A Draw of Kings

10

COUNCILS





ERROL SIDLED NEXT TO MARTIN on the walk from the archbenefice’s quarters in the cathedral to the palace compound. The events of the morning had left him mentally fatigued. He wanted to sleep or work his staff in some private corner of the watch yard, but by the looks of resignation everyone wore as they trudged to the meeting of nobles, he wouldn’t soon get to do either.

“What will it be like?” he asked.

“The archbenefice may have been charitable,” the priest grumbled. “Without Rodran to impose some semblance of order, the nobles are unlikely to come to any consensus on how to prosecute the war.”

Errol stifled a yawn. Now that the immediate crisis of revealing the truth about Aurae and the book of Magis to the archbenefice had passed, his body clamored for rest.

“Still,” Martin continued, “Duke Escarion is a man of sound judgment, and with Weir gone he becomes the most powerful of the nobles. In another time, he would have made a fine king. Make sure you give him your support.”

“Me?” The Escarion name sounded familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it.

Martin shook his head and exhaled. “You’re an earl now. You can be forgiven for being unfamiliar with your title and its responsibilities, lad, but your holding will be expected to fulfill its quota of men, arms, and supplies. Deas help us, it will be considerable.”

Nobles waited in Illustra’s throne room, a hall that could accommodate thousands in elevated rows of seating on either side of a long central walkway that led to the dais and royal throne. When their party entered, a man in the red livery of a palace guard announced them, and the nobles and benefices that filled the seats on opposite sides stood. As he surveyed the scores of people in the hall, an occasional sense of familiarity or recognition told him he’d seen some of these people before, but the collection of new faces overwhelmed his memory.

An escort took the archbenefice and the primus to the dais and seated them at a large table set up one step below the empty throne. Off to the side, barely noticed, Martin took a seat with Luis and Karele. The captains of the watch were seated at the same level on the opposite side of the throne.

One of the guards moved to intercept Errol before he seated himself. A tall man, fiftyish but fit, despite the gray at his temples and the web of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, stood at the front row, calling for his attention. “Your pardon, Earl Stone, though you have no doubt earned a place at either table as an honorary captain or the omne, I would ask you to join the council of nobles on this occasion.”


Errol shook his head. “How do you know me?”

“I told you he was modest to a fault,” a brown-haired young man next to the speaker said. “If I had accomplished half so much, I’d simply sit back and allow the fairest maidens of the kingdom to shower me with the admiration that was my due.”

Errol’s face flushed. Now he remembered. The Escarion brothers—and the older man was their father, the duke.

The other brother shook his head in chagrin. “Stop it, Derek. You’re embarrassing him.” Darren paused to give him a supportive smile. “Besides, he has the prettiest girl in the kingdom already.”

Derek smacked his forehead as if suddenly remembering. “Of course. If I had known tripping and falling at the feet of the princess would prove to be her undoing, I would have done it long ago.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Are you two quite finished?”

“Yes,” they answered together. Darren looked abashed, but Derek’s eyes twinkled.

The nobles around them looked amused or affronted by turns, but Escarion turned his attention back to Errol. “Since your holding is within my domain, Earl Stone, I would ask you to take your place at my right.”

He had just passed by a red-haired woman with delicate features when the duke stopped him. “Your pardon, Earl Stone, may I present my wife, Mickala, the Duchess of Escarion.”

Errol eyed the woman in front of him, a hand shorter than himself with an open, welcoming smile—and she was young. Too young. He glanced between the woman and the duke’s sons.

And blushed when Duchess Mickala Escarion laughed. “I assure you, Earl Stone, they’re mine. My mother, Countess Murphy, could pass for my older sister.” She eyed Derek and Darren with exasperation. “As you can see, in our family’s male offspring, being slow to age is more internal than external.”

The door opened, and every man and woman in attendance brightened as Adora moved with a stately walk down the center of the room. She mounted the dais and put out one hand to brush the purple velvet of Rodran’s empty throne with trembling fingers before seating herself in a chair directly in front of it.

“Your Highness.” Escarion bowed. “Thank you for attending.”

Adora inclined her head in recognition. “Your invitation surprised me somewhat, Your Grace. With the passing of my uncle, my title is little more than bunting on a flag.”

Escarion shot a veiled look toward Martin before turning to the archbenefice. At a nod from Canon, he clambered down from the first tier of seats and moved to the center of the hall.

“Assembled nobles, it is time to speak plainly of Illustra’s need. Any of you who have cause to doubt what I tell you will have access to a reader and, if I may volunteer his services, the omne, to confirm the truth of my words.”

Though Errol held a more intimate knowledge of the threats to Illustra than most present, the heightened tension of Escarion’s words carried him with the rest of the assembly. The nobles were obviously ill-used to such honesty.

