A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  “You never could keep your pride out of a fight, Dirk.” Cruk returned to his horse and beckoned toward Errol. “Come here, boy.”

  Errol walked toward Cruk as if the man had become a stranger, approached with his head down. The drawn sword made him nervous. He’d never seen Cruk use one before, but it was obvious that he held a more-than-passing acquaintance with the weapon.

  As Errol came within arm’s reach, Cruk tossed the assassin’s bow and quiver to him. “Can you shoot?”

  He nodded. “I know how it’s done, but I’m not a very good shot,” he confessed.

  Cruk sighed, squeezed his eyes closed. “Don’t you do anything well besides drink?”

  Almost, he smiled at Cruk’s words. They sounded familiar—like the man who threw him out of the inn, rather than the one who killed trained assassins. “I never really needed to learn. Nobody’s ever tried to kill me before. Now it’s happened twice in two days.”

  Cruk nodded. “I suppose that’s true enough. Well, it’s done now. Your would-be assassin is dead.”

  “What about Merodach?”

  Cruk’s head snapped up. “Where did you hear that name?”

  Errol crept back, away from the look of violence in the other man’s eyes. He pointed to the dead assassin lying in the road. “It’s what he called the man who came after me in the gorge.”

  Wiping his face with one hand, Cruk sighed. “Two of them. They sent two of them, and both from the watch. What in blazes has happened at Erinon?”

  He turned to Errol. “Why did you fall behind?”

  Errol found something on the ground to look at as he answered. “I couldn’t get Horace into a run, and that trot of his hurt my backside so much I got off and decided to walk for a while.”

  Cruk rolled his eyes. “Boy, you could’ve gotten both of us killed. Did you try digging your heels into his flanks?”

  “No.” At the look of disgust from Cruk, he flushed. “I told you I’d never ridden before. I don’t know how to make a horse run.”

  “It’s called a canter or a gallop. No matter. We’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe. Nowhere is safe, but some places are better than others.” He nodded back toward Berea. “Horace is back there, just around the bend. Get him and bring him back here.” He grimaced. “And don’t walk him, ride him.” He pressed his right hand against the wound in his shoulder. “By Deas, Eleison, and Aurae, all three, I hate it when people put holes in me.”

  Errol found Horace as Cruk said, his reins thrown around a sapling just off the road. The horse regarded him without interest as he approached and then turned to rip another mouthful of grass from the base of the tree. The horse followed without protest or interest when he tugged the reins. Thankfully, the gelding didn’t move when Errol swung himself into the saddle, but Errol’s backside gave a twinge, and he clenched against the ache. Turning Horace’s head toward Cruk, Errol dug his heels into the horse’s flanks.

  Horace responded with a canter that lasted all of five strides before slipping back into that same painful trot.

  “You just don’t have a whole lot of ambition, do you?”

  The horse twitched one ear and slowed to a walk.

  Errol dug his heels into the horse’s flanks again. “C’mon, Horace.”

  The horse rewarded his effort with a lazy canter that lasted four more strides before he subsided back into a trot and then to a walk. By then, they’d rejoined Cruk.

  Cruk sat on a log next to the road, his shirt off to reveal a vest of lightweight mail underneath. Errol watched as he struggled to remove it without moving his right arm. After a moment, he gave up.

  “Come here, boy.”

  Errol approached, stood in silent expectation while Cruk stared at him as if wondering whether he could be of use or not.

  “I need you to look at my shoulder.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know if Dirk put anything on his arrows.”

  The stinging sensation in his back reminded him of his own encounter with the assassin’s bow. He reached behind with one hand, brushed his fingers across the slash Dirk had given him. The wound felt clean and the bleeding seemed to have stopped. The flesh around it felt warm, as he would expect, but not hot.

  He looked at Cruk. “He didn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Errol shrugged. “One of his arrows grazed me across the lower back.”

  Cruk’s eyes widened a fraction. “Show me.”

  Errol lifted his shirt, felt Cruk probe the wound with his thick fingers, and winced.

