ve assured your kingdom’s destruction.” Like a monstrous child, she beat her hand against her thigh in glee. “Your Judica and conclave are blind. Had you made it back to them with this, they would have crowned him king and enabled him to rebuild the barrier. Taste it, strumpet! Taste the full measure of your failure. The strait is ours. In hours I will gather a force that will attack Illustra’s men from behind.”
“You would aid this?” Rokha said to Skorik.
His face contorted as conflicting emotions chased each other across his features. “I have chosen my side. Nothing I can do will undo it now.”
Sevra looked at Rokha, her head tilted to one side in thought, with a smile that chilled Adora’s heart. “We can use you, my brothers and I. Why not give yourself to us now, small one? You could have the power you’ve longed for.”
Rokha laughed, brought her sword up, and turned to the ready position. “I don’t think so.”
The scrape of cloth against wood whispered in the silence. A ghost of movement in the shadowed interior of the church alerted them as black-clothed men moved in behind Sevra and Skorik.
Violence erupted as swords flashed everywhere.
Waterson dove, bearing Adora to the floor as Sevra launched a flicking attack that would have taken her in the throat. “Stay down.” He grunted in pain but levered himself up to join against the pair.
She rolled, her vision registering the presence of a pair of the watch locked in combat, one against Skorik with Rokha, the other against Sevra with Waterson.
And Antil.
Already the priest bled from a wound in his side, but he launched blows that could not be ignored, giving the watchmen and Waterson openings to strike and dart back.
Rokha’s voice cut the din, yelling instruction to the watchmen.
“He prefers high-line attacks. Watch for a low feint.”
Adora’s sword lay just beyond her reach. Blows and parries whistled above her head, whining against the stones before returning to land against her hearing again. She crawled, belly down on the floor, for her blade. Sevra saw the movement and hopped back in preparation to aim a kick at her throat. Adora rolled, grasped the hilt, and swung.
And struck Skorik just above the heel.
Blood spurted from the severed tendon. Unable to maneuver, he went down beneath an onslaught of blows that took him in the side and neck. Naaman Ru’s protégé died before he hit the floor.
Adora rose to see Sevra launch a counter that cleared the way to the door. Weir’s daughter disappeared at a run into the fading light.
A rattling breath intruded on her awareness. She knew the sound, knew what it meant, but Waterson stood with Rokha, pressing the fold of her cloak against his shoulder, not his lung. A watchman huddled over a figure on the floor whose blood ran into a growing puddle at their feet. A hand twitched. Antil was still alive.
She wanted to stay away. Despite his service, she did not trust him. What revelation might he have kept in reserve? Adora forced herself to circle around and kneel by the pale, pale face. The eyes, not Errol’s, looked up at her.
“I thank you for your service, Pater. Why?”
He struggled to pull a breath past the wound in his chest. “He . . .” He stopped, gave his head the barest shake. “No man—none—should have to bury his love.” His face slackened. “He’ll understand.”
Antil grew still.
Adora stood, her gaze still fastened to the man she’d hated above any other. “He probably will.”
The watchmen made to lift him.
Adora pointed to the stairs. “Place him down there with the rest. It’s fitting.” She gathered the bas-relief into her arms as if it held the power to keep Errol alive. “We must ride for Escarion now.”
“A brisk walk at best,” Waterson said, “with those sorry excuses for horses.”
Errol leaned forward to give Midnight a reassuring pat. He wasn’t sure who needed the gesture more, him or the horse. Illustran soldiers streamed from the Pelligroso Pass. Closer now, he could see they retreated in good order, what was left of them. Half a league behind, a force of Merakhi filled the gentle slope that led into Gascony’s heartland.
Sven towered over him on his left, perched atop the huge draft horse his bulk required. The lieutenant fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with their plan. Errol couldn’t blame him. Every time he thought of it, a muscle in his eye twitched. He cast a glance back at the wall of rubble and rock that trickled down, closing off the gap. On the cliff overlooking their position, men labored to dislodge more earth and rock.
“How long before it is ready?”
Lieutenant Hasta grunted. “Another hour at least.”
The pace of Errol’s heartbeat jumped. “It’s going to be a near thing.”
“Is this wise, Captain?” Sven asked.
Errol shook his head. “No, it’s not even close. Wise would be tucking our tail between our legs and racing to Escarion as fast as our horses could take us.” He sighed. “But if we do that, Captain Indurain’s and Captain Merkx’s force will be lost. Look.” He pointed. Already the gap between pursuer and pursued had narrowed.
Hasta nodded. Errol had to give him credit; after his initial objections had been answered, he executed every order as if the idea had been his own. “Sergeant Cursus is almost there.”
Errol watched as the horseman merged with the retreating force. “Let’s hope Indurain and Merkx move quickly.”
They waited, watching as the Illustrans moved farther out toward the flat ground that would giv
e them better footing for retreat. A moment passed. Two. Then their path shifted, showing a subtle change that would bring them past the position Errol’s force occupied.
“There it is,” Errol said. “Get everyone in position. It’s going to be tight.”
Captain Indurain’s force flowed past him. Every man bore wounds, gaping rents which left their owners pale and haggard beneath a veneer of sweat and dirt. Indurain and Merkx hadn’t surrendered the Pelligroso easily, far from it. Even if they survived, most of their men would never fight again. As he watched, two more succumbed to their wounds and fell from blood-soaked saddles to lie dead upon the earth.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his anger to serve him. “Have someone put their horses against the wall with the rest.”
The watch captains diverted toward him.
Merkx bowed from his saddle. “My thanks, Captain Stone. They would have caught us after another three leagues.”
Errol nodded. “Or less.”
Merkx stiffened as if he’d been insulted. Errol held up his hand. “I mean no offense, Captain. It was easier to gauge their speed from here.”
The Bellian nodded, mollified. He surveyed the rubble barrier Errol’s men were building. “How can we help?”
Errol ached with the answer. A line of horses, all of the horses they could spare and then some, waited behind him. “We need to lure the enemy as high up the slope as possible. Let them think we’ve taken this gap and are going to escape to the far side. Slow your men. I have bowmen in place to keep the Merakhi off your back.”
Their eyes widened in disbelief, accusing. Merkx started forward, his mouth open, ready to hurl accusations. Errol cut him off. “Desperate circumstances require desperate measures, Captain.”
“Aye,” Indurain said. “You would know this, yes?”
“I would.”
A Draw of Kings Page 38