A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Are you in town for long, milord?” Her fingers traced a slow line down his leg.

  Liam gaped, his mouth working fishlike in his attempt to respond.

  “Don’t you like women, milord?” the woman asked. Her silk dress accentuated every breath.

  Liam jerked his eyes forward and struck his heels against his horse’s flanks. Laughter trailed behind him.

  “What about you, boy?” the woman asked.

  Errol shook his head, still smiling at Liam’s discomfort. For once, Horace cooperated with his commands and trotted briskly to catch up to Liam and the others.

  “That . . . that woman,” Liam spluttered.

  Using his hand as a shield, Errol hid his smirk. “Yes, she certainly seemed to favor you.”

  Liam’s color deepened from pink to crimson. “She needs to see a priest.”

  Errol laughed. “I don’t think she’s interested in priests.”

  Sometime later they stopped in front of the largest building Errol had ever seen. The sign out front, painted in garish yellows and reds, proclaimed their destination as the Dancing Man. Errol didn’t know about the dancing part, but there were easily two-score rooms divided among its three floors, and travelers packed the courtyard in front of the stable.

  They walked into the common room, lit by a bank of large windows that faced the street, and spotted the proprietor directing serving maids with curt gestures and commands. Martin, Luis, and Liam worked their way toward him through the press, leaving Errol and Cruk near the entrance.

  Errol took advantage of the opportunity to examine city dwellers in more detail. At a table next to one of the large windows, a woman not much older than Errol fanned herself with quick motions of pink silk stretched across thin strips of wood. As he watched, she looked at the man across the table from her with a smile, snapped the fan closed, and used it to trace a slow circle around her left ear. The man smiled, rose, and extended his arm, which she took.

  Cruk snorted. “Well, that was quite a conversation.”

  Not one word had been spoken between the two. “What was that about?” Errol asked. “They didn’t say a word.”

  The right side of Cruk’s mouth stretched into his approximation of a grin. “Oh, she said plenty. She just didn’t say it in words. A woman of noble birth can use one of those fans to speak volumes.”

  “What did she say?”

  Cruk shrugged. “At first, when she fanned herself, she was telling her suitor she was unattached. Then, when she snapped it closed and traced the circle over her left ear, she told him she would like to go for a walk with him where they could speak more privately.”

  Errol frowned. The exchange didn’t make any sense to him. “If they wanted to talk to each other, why didn’t they just do it here?”

  Cruk rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t be proper. An unmarried woman talking with a man without a chaperone present would be scandalous.” He snorted. “At least, that’s what they think. Some of the things I’ve seen some of these highborn ladies say with those fans when they thought no one else could see would make a soldier blush.”

  Intrigued, Errol started to ask what was said, but Cruk waved him to silence as Martin and the rest returned.

  “It’s done,” the priest announced. “I’ve arranged for baths and fresh clothes.” He paused. “And rooms as well, if we need them. I don’t think Morin will go so far as to break protocol by refusing hospitality to a priest, but it’s hard to say. We don’t like each other much.”

  An hour later, cleaned and clothed, they moved through the less crowded part of the city away from the main gates. Errol twitched in his clothes, trying to figure out what bothered him. Made of soft cotton and wool, they fit him comfortably enough, but he felt stifled. Realization struck him. He couldn’t feel the air. The clothes were new. His threadbare clothes from Callowford had long ceased to serve as an impediment to the most inconsequential breeze.

  As they rounded a corner, he lifted his hand to undo the top two buttons of his coat, and froze. There, rising in majesty above a large square, towered a building beyond imagination. It loomed over them as they approached. Each of the stone foundation blocks spanned twice Errol’s height. Enormous stained-glass windows depicted men in robes in various poses. Six mounted men would easily have fit through the main doors.

  A man cowled in gray, with the hood pulled up, stood beside the door, a silent sentinel observing the square in front of the church. When they were still fifty paces away the head turned toward them and a pale hand lifted from the sleeve, pointed their way, and beckoned them toward the dark space of the entrance.

  Gooseflesh covered Errol’s skin. Martin took a deep breath and let it out slowly, puffing his cheeks. “It seems we are expected.”

  9

  THE CATHEDRAL OF WINDRIDGE

  THE BROAD DOORS drew shut behind them, the light narrowing in a gap that shrank until it disappeared. Darkness descended, lifted only when Errol’s eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight. They stood in an entryway that could have held the entire sanctuary of the church in Callowford. To one side stood a bank of candles, some lit, most cold, a few with weak whispers of smoke rising upward to be lost in the gloom.

  “I am Brother Fenn,” the man in the cowl said. His voice sounded dry, dusty—as if he’d forsaken water when he’d taken the rest of his vows. “If you will follow me, Abbot Morin is waiting for you.” He bobbed his head and moved to enter the sanctuary.

  Errol trailed the rest of them down the right-hand aisle, conscious of the vaulted stone ceiling that soared above them like the gorge at dusk. Despite the squared edges and mortar, the sanctuary’s stone struck him as less reliable, as though it might fall and bury them at any moment. He reached out, gave one of the granite blocks a tentative touch, brushing his fingers across the gray surface. It was cold, cold like the pooled waters below the Cripples, but dry also. Like Brother Fenn.

  They passed through an archway at the back of the sanctuary, then took a series of turns that brought them to a complex of rooms behind the church proper, rooms that appeared to hold the offices and living quarters of the abbot and those who served him.

  Fenn stopped before a closed set of double doors, bowed Errol and the rest to a halt, and knocked on the thick wood. The door opened a crack, and their guide leaned forward and whispered, his conversation punctuated by slow bobs of his head.

  The door swung open to reveal a dining room, and Fenn stepped back, extended a pale, hairless arm, and waved them through.

  Errol moved from the gloom of the corridor into brightly lit opulence. A long, burnished table rested on a heavily embroidered rug. Brass sconces mounted on the walls at even intervals illuminated the space with candles that burned without smoking, and everywhere Errol looked, signs of wealth dominated. Someone had set the table with porcelain and crystal. Silver serving dishes steamed with food.

  “Please, gentlemen. Let us not stand on ceremony. Seat yourselves.”

  Errol jerked in surprise. The speaker sat motionless at the far end of the table, one hand draped around a goblet. He nodded toward the chairs. “Please, my guests, I insist.” Black eyes glittered above a tight-lipped smile.

  At a nod from Martin, they took their seats. Without preamble, Martin reached forward to lift a decanter from the middle of the table and fill his glass with its dark red liquid. Two men—men who very much reminded Errol of Cruk—stepped in behind Liam as he passed through the entrance, blocking their escape.

  With his foot, Errol nudged Cruk, who sat opposite him, and jerked his head toward them.

  Without the slightest suggestion of haste, Cruk turned to inspect the pair. Errol saw flashes of recognition register in his eyes, though the pair showed no such surprise.

  Cruk grimaced, his beard ruffling. “Members of the watch.”

  “Exactly,” Morin said from the head of the table. “I see the three of you know each other.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Well, of course you would. You were all in the king’s eli
te together.” He gave a wave toward the seats next to Cruk and Errol. “Jarel, Koran, join us.”

  The two men separated and moved around the table to take places next to Errol and Cruk. The burly blond sat beside Errol, while the other guard, dark and squat, took the seat next to Cruk.

  “Well,” Morin said with a fleshy smile, “isn’t this festive?” Everything about the abbot of Windridge spoke of indulgence, from the loose flesh of his face to the languid gestures he made with his soft pale hands. Only his eyes were different. They glittered, hard as agates and nearly as cold.

  Martin sighed. His wineglass sat untouched, the ruby liquid stilled. “What do you want, Morin?”

  “I?” Their host wore a look of injured hospitality. “I only want to treat a traveling priest with the honor and grace he deserves.” His look grew intent. “Most of your party is known to me. You and I, of course, have a long history.” He turned to Luis. “And I recognize the former tremus from my visits to Green Isle. How are you, reader?”

  Luis bowed politely from where he sat on Martin’s right.

  “Do try the duck eggs,” Morin pointed. “Delicious.”

  The abbot raised his hand palm up toward Cruk. “I’ve never had the pleasure of our meeting, Captain, but Jarel and Koran have told me all about you.” Morin looked away, dismissing Cruk as though the man presented no danger.

  Errol started when he noticed the abbot’s dark gaze locked on him. Morin held the stare for the space of a dozen heartbeats before moving on to Liam, who sat on Errol’s left. The abbot addressed Martin. “I don’t think I’ve seen the lads before.” He smiled. “And a study in contrasts at that.” He pointed toward Liam. “That one moves as though he could be a member of the watch. He only lacks a few years and a couple of scars.”

  “Tell me, boy,” the abbot addressed Liam. “How did you come to be in such august company?”

  Liam cocked his head to the side. “Haven’t you answered your own question, good abbot? I’m bound for the watch.”

  The abbot laughed as if Liam had made a jest. “Well then, perhaps I should let you spar with Jarel and Koran.”

  Cruk smiled, but Liam became thoughtful. “What is their rank?”

  Morin smirked. “They are both sergeants.”

  Liam nodded. “There’s no need. They would lose.”

  Jarel’s face clouded and Koran started to rise, but Morin waved him down. “You’re brash for one so young.”

  Liam shook his head, his expression neutral. “I don’t favor bragging, good abbot, but I am nearly a match for Captain Cruk. I don’t think a sergeant would be as skilled.”

  Morin’s smile slipped, and Koran no longer appeared eager to draw his sword. The abbot turned his attention to Errol. He smiled, but his eyes held mockery in their depths. “You always took your vow to help the least of the kingdom so seriously, Martin.”

  It took Errol a moment to realize he’d been insulted. He hardly cared. His mouth watered after the wine, but no one except Morin drank. Was it safe?

  Luis’s eyes narrowed. “Have a care, Morin. The boy is on his way to Erinon to become a reader. You may find your path crossing his again someday.”

  Their host snorted and wine slopped over the edge of his glass. “A reader? At his age? How old is he, sixteen? Seventeen?”

  Errol fumed. “I’m nearly nineteen.”

  Morin smiled at the interjection. “Dear me, I thought the age of testing was fourteen.”

  Luis leaned back in his chair. “The conclave will welcome him as any other.”

  Morin shrugged. “As you say. What of the other lad? Is he a reader as well?”

  “Just a youth,” Martin said before anyone else could speak. “Cruk has been training him at arms. He has the talent to become a member of the watch, as you’ve already noted.”

  The abbot smiled. His dark eyes glittered in triumph. “My apologies, gentlemen. I’m sure I’ve kept you from your meal with all my talk. Please, eat.” At a look from Errol, he laughed a thin wheeze that left Errol checking the distance to the door. “I assure you the food and drink is quite safe.”

  No one moved.

  Morin sighed. “Very well. Koran, bring me the decanter that sits in front of our esteemed priest. The man next to Errol rose without a sound and fetched the wine to the abbot, who poured.

  “Your health,” he toasted and drank. He smacked his lips and leered at Errol.

  Martin nodded and slowly, with abbreviated motions, they sampled the food and wine. Errol topped his glass, drained it in two gulps, and filled it again. The liquid warmed him as it descended into his stomach, where it spread its comfort outward. Only then did he try the food.

  Cruk took a sip of wine, or pretended to. The level in his glass didn’t change. He turned to the large blond, the one called Koran. “How did you end up here? You and the rest of the watch are supposed to be in Erinon, guarding the king.”

  Koran looked up the table toward Morin, who smirked and nodded.

  “The Judica met,” Koran shrugged. At a startled look from Martin, he shook his head and amended. “The lesser Judica, I mean. The king still lives, so far as I know. But the benefices met and decided to strip two-thirds of the watch from the king and distribute it among the clergy.”

  Cruk’s eyes widened. It was the first time Errol had ever seen him surprised. “Deas in heaven, man, why?”

  Koran shrugged, looked at his wine. “After Benefices Guillame and Worthan were assassinated, the decision was made to offer the rest protection. They want the benefices in full number when the Grand Judica is called to select the new king. Jarel and I were allotted to Benefice Weir.” Koran shrugged. “He sent us here.”

  “The conclave will select the new king,” Luis said.

  Morin smirked. “The conclave will do as they are told.”

  “What about Dirk and Merodach?” Errol asked. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he thought to stop them. Every head at the table turned in his direction.

  “Well.” Morin smiled. “The boy seems to have some interesting names on his tongue. Tell me, young reader, how did you come to hear of those men?”

  In silence, Errol sought Martin’s help, but the priest busied himself with a roast chicken as though nothing untoward had occurred.

  Errol stumbled over his words. “Cruk must have mentioned them when he was trying to teach me how to handle a sword.” He felt the blood draining from his face under the abbot’s stare.

  “Really?” Morin leaned forward with interest. “That’s quite unusual. It’s rare that a reader would ever have need for or desire training in weapons.” He gave a lift of his dark eyebrows toward Luis. “If memory serves, readers take an oath of peace.”

  Luis’s eyes narrowed, but he made no other sign that Morin’s comments had any effect on him. He shrugged before he addressed his reply to the wineglass he held. “We live on the edge of strange times, times not seen since the first king purchased the boundary with his life. Who can say what may happen.” He waved one hand toward Errol. “Besides, as you say, the boy is not a reader yet. Who knows? Perhaps he will be a member of the watch one day.”

  What Errol said next might have been due to the howls of laughter this comment produced—from Koran and Jarel, but mostly from Cruk. Perhaps the wine loosened his tongue, or it might simply have been his frustration at everyone calling him “boy” instead of giving him the simplest courtesy of using his name.

  Blood rushed to his face and his pulse roared in his ears. “I may not be able to handle a sword, but I managed to escape from Merodach when he held a bow and those Deas-forsaken screaming arrows and I had nothing! Can any of you boast as much?”

  Silence engulfed the room. Martin closed his eyes, whether in thought or prayer Errol didn’t know. Cruk edged away from Jarel under the guise of reaching for his glass. Both men, as well as Liam and Koran, looked ready to draw swords. Luis looked at Errol in horror.

  Morin alone showed no reaction, merely reached out to pluck a
grape while he studied Errol. “That sounds like quite a tale. Merodach is perhaps the best of the watch, which of course means he is the best, period. How did such a thing come to pass?” He spared a thin smile for Martin. “You might as well tell the boy to cooperate. The best you can do is delay until I tell Benefice Weir. Having him call you in front of the Judica would be uncomfortable, would it not?”

  Martin pursed his lips, waited. Then he turned to Errol and spoke without rancor. “The abbot is quite correct, Errol. There’s nothing to be gained by refusing to answer. We are both servants of the church, after all.” Morin smirked at this. “Go ahead,” Martin continued. “Tell the abbot all about your encounter with Merodach.”

  Martin’s eyes held his, and Errol had the sense the priest tried desperately to tell him something, but what?

  Slowly, in halting tones, with frequent checks for assurance from Martin, Errol related the tale of his trip across the gorge and the Cripples. He saw Koran and Jarel give grudging nods as he described the arrows his would-be killer used. As he came to the end of the story, he lifted his shirt to show the crescent scar Merodach left on his shoulder.

  Morin nodded in acknowledgment and even clapped his hands as though Errol were a bard or a fool. “Well done, boy. But is it true?”

  Errol nodded.

  “Jarel?” Morin asked.

  The squat man shook his head, his brows furrowed. “It sounds true enough.” He pointed at Errol’s shoulder. “And the boy wears a wound that certainly looks like it came from a borale. Captain Merodach always did prefer the black arrows, but it just doesn’t make sense.” Jarel met Errol’s eyes. “How many times did you say he shot at you, boy?”

  Errol glared at the absence of his name, but kept his tongue, counting. “Five, including the last that struck my pack.”