A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  Errol tried to count back and found that between running for his life and trying to escape from Naaman Ru, he’d lost track of the days. “I don’t know. How long has it been since Windridge?”

  “Five months.”

  “About that long, then.”

  Cruk’s steps quickened and lengthened until Errol almost trotted to keep up. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to drop you off at Martin’s quarters. Then I’m going to get Luis.”

  Errol stopped, planted his feet on the stones of the hallway like a mule. “No, I want to go to the conclave. As soon as I present myself, Luis’s compulsion is finished. I’m leaving.” Having the opportunity to fight Cruk was not worth the wait.

  A shake of the head greeted this. “You’re not thinking, boy. We figured out long ago that someone’s hunting you. If you really want to be free, you need to find out who, and this is the best place to start.” Cruk checked the hallway and waited for a pair of king’s guards to pass them before his voice dipped and he went on. “Something’s not right here. Two-thirds of the watch is gone, and reinforcements from the mainland garrison are still two weeks away. I have the feeling someone is setting us up for an attack. It may not look like it on the surface, boy, but underneath, the city seethes like an anthill that’s gotten kicked.”

  “What’s happened?”

  Cruk grunted and gave a crooked smile. “I think Martin and Luis should answer that. They’ll want to pull every last scrap of information from you as they do.”

  Errol’s stomach growled. “Will there be food there? I think my stomach is trying to eat itself.”

  They circled around the barracks and the palace on the walkway and Errol stopped, awestruck by his first view of the church at Erinon. A cathedral flanked by buildings that made the barracks look small dominated his field of view.

  A low whistle escaped him. “How long did it take them to build that?”

  Cruk’s bark of laughter sounded harsh. “They’ve never really finished. It’s the same way with the palace. It seems like no matter how big it gets, it’s never big enough.”

  It seemed they approached a small mountain. Cruk led him to one of the huge arches on the left. As they passed under it, Errol looked up, and a sense of weight above him made him duck his head in spite of the height.

  They headed deeper into the building, passed through innumerable hallways, each one smaller than the one before, until they walked a passage that was almost normal-sized. Fewer people filled the halls. Once, they passed a door just as a priest departed and Errol saw what appeared to be ornate living quarters.

  He’d never seen the like, or even imagined it.

  A few paces later they stopped before a thick walnut door. Cruk straightened his black uniform and knocked three times. A young man wearing a light-gray cassock answered and nodded greeting.

  “Captain.”

  Cruk bowed, a slight curling of the neck. “Stewart, could you tell His Excellency that I’ve brought someone to see him?”

  Errol stepped back. His Excellency? Martin?

  Stewart stepped aside, beckoning them into a large sitting room. “Please have a seat. Whom shall I say you have brought?”

  “An old friend with a taste for ale.”

  Errol made to protest, but a stern look and a small shake of Cruk’s head stopped him.

  Stewart’s eyebrows expressed his surprise at the strange introduction, but he nodded with a smile and disappeared into the inner rooms.

  A moment later, he reappeared. “His Excellency is just finishing his meal. He’ll be with you in a few moments.”

  Stewart brought the smell of food with him from Martin’s rooms. Errol stood, salivating. “Why don’t we just go join Martin? I’m starving.”

  Martin’s secretary looked shocked at the use of familiar address.

  Cruk growled. “Sit down, boy. The benefice will be with us when he’s ready.”

  “The what?”

  Cruk’s hand clamped onto the upper part of Errol’s arm. His voice dipped into an agitated whisper. “Martin has been restored to benefice. He’ll be taking part in the Judica. Now be still.”

  The way he emphasized Martin’s title left little doubt in Errol’s mind where he stood in the apartment. He reclaimed his place and tried to ignore the noises that came from his midsection. A quarter of an hour slipped by before Martin emerged from his rooms. Errol stood and gawked at the change in his friend.

  Martin glided into the room, resplendent in red robes with a wide gold belt and a large silver chain of office around his neck. With a serene nod, he bade them to stand. Errol gaped. The air of authority surrounding Martin appeared so natural. How had he ever thought him to be a simple priest?

  “Stewart,” Martin said, “I think that will be all for the day. Would you drop by the conclave and ask Luis Montari if he would be so kind as to join me for some conversation?”

  He waited until the heavy door closed completely before unbuttoning the heavy scarlet robe and tossing it aside. “Praise the creator. I thought I was going to roast.” He turned and smiled at Errol. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, but I didn’t want to rouse my secretary’s suspicion. Stewart means well, but he gets a little carried away with being adjunct to ‘His Excellency.’ He’s very zealous on behalf of my position.” Martin took a deep breath and exhaled with a shake of his head. “He’s making me crazy.”