“Illustra,” Escarion said, “is without a king. And it seems it may be without a king for some time.”

Noise exploded through the hall as men shouted their fear and anger. Snippets of imprecations voiced by red-faced men buffeted Errol where he sat. “It’s a plot of the Judica . . .” “conclave has failed . . .” “should have put Weir on the throne . . .”

Escarion withstood the torrent like a boulder in a flood, waiting until the shouting ebbed. “My lords,” he said at last, “let us not confirm the kingdom’s worst suspicions of us. Did I not tell you I would speak plainly? Before we descend into bickering, I would ask that you hear us out.” He nodded to the primus.

Enoch Sten rose, raked his hand through the white of his beard, and sighed. Silence like a blanket covered the hall, and the air took on weight. “The truth is, my assembled nobles, the conclave has already cast for the next king.” He held up his hand, waited for the resurgent uproar to subside. “And the cast has failed. Worse, we do not know why. In the hour of greatest need, our craft has deserted us.”

Benefice Kell rose to his feet, his mouth tight. “Archbenefice, speak plainly. The Judica gave no order to the conclave to cast for the king before Rodran died.” He bit his words as if they affronted him. “And Weir’s usurpation has denied the Judica and the conclave the opportunity since.”

Archbenefice Canon rose to face the red-robed members of the Judica where they sat opposite the nobles. “In this, I confess Benefices Weir and Dane were correct. I appropriated the authority of the Judica unto myself. Six years ago I authorized the search for the next king. Rodran’s decline had begun, yet the Judica would not authorize the cast while he lived. I will not say I regret the action, because I do not. I only regret the cast failed.”

Duke Escarion endeavored to make his voice heard above the sudden din and despair, and at a moment of quiet, one of the nobles, a heavy man with a florid face and copper-red hair, stood. “Then who will command? We are not men of war. There has been no real war for more than twenty years.”

Escarion nodded to Captain Reynald. The watchman stood, his face a study in reticence. “If you will allow it, my lords, the best among the watch at strategy and tactics will command until such time as the conclave can determine the soteregia.”

“And who will those masters of strategy be?” Escarion asked.

Reynald turned to the table. “Captains Cruk and Elar will lead.”

Most of the nobles and no small number of the Judica looked confused. Reynald sighed. “Most honored nobles and benefices, Illustra faces the threat of a two-front war. Merakhi forces are being marshaled against us at this moment, and scouts have brought us reports of an assembling of Morgols along the western border of the kingdom.”

Next to Errol, Darren went pale. Even Derek looked worried.

Another noble, a duke according to his placement on the front row, stood with the help of a cane. “I have heard tale that the plains of the horsemen are endless and the men of the river kingdom fill the desert. How are we to win?” His voice cracked. “We have no allies, no means to defeat these overwhelming numbers.”

A noble close to the back row stood, his soft face etched with fear. “Should we not sue for peace?”

Escarion shook his head. “Lord Mollis, these enemies do not seek peace. The Morgols are inscrutable, as always, but the Merakhi clearly desire our destruction.”

The lord moaned and sat down.

The archbenefice nodded to Martin, who stood and moved to the middle of the hall. “Nobles and benefices, it is true that we have no allies as of yet, but Deas in his mercy may have provided one to help us in this time of need.” His voice dropped, and everyone in attendance leaned forward, their faces illumined by sudden, impossible hope. “For centuries the church sent its excommunicates beyond its borders, outcast without worldly goods to the shadow lands south and east of the kingdom. I am sorry to say that not all banished were guilty. No others were permitted to go there—a needless precaution since none desired it.

“Yet I tell you that, through circumstances I believe were orchestrated by Deas himself, I have journeyed through the shadow lands. Did I find huddled rejects? No. Instead I found a nation that shares our belief in Deas, a nation that understands the dire consequences of the coming war, willing to be our ally.”


A duke shot to his feet, tears of relief plain on his face. “How large is this nation you speak of, priest?”

Martin shrugged. “I’m not a military man, Your Grace, but I estimated their numbers to be equal to that of our largest province.”

Duke Escarion rose from his seat, his hands raised for silence. “What do they desire? A nation of outcasts has no cause to love us.”

The mood, hopeful only a heartbeat before, turned wary.

“Their main concern lies in the suspicion that we will regard them as a subject province and that their men will be asked to take the brunt of war.”

Benefice Kell, who only months earlier had accused Errol of consorting with herbwomen and spirits, jerked to his feet. “Should they not? They are a nation of excommunicates. If the Judica decides, as it should, that their penance is to fight for us, then that is what they will do.”

Martin shook his head, his face contorted with disgust. “Benefice Kell, the people of the shadow lands are not ours to command. If you excommunicate a man and drive him from his country, you also give up any right to command him.”

Archbenefice Canon banged his staff of office twice on the floor. “Well spoken, Benefice Arwitten. Tell us, what surety do they desire?”

Martin turned to address Adora. “Your Highness, the council that rules the shadow lands requested that Illustra’s ruler personally guarantee their autonomy in war and peace. In short, they desire that our ruler journey to them and sign a pact.”

Adora, her blond hair glinting silver in the bright light of the hall, furrowed her brows. “I am not Illustra’s sovereign, good priest.”

“But you are the last of Rodran’s line, Your Highness, and as we have stated, the cast for a new king has failed.”

“I am willing to go.” Adora stood to address the hall. “Nobles and benefices, are you willing to abide by the treaty I negotiate?”

The nobles, to a man, appeared to be in favor, which made perfect sense to Errol. Martin had offered an ally unknown to them a few minutes before. But the Judica appeared split. Benefice Kerran seemed to be in favor, but suppressed fury mottled Benefice Kell’s face.

Errol leaned toward Duke Escarion. “If the Judica comes out against the alliance, what will happen?”

The duke sighed. “Tough to say, Earl Stone. Alliances between nations are the purview of the king. In his absence it would seem logical to have the responsibility fall to the council of nobles, but we are unused to such authority. I expect many in the Judica view the shadow lands as a people beyond the succor of the church and unworthy of alliance.”

“Can’t Archbenefice Canon decide?”

The duke sighed. “He could make the attempt, lad, but his confession of casting for the new king without the Judica’s approval has weakened his position. The benefices might not fully trust him.”

The archbenefice rapped his staff against the floor three times. “In light of the political nature of the request and in Rodran’s absence, the Judica relinquishes authority in this manner to the council of nobles. As archbenefice, I so rule.”

Next to Errol, Duke Escarion grunted in surprise.

“Then you should not be archbenefice!” Kell screamed. “You have admitted to usurping the authority of the Judica, and now you would bind us to these excommunicates in contravention of Deas’s will.” He wheeled to speak to the rest of the Judica. “I posit we remove Bertrand Canon as archbenefice.”

Canon leaned forward in his seat. “You may so posit once the Judica sits, Benefice Kell, but we are not within the halls of the Judica; we are guests at the council of nobles, and it is their will that rules here, not ours. Sit down.” Kell took his seat, his motions stiff with repressed fury. Canon nodded toward the duke, who stood with a sigh and looked to the men gathered around him.

“What say you?” Escarion asked.

Every noble voted in favor of the alliance and of giving Princess Adora the authority to negotiate on Illustra’s behalf. In the palpable relief that flowed through Errol and the outrage that flowed back and forth between the Judica and the council, he did not notice Martin’s approach until the priest stood before him.

“We need your help, lad.” His dark brown eyes were grave beneath the silver of his brows.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Canon has lost the Judica. If we don’t regain them, they’ll depose him at tomorrow’s sitting. The kingdom can’t afford that, Errol. He’s one of the few things holding Illustra together.” He leaned in close. “I want you to tell them about the book.”

Errol nodded, though the thought of addressing the crowd turned his stomach.

Martin smiled. “Let me introduce you.”

Martin moved to the center of the room and stood, implacable as granite, waiting for the din to exhaust itself. At last, an expectant silence filled the hall.

“Benefices and nobles, let me speak plainly,” Martin said. This brought a snort of disbelief from more than one spectator. “Illustra will need more than an alliance with the people of the shadow lands to stem the tide that threatens us. The nomads fill the steppes, and the people of the river are as numerous as the sand. We are desperate.” He paused to survey the room. “Yes, I said desperate, and a desperate kingdom must take desperate chances.”

Martin beckoned to Errol. As they stood together in the midst of everyone’s expectation, Martin leaned in. “Do not ask me how I know, lad. I’m not sure I understand it myself, but I think this can secure the archbenefice’s position. Tell them.”

He lacked Martin’s oratorical skills, and under the scrutiny of those present, his gestures and words felt stilted and artificial. Yet everyone there fixed an unswerving gaze upon Errol as he related his time in Merakh. When he finished, no uproar of hope or disbelief filled the hall, only astonishment too deep for sound.

The benefices stood as a whole, their faces at once stricken and hopeful. Little more than a whisper, the question came. “What did it say?”

Errol darted a glance at Martin, who shook his head briefly, but his intention remained unclear. With the gaze of every churchman and noble present fastened on him like leeches in a slow-moving stream, he waited. His fingers twitched, unsure of themselves.

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 deep and desperate for sound.