  He heard a low whistle. “That’s quite a collection of scars back there. You don’t fight, boy. How did you come by them all?”

  Cruk’s scrutiny made him uncomfortable, and he stepped away, letting his shirt fall back into place. He didn’t answer. Everyone in the village knew what Antil did to him. How many times had he passed out from drink to wake in the stocks with Antil behind him, holding his whipping rod? Cruk’s brows drew together, and his face clouded.

  The big man shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away, toward his horse, and remounted. “At any rate, you’re right. The arrows don’t appear to have been poisoned.” He spat in the direction of the assassin’s body. “Not that I would’ve put it past Dirk to have forgotten that restriction as well.”

  He eyed Errol, his face grim. “Something’s going on in Erinon, boy. Members of the watch are not assassins. At least, they didn’t used to be.”

  Errol pointed to the middle of the road at the assassin’s body, the blood from his throat pooling in a thickening puddle on the hard-packed earth. “Shouldn’t we hide him?”

  Cruk shook his head. “Leave it. If Merodach is following us, it will give him something to think about, maybe slow him down. Besides, the puppy already cost me more effort than I wanted to use on him.” He turned his horse with the barest twitch of the reins. “Come, I told Martin and Luis to make for Callowford. They’ll need to know what happened here. Keep your eyes open and yell if you see anything—I mean anything—that doesn’t look right.”

  They met Martin and Luis at Cilla’s, nestled in a table in the back corner, past the large fireplace that formed the center of the common room. Cruk waited until they motioned the pair of them over. The big man paused, scanned the empty room. Apparently satisfied, he led the way over to the table, then took a chair and placed it so that he could watch the front entrance as well as the door to the kitchen. A loaded crossbow rested on the floor at his feet.

  Errol sat, squirmed around in his seat, and tried to catch Cilla’s attention, waving two fingers for a pair of tankards.

  Martin’s eyes lingered on Cruk’s bloodstained shirt. “You need a healer.” He turned to Errol. “Boy, go find Radere.”

  “No,” Cruk said. “The boy needs the herbwoman himself, but we can send Cilla. Once we meet the nuntius, we’ll need to get a room, one easily defended.”

  Martin’s brows lowered over his brown eyes. “Why?”

  “Merodach is here. He’s the one who tried to kill Errol yesterday, and he may not be alone.”

  Luis started. “Surely you’re mistaken. Merodach is a captain in the watch. They aren’t assassins.”

  “Weren’t,” Cruk corrected with a grimace. “Dirk trailed us from Berea. That’s how I got this new decoration in my arm. From what the boy says, he and Merodach were both trying to kill you.”

  Martin shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why kill us when they could just leave us here, ignorant in the middle of nowhere?”

  Luis steepled his fingers under his chin, his eyes thoughtful. “Impossible to say. But there could be any number of reasons. Church politics are rough enough even during normal times. What must they be like now, with a throne at stake?”

  Cruk glanced at the door and then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Have you read something, then, Tremus?”

  Luis waved his hand in dismissal, but at the title or the suggestion, Errol couldn’t tell
. “I haven’t finished the lots yet.”

  Cruk blushed at this.

  “I’m not blaming you, Cruk. You’ve done your part as quickly as you could have. Durastone is difficult to find and harder to quarry. I didn’t have the man power or the tools to craft the lots as quickly as I would have liked.”

  Martin shook his head. “We know who it is, Luis. You’ve already drawn his lot twice in wood. I’ve sent word. He’ll be coming to Green Isle with us.”

  Luis shook his head. “I will not trust this to wood, and a draw from a partial cast means nothing, even if it does—”

  “Nonsense,” Martin interrupted. “Wood or stone makes little difference. You know it as well as I do—the hand of Deas has been on the boy since the day of his birth. He’s the one.”

  Luis rubbed his temples and sighed. “Granted, the boy appears special and Antil thinks very highly of him, but we can’t be sure until every lot has been crafted.”

  Errol started. Antil thought highly of him? That ruled out Errol. The priest despised him.