  Errol took advantage of Martin’s pause. “Do you have anything to eat, Pater?”

  The priest laughed and caught him in a bear hug. “Deas knows I’ve missed you, boy. It’s a real pleasure to see you alive. And a surprise. Come.” He led them into a sumptuous dining room. “Stewart brings me enough food at each meal to feed three men, just in case I’ve forgotten to inform him of a dinner appointment.” He nodded toward a fluted bottle on the table. “There’s a very nice bottle of wine to go with the duck, but if you need ale I can send for it.”

  “Just water for me, thanks.” Errol said this as matter-of-factly as he could deliver it, but inside he exulted at Martin’s surprise.

  “Well, boy, I imagine there’s quite a story there, but let’s get you fed first. Your tale can wait until Luis gets here. That way you’ll only have to tell it once.”

  Errol attacked the leftovers of Martin’s repast like a wolf on a lamb. By the time a knock on the door signaled Luis’s arrival, even Cruk’s normally impassive face registered its surprise at Errol’s appetite.

  “What’s happened, Martin?” Luis said as he entered the dining room. “Have we been found . . .” His voice died as he caught sight of Errol with the stripped bone of a drumstick protruding from his mouth. Shock and disbelief chased each other by turns across the reader’s face.

  “That’s not possible,” he said, his voice flat. “I cast lots. You were dead nine times out of ten.”

  Errol laughed. It felt good, cleansing, like a bath too long denied for his soul. “I’m glad I came up alive at least once. I think I can explain the other nine.”

  Luis’s brows arched at this. Errol hoped it was at more than just his words, that the reader also recognized his calm assurance.

  He pointed to the untouched bottle of wine in front of Errol as he helped himself to a seat at the table. “Would you be so kind as to pass me the wine, Errol? Surprises unnerve me, and it looks like we’re going to be here awhile. Start at our separation in Windridge and don’t leave anything out.”

  Martin and Cruk circled the table to take seats. Errol washed down his last bite of duck with water and began. He only spoke for a few minutes before Luis interrupted him.

  “You had pneumonia?”

  Errol nodded. “Anomar said I was as good as dead for two weeks.”

  The reader’s face grew thoughtful. “That might explain it. There are writings in the conclave library that mention such outcomes, but I’ve never cast one.”

  “Well,” Martin said with a smile, “it might be a good thing you haven’t. Most of you reade
rs think yourselves the closest thing to Deas. A little doubt will do you all some good.”

  Luis nodded toward Errol. “I think yon apprentice will take care of that for many of us.”

  Errol picked up the thread of his story, but a bare minute later Cruk waved his hand at him, bringing the tale to a halt again.

  “You say the man’s name is Rale?”

  Errol nodded.

  Martin turned toward the watchman. “You know the name?”

  Cruk shook his head. “No. Never heard of it before. That’s what bothers me. The watch makes it their business to know who the best are and where they are in case we ever have need of them.” He cleared his throat. “Our network of informers isn’t as well organized as the church’s, but it’s extensive in its own way. He’s a staff man as well. We don’t have many of those.”

  Errol leaned forward in his seat. Rale’s story had been one of the things he’d wanted most to know, but pursuit had driven him away before the farmer could tell the tale.

  Cruk shrugged his massive shoulders and leaned back in thought. A sudden smile split his face, and he laughed at the ceiling. “Oh my, that’s too good.” He looked at Martin. “I think Errol’s teacher is none other than Elar Indomiel. Get it? Spell Rale backwards. It’s Elar.”

  Martin laughed. “I always wondered what had happened to him.”

  “Who’s Elar Indomiel?” Errol asked.

  Cruk shook his head. “Later. We’ve already interrupted your tale twice. At this rate we’ll be here all night.” He waved an impatient hand toward Errol’s half of the table. “Pick up where you left off.”

  Errol cast about for a moment before he picked up the thread of his story again. With some reluctance he related the tale of Warrel’s death exactly as he’d told it to Rale. He closed his eyes as he did so, not wanting to shy away from the memory ever again. When he opened his eyes at the end, Martin, Luis, and Cruk regarded him in silence, but a tear tracked its way down Martin’s cheek and Luis snuffled before blowing into a silk handkerchief. The frown lines of Cruk’s face became deeper, making the captain appear grimmer. Errol didn’t get interrupted again until he started talking about joining on as a caravan guard.

  “You actually guarded for Naaman Ru?” Cruk asked. He breathed the name almost as if he considered it holy.

  Errol grimaced and nodded. “I didn’t know he was a swordsman himself until the night we were attacked by a man named Eck.” He backtracked a bit to tell the story of his early days as a guard and then turned to Luis. “After we captured Eck, Rokha said there was a compulsion on him. I cast lots to see if the compulsion came from the church or a Merakhi. Now I think it might have been both.”

