Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  Their host shrugged. “She was killed in her cell, probably the night you escaped from Windridge.”

  Why had he hit Morin? Martin tried to speak, but his words shattered in his throat. Tears burned his eyes as he gathered the broken shards of his speech and threw it at Karele. “I could have saved her!” He hid his face. “She was torn to pieces.”

  Martin spun away from their stares, gathered himself. People died. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and scrubbed his face. “You could have saved us a trip to the cathedral. We never should have returned to this place.”

  He could almost hear Karele shrug his feeble accusation away. “I don’t think you would have believed me, and your trip to Windridge accomplished something necessary.”

  Martin didn’t respond. Their trip to Windridge had been a disaster; they should have trusted the lots and gone south. The herbwoman—the solis—was dead, and Cruk had almost died as well—all for a fat benefice’s pride.

  “What did we accomplish coming to this place?” Luis asked.

  Karele’s smile held more in it than Martin could discern. “You now know that the solis, with Aurae’s guidance, can nullify a reader’s craft.”

  Martin held up a hand, as if he could keep the consequences of this new knowledge away. For hundreds of years the church’s decisions had been guided and confirmed by lot, by the skill and dedication of the conclave. What would they do now?

  “Martin,” Luis called to him. “We will need all the allies we can get. They will be needed.” He gave a helpless laugh. “They can’t help but be needed.” The secondus stood next to Cruk, his brown eyes filled with resignation. “Since Magnus’s time, the conclave has belonged to the church, Martin, not to men. If casting lots becomes worthless, I will find another way to serve.”

  Martin gave himself a shake. Enough talk. Despite the revelations they’d uncovered at Windridge, their mission remained the same. They needed to discover the truth behind Liam’s and Errol’s importance. He turned to Cruk. “How soon can you travel?”

  “I can travel now,” the captain answered. Spots of fatigue on his sunken cheeks told a different story.

  “Of course he can,” Karele said, “if you want him to die. I can’t protect you outside the walls of Windridge.”

  “Can you go with us?” Luis asked.

  Martin stared at his friend in shock, vowed he would never again underestimate him.

  Karele’s gaze passed through Luis where he stood, and he cocked his head as if listening. When his eyes focused on Martin again, the solis’s eyes were resigned. “I am commanded. Aurae says I am to submit to you.”

  “When can Cruk travel?” Martin asked.

  “Two days.” The healer shook his head. “But he’ll be useless in a fight.”

  The fact that their captain didn’t protest Karele’s assessment told Martin it was true.

  Two days after leaving Windridge, hooves thundered on the hard-packed road behind them. Panic sucked the air from Martin’s lungs as they wheeled their horses and drew swords. Their pursuers slowed to a trot.

  “No bows on them,” Cruk said. Fatigue leeched most of the customary growl from his voice.

  The riders came on. Luis pointed. “That one’s wearing a nuntius’s armband, and unless I miss my guess, that’s Willem on his right.” He indicated a tall man who flopped in his saddle like a scarecrow, arms out from his body, reins held in a death grip.

  Relief and fear met midway in Martin’s chest. They wouldn’t have to fight, but what had happened at Erinon? Was he being commanded back to the Judica? That would mean the archbenefice and primus had been forced to acknowledge his absence. Fear nailed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The riders approached to five paces, then stopped.

  “Greetings, Willem,” Luis said. “You’re a long way from the conclave.”

  Willem let loose a string of curses that made Cruk nod in appreciation. The word horse was sprinkled liberally through the tirade.

  Martin’s trepidation didn’t allow for patience. “Enough. How long have you been searching for us?”

  Willem gave a bow and almost slid sideways from the saddle. “Your pardon, Excellency. I thought I’d found you back in Windridge, but . . .” He gave his head a little shake. “No matter. I’ve been ordered to guide this nuntius to you.” The reader jerked his head back toward the watchman in the rear. “Jan has been tasked with our safety. He’s done a lousy job of protecting me from this horse.”

  Martin nodded once and turned to the nuntius. “You may deliver your message.”

  “Nay,” the man said. “I do not know you. The message cannot be delivered until your identity has been confirmed by the reader.”

  Willem rolled his eyes. He raised his arm to point at Martin. “I hereby vow that this pillar of the church, this paragon of virtue, this epitome of theological prowess is indeed Benefice Martin Arwitten.”

  Luis snorted, but the nuntius showed no signs of possessing a sense of humor. “Until the benefice’s identity is verified by lot, I cannot speak.”

  Martin interjected even as Willem drew breath to argue. “The message is sensitive, good reader. Unless we follow the protocol laid on the nuntius, it cannot be delivered.” He turned to Karele, who sat his horse with his eyes half-lidded as if he would fall asleep any moment. “Can he cast?” Martin asked under his breath.

  At Karele’s disinterested nod, Martin gave the reader his assent.

  Willem growled. “I’ll have to carve on horseback. If I dismount from this foul beast, I won’t be able to stand. I don’t think I’ll ever walk normally again.” After a few minutes, he held two identical spheres. His large hands dwarfed the lots. “How many times do I have to draw?”

  “I am commanded to have you draw twenty times.”

  “That seems a bit extreme,” Luis said.

  Twenty draws later, Willem presented his results to the church messenger. “He is Benefice Arwitten seventeen times out of twenty.”

  The nuntius nodded, satisfied.

  Martin intoned the ancient command that would release the message to him. “Nuntius, you may speak.”

  The messenger demurred. “I cannot. It must be delivered in private.”

  With a sigh, Martin twitched the reins and led the messenger away from the rest of the party. When he judged the distance great enough to prevent eavesdropping, he stopped. “Do you have a written copy of the message?”

  The nuntius shook his head. “I was commanded to deliver it verbally only, Excellency.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Martin’s skin. So, the message required even more precautions than standard church protocol afforded. He spoke the ritual command again. “Nuntius, you may speak.”

  All thought and self-awareness dropped from the messenger’s face until he resembled a mask of himself, speaking as though a wax sculpture had been given the gift of speech. “‘Greetings to our brother in the church, Martin Arwitten, from the Archbenefice in Erinon, Bertrand Canon. I regret that I must send you ill tidings. As planned, Errol Stone has been found guilty of conspiring with spirits in order to save him and us from ruin, but the penance I planned for him was thwarted by a coalition of benefices within the Judica. Errol has been compelled to journey to Merakh, where he must find Sarin Valon and kill him.’”

  Spots danced in Martin’s vision. He locked his knees to keep from falling. Compelled to Merakh? They’d killed the boy. Those snakes in the Judica had killed Errol.

  The messenger continued. “‘We have enemies in the Judica and the conclave, Martin. Without the omne to confirm each cast for confidence, we cannot be sure of whom to trust. My friend, I should not order you to do this, but the need of the kingdom requires I do so. Make haste to discover the boy’s importance, and if you can, find a way to join him and help him survive. I trust you and remain your brother in the faith, Bertrand Canon.’”

  Awareness came back into the nuntius’s face. Martin started breathing again and tried to school his features into some semblance of calm.
He ached everywhere, as if he’d been beaten with a stick, and made a conscious effort to relax.

  “Will there be a return message, Your Excellency?” the nuntius asked.

  “Yes.” He waited for the messenger to compose himself. What should he say? Dear Deas, what could he say?

  “To our brother Archbenefice Bertrand Canon from your humble servant Martin Arwitten. I have received your message and will do all I can to comply.” He thought for a moment.

  “Even unto death.”

  13

  THE CARAVAN

  THICK HAWSERS SECURED Salo’s ship to the pier at Steadham, the shipping capital of the Einland province that lay a hundred leagues north of Erinon. Men in half-sleeved shirts and trousers worked the docks, calling to each other in a guttural dialect so rough Errol could only make out every other word. Their speech carried the cadence of the sea, floating and crashing through their words.

  Rale oversaw the transport of the horses. The animals trembled and their ears twitched forward and back as the survivors of Errol’s party coaxed them across the broad gangplank to the pier. Of the twenty watchmen who’d sailed with Errol from the isle, only five survived.

  Errol looked at the remnants of his party and berated himself again. He was a reader. The responsibility for avoiding Valon’s attacks belonged to him. No one else could do it.

  Rale approached as Rokha gave directions regarding Merodach’s transport to two of the surviving watchmen. She stopped as they passed by. “I want to take him to a healer.”

  This caught Errol by surprise. Rokha was as good as any of the healers back in Erinon at patching a wound, and better than most. She had more experience with battle injuries. “Why?”

  “I want to make sure that wound doesn’t foul.” She shrugged, but her face held a pinched cast to it Errol had never seen on her before, and she darted looks to Merodach’s litter. “And I need to restock my kit.”

  She followed on the heels of the men carrying the litter. Errol’s attention moved from the docks inward. Something he couldn’t identify bothered him, a worry that chewed at his mind, generating unease, as if he’d missed an enemy poised with a sword at his back.

  “Rale, where did that cog come from?”

  The farmer massaged his jaw muscles for a moment before answering. “We killed anyone who could tell us, but to catch us in the strait it either had to launch from Port City or was waiting at anchor.”

  Errol nodded. He’d thought as much himself. “But it couldn’t have been anchored in the strait. Not without a reader on board.”

  “How do you know there wasn’t?”

  He allowed himself a smile. “There were no lots, no wood shavings, and no sawdust on the ship.”

  Rale considered his logic, eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his voice carried tones of respect. “Very good. What do you think it means?”

  Errol pulled a deep breath into his lungs, then let it out in a long sigh. “I think it means we can’t count on the longship captain’s estimate. Valon is in Merakh, but he’s tied to a circle—a linking of readers.” He paused, wondering if he needed to explain, but Rale nodded, so he continued. “He must have left one of his circle behind to catch us. I can’t think of any other way that ship could have found us so quickly. There must have been a reader in Port City.”

  He turned, looked across the docks toward the city that sprawled on the low bluff above them. He pointed to Merodach’s retreating litter. “Merodach said Valon won’t be able to muster another attack for some time.” The thought of being hunted by the former secondus brought a skittering of rat’s feet down his neck. He scratched, turned to Rale. “It took us three days to sail a hundred leagues. How long would it take a man to ride that distance?”

  His mentor rubbed his jaw. “They’ll have to follow the curve of the coast. Unless they’re willing to kill horses, it’ll take them five or six days.” He pulled at his jaw muscles. “What if Valon left more than one of his circle behind?”

  Errol searched for a memory, cudgeling his brain into cooperation. Lots had filled the warehouse where Luis had discovered the depths of Sarin’s depravity. How many different men had cast lots there? He closed his eyes, pictured each lot as it came to rest in his hands. His hands moved with the memory of choosing a pine sphere, reading it, and putting it away. By the three, there were so many. How could they fight that?

  Moments passed. Rale didn’t speak, but Errol could feel his gaze. “He has at least twenty readers in his circle, possibly more—and they’re all connected by a malus.”

  Rale’s brown eyes hardened to chips of flint. “Explain.”

  He sighed. Rale wasn’t going to like this. “Sarin Valon was the secondus of the conclave. Luis said he went insane trying to create a versis—a single lot that can cast any question. We found a mill where he’d been hiding after he faked his death. It was filled with lots that Sarin didn’t cast, but it appeared they were tied to the same question. The only way to do that was to use a malus to form a circle.”

  Rale’s eyes narrowed. “Explain the capabilities of this circle.”

  Errol lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not sure, but Luis thought the malus would allow them to communicate mind to mind. That way they could all carve a different answer to a question. Their ability to cast would be twenty times faster than a single reader.”

  Rale sighed and staggered to lean against the railing of the ship, like a farmer dropping a sack of grain. “We’re in trouble, boy.”

  Errol nodded. “I know.”

  Rale shook his head. “No, boy, you don’t.” He held up a hand, palm out. “I don’t mean to offend you, lad. You’re bright. You’ve got as much courage as a whole squad of watchmen, and you handle a staff like something out of legend, but you haven’t fought in a war.” He cocked his head to one side. “Do you know what wins battles, Errol?”

  He shrugged. “Good soldiers?”

  Rale shook his head.

  “Superior tactics?”

  Rale shook his head again. “Those are all pieces of the whole, lad. Every captain fights with the best soldiers he can train and the best tactics his generals can devise. There are captains that spend their entire lives studying the art of war.” Rale held up a finger. “But most battles are won and lost on one thing—communication. Whoever can deploy and redeploy his men most effectively wins.”

  Errol flopped next to Rale, feeling as if a boulder had landed on his shoulders. The Merakhi didn’t need to kill Rodran. They had the kingdom beat already. With Valon and a score of linked readers, they could react to any change in the battle instantly.

  “We’re going to have to kill the entire circle, aren’t we?” Errol asked.

  “That’s a good idea, but I don’t think we can.”

  “Why not?”

  Rale’s shoulders bunched under his tunic. “Let’s suppose you’re Valon. You’ve got your circle spread throughout the kingdom. Suddenly, you lose one or two. What do you do?”

  Errol leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, thought. “I’d pull all the rest to Merakh, where no one could get to them.”

  “That’s right.”

  Flame burned across his skin at the thought. “You’re saying we can’t win.”

  His mentor nodded. “Not as things stand.”

  “How do we change them?”

  Rale laughed without humor. “I think that’s what you’ve been tasked with.”

  Errol let that sink in. “But even if we kill Valon, won’t one of the other readers in the circle take his place?”

  “I don’t know, Errol. I’m just a soldier.”

  “It’s hopeless, isn’t it?”

  A trace of a growl entered Rale’s voice. “The only battles that are hopeless are the ones that have already been fought. We now know that finding and killing Valon is going to prove more difficult than we first thought, but we haven’t lost yet.”

  Startled laughter burst from Errol’s mouth. “More difficult? It’s going to be impossib
le. How do you kill someone who can see you coming?”

  Neither of them had an answer.

  Moments passed in which Errol wallowed in hopelessness. He pushed himself off the deck. “We need to know what’s waiting for us.” He went down into the hold in search of his reader’s kit. He’d never officially joined the conclave, but the primus had employed him to confirm casts already. Before they left the isle, Errol had helped himself to a knife and a generous amount of pine blanks.

  Back on deck he motioned to Rale, seated himself in a quiet corner of the ship, and considered which question to ask. Master Quinn had often told him the question frames the answer. A reader had to beware of his assumptions. Readers spent years in the conclave learning to question everything.

  What did he know?

  They’d been attacked in the strait through the guidance of a reader. No. He knew they’d been attacked; he only assumed a reader lay behind it. With precise strokes, he shaped a pair of pine blanks into lots to determine whether a reader orchestrated the attack. He held the two lots side by side for inspection. Except for the imprint of his thoughts upon the grain, which only he could see, they appeared identical. Errol dropped them into his bag and shook it. Hollow clacks muffled by the burlap came to him. He drew.

  Yes. He grunted. No surprise there. Ten more times he drew. Eight of them matched the first answer. He nodded to himself, confident his assumption had been confirmed.

  “There was a reader behind the attack in the strait,” he said.

  Rale’s smile pulled to one side. “I thought we knew that.”

  “No, we assumed that. Master Quillon says assumptions are dangerous to a reader. That’s why they train for years to get rid of them.”

  Errol paused to think through the possible chain of events, determined not to skip any steps in his logic. He and Rale had assumed the reader would pursue them to Steadham. It seemed logical, but assumptions always seemed logical. Errol sighed. That is until you crossed the strait and dozens of good men died. A dozen different questions came to him, each as plausible as the one before. Which one should he choose?