  Errol kept his eyes on the table, his mind racing. The conversation flowed away from his understanding like water parting around a boulder. For years, only one person in Callowford commanded such tones of respect: Liam. Errol contemplated life in the village without Liam and found the idea pleasant.

  Martin smiled, his eyes shining. “Ah, Luis, you leave too little room for the will of Deas. If he had not wanted us to find him, he would not have sent us here.”

  “That was a complete cast,” Luis said.

  Martin opened his mouth to reply, but Cruk raised one hand a few inches from the table in warning and they sat back. A sudden flood of light from the front door lightened the room, casting a new set of shadows to go with those from the fire.

  “There’s a church messenger at the door,” Cruk said. “It’s the same one who gave the boy the message.”

  Errol twisted in his seat, saw the familiar hooked nose, and nodded.

  “Finally,” Martin said. “Maybe now we will get some answers. Bring him over, Cruk, and let’s see what tidings he carries.”

  Cruk retrieved the man, placed a chair for him across from Martin, and resumed his scan of the room.

  “How are you called, nuntius?” Martin asked.

  The man before Errol, so proud two days ago, ducked his head, unwilling to meet Martin’s gaze. “My name is Seamus Quentin, Pater.”

  Martin nodded. “What is your rank?”

  Seamus ducked his head again, but his words belied his posture. “I am a nuntius of the first cohort. Now that the messages have been delivered, I really must be back in Erinon. The church thinks highly of my services.”

  “I’m sure they do, Seamus.” Martin’s voice sounded amused. “I wouldn’t ask you to delay your return needlessly. I think, perhaps, you remember Errol?” He pointed across the table.

  Cilla had chosen that moment to place two tankards in front of Errol. Out of reflex he’d immediately hoisted one, but he lowered the tankard at the mention of his name, saw the look of disdain on the church messenger’s face.

  “Yes,” Seamus said and turned back to face Martin. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “You must understand, Pater. I would not have entrusted the messages to him had not my mission been urgent.”

  Martin made placating gestures with his hand. “No one is questioning your judgment, nuntius. But there was a problem. Through no fault of the boy, the messages were ruined before I could read them.”

  The messenger’s face blanched. “Ruined? They will think I’ve failed.”

  Martin shook his head. “Nuntius, just tell me the contents of the message. You know it.” Martin’s voiced dipped into a soothing tone. “Simply tell it to me and your charge is complete.”

  The messenger looked anything but soothed. His mouth worked as though his mind couldn’t decide which language he was supposed to speak. Errol passed him his spare tankard. The nuntius grabbed it, lifted it to his face, and drank deeply.

  “There were two messages, Pater,” he sputtered. “Yes, I can relate the church’s message, but I was not permitted to see the other one.”

  Martin leaned back in his chair with a frown. “Who entrusted this message to you?”

  Seamus squirmed. “I don’t know. After I memorized the recitation of the first message, I found the second one in my pack—with instructions not to open it.” The messenger’s chin lifted a fraction. “It’s not the place of a nuntius to question those who use our services.”

  “Interesting,” Luis said with a smirk. “Even readers can’t account for the machinations of the church.”

  “Leave it,” Martin said, though his eyes belied his casual tone. “Seamus, I’m sure you are in a hurry to return to Erinon, and I would not delay you any longer. Please, recite the missive from the church in Erinon.”

  As if Martin’s words unlocked a page of the messenger’s memory, Seamus’s eyes grew blank and he straightened in his chair.

  “From our most holy church to all servants of Deas, Eleison, and unknowable Aurae within the boundaries of the kingdom. Greetings to you from the Archbenefice of Erinon, seat of the church and home of the one true king. By order of Bertrand Cannon, Archbenefice in the blessed isle, you are commanded to make all haste to Erinon to attend the Grand Judica, the purpose of which to determine the means of succession upon the death of our most beloved servant, King Rodran. The Grand Judica will convene on the first moon of the eighth month.”

  Seamus’s eyes refocused, and he relaxed where he sat.

  “That’s it?” Luis asked. “There’s nothing more?”

  The messenger looked at Martin and bowed from the neck. “I swear by my office that I have delivered the message.”

  “Seamus,” Martin said, “I would ask you questions, if I may. There is much in your message that needs clarification, and there are other matters that are not mentioned.”

  The messenger fidgeted in his seat before he nodded. “I will answer as best I can, but as you know, I have no memory of the contents of the recitation, Your Excellency.”

  Errol had barely followed the conversation to this point, but now he could not fathom why the nuntius would address Pater Martin with such a title.

  “Very well,” Martin said. “The message seems to indicate that Rodran is still alive.”

  Seamus looked surprised at this. “Oh yes. The king lives.”

  Martin frowned. “Is he sick?”

  “No, Excellency.” He shrugged. “At least, he wasn’t sick when I left Green Isle four weeks ago.”

  Martin leaned forward, his eyes boring into the messenger’s. “Seamus, did you know that the archbenefice has called for a Grand Judica?”

  Seamus nodded. “It was rumored, though no one would confirm or deny it.”

  Luis put his hand on Martin’s arm, leaned over, and whispered. Martin nodded. Turning to the messenger, he spoke in slow, careful tones. “Seamus, rumors have come to us from several sources that say the readers at Erinon are being killed. What do you know of this?”

  The church messenger stilled, and for a moment his eyes took on the cast of someone who wished greatly to be elsewhere. “It’s true, Excellency, though we are forbidden to speak of it.”

  “How many? Who?” Luis looked ready to jump across the table and take the information by force.

  Seamus bit his lip, glanced at Luis before he answered. “Nearly a score when I left the isle.” His mouth hung open for an instant longer, and then he closed it and sat still.

  “Come, Seamus,” Martin said. “You are a nuntius of the first order. Few are positioned to hear as much as you. Tell us the rest.”

  “I am a nuntius. We do not trade in rumor.”

  “Then, for a moment, I want you to be a man,” Martin said. “We have been attacked by assassins, Seamus. I left a church at relative peace five years ago to come to this region.” He grimaced. “Now things are not as we left them. Whatever you can tell me will be helpful.”

  The
messenger hung his head. “That’s just it, Pater. The rumors are so thick at Erinon that it is impossible to sort them.”

  “Try.”

  The nuntius sighed. “Very well. The king lives. The king has died and the church is hiding his death. The readers are all dead. No, only some of the readers are dead and the rest are in hiding. The barrier is weakening. The Morgols are coming from the steppes.” Seamus took a breath, looked around the table and then found Martin’s gaze. “It goes on and on, each rumor contradicting the one before it.”

  Martin leaned back. “Thank you, Seamus. Nuntius of the first order, you have delivered your message,” he intoned. “You may return.”

  Their messenger popped out of his seat like a prisoner unexpectedly paroled. “Thank you, Excellency.” Without another word, he turned and left the inn.

  Cruk’s gaze followed the nuntius from the room. “I don’t recall messengers being so nervous.”

  “You are overly suspicious, my friend,” Luis said. “Troubled times make for troubled people.”

  Errol drained his tankard. His mind swirled with all that had been revealed since being charged with the nuntius’s letter packet. But a church crow was no concern of his. The cool drink slid down his throat and began the job of warming him and wiping away his concern. Soon, he felt sure, Martin and the rest of them would leave Callowford and he could go back to gathering plants for Radere and Adele in exchange for ale. Who knew? Cruk might leave as well, leaving Cilla to make all the decisions. Errol found that he enjoyed that prospect. He smiled into his tankard.

  Martin turned to Cruk, his voice low and businesslike. “Cruk, can we be ready to leave for Erinon in the morning?”

  The big man nodded. “I think so. The boy and I need a few moments with the herbwoman, and then I can see about getting supplies.”

  Martin’s faced pinched at the mention of the herbwoman, but Cruk either didn’t notice or chose not to respond. “How many horses should I get?” he asked. Errol tried to ignore the way Cruk glanced in his direction.

  Martin glanced at Luis, who gave a sharp, stubborn nod. “Five. I’ll have to talk to Knorl. It’s time for Liam to challenge for the watch.”