  “Why? I don’t—” Luis began, but cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Never mind. Go on.”

  Errol told the rest of his tale with occasional interruptions. Toward the end, there were less and less. The only thing he omitted was Merodach’s part in freeing him from Ru. He finished with his fights in the barracks courtyard. He looked up to find his friends smiling and shaking their heads.

  Cruk spoke first. “I can scarce believe it. Meaning no offense, lad, but you’re probably the worst swordsman I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’d like to try you sometime, now that I have a weapon I’m comfortable with,” Errol said. Then he laughed at the surprise on the faces gathered around him.

  Luis turned away from Errol with a look of reluctance to speak to Martin. “You know someone must be casting lots to hunt the boy, don’t you?”

  The reader spoke this slowly, and Errol sensed he’d tried to communicate something more to the priest.

  Martin nodded but changed the subject. “What are you going to do about his casting for profit?”

  Luis fidgeted in his seat, squirming from one side to the other between the arms of the chair. Then he waved a hand to brush the objection away. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. He did it under duress, and it’s obvious he didn’t profit from it. The conclave will never find out about it. I certainly have no intention of telling them.”

  Martin shook his head at this. “For some reason the boy has enemies, Luis, and secrets have a way of coming out when it’s most inconvenient.”

  Luis reddened. “We have to have him, Martin. Even more now than when we first learned of his talent.” He sent Martin a pointed stare. “I did what should not have been done to bring him here.”

  Much of their conversation passed over Errol with only hints of meaning, but this last seemed plain enough. “Luis, how do we remove the compulsion? I can still feel it at the back of my head, like the buzzing of a hornet.”

  The reader looked embarrassed but held Errol’s gaze. “Tomorrow, you’ll present yourself to the conclave. Once you do that, you’re free.” His gaze became intent. “You’re needed, Errol. More than you realize.”

  “Because the barrier will fall when Rodran dies?”

  Martin growled deep in his throat. “Boy, don’t ever say that aloud again. No one knows what will happen when the king dies and there are factions within the church that maintain the barrier is just a myth or a misinterpretation. Even if you prove to be right, they’ll hate you for it.”

  Errol sighed. The church, the conclave, and the watch all held their own secrets. It seemed that events conspired to make him blind, groping for some way to understand what was happening. His questions led only to half answers and more questions. When would it end? “What do the prophecies of Strand say?”

  Cruk looked confused, but Martin and Luis stared at him openmouthed, as though he’d changed into something unrecognizable.

  Martin leaned back in his chair, staring at him. Errol refused to look away. Instead, he sat in his chair and kept his face impassive, as though he’d done nothing more than ask after the weather.

  “Boy, you’ve come back to us with weapons on your tongue more dangerous than the staff you carry,” Martin said. “Where did you hear about Strand?”

  Errol sipped his water. He’d always believed Martin and Luis to be his friends, but how much did he know about them, really? What did they want and what did they want from him?

  “There’s a man in Ru’s caravan,” he said at last. “His name is Conger. He’s a defrocked priest. I never saw him without a book in his hand. Usually it was something about church history. When we stood guard duty together he’d pull out one of his books and teach me to read using the interesting parts.” Errol laughed at the memory of being bored for hours on end listening to Conger go on. “There weren’t many of those, but the stuff from Strand caught my attention because, though I did not understand much, it sounded like some of the same things you and Luis used to talk around. I never got the chance to ask Conger about it. . . .” Errol leaned forward in his chair, willing Martin to answer him. “So now I am asking you.”

  Martin turned to look at Luis and laughed. “Your cub has teeth, my friend. I think Primus Sten will like our newest reader, if Errol doesn’t drive him to distraction first.”

  Errol suspected the banter and the oblique compliments were the priest’s attempt to divert him from his question. He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair without taking his gaze from Martin, and resolved to wait until the priest answered his question.

  Martin turned serious. “Very well, I’ll tell you as much as I think wise . . . and possibly a bit more. Strand prophesied about each and every king in the royal line, including Rodran.” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, he didn’t call them by name, though that would have saved more than a little bloodshed over the years, but he numbered them all. Even the worst historian can count, and according to Strand, Rodran is the last of the royal line. In the prophecies, he’s called ‘Childless.’ Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Who was Strand?” Errol asked.

  Luis cleared his throat. “A prophet. His story is very nearly the equal of Magis, the first king.”

  Martin shifted his bulk in his chair. “Church historians say Strand saw a visio
n and for three days and nights he neither ate nor slept while he wrote what he saw.” Martin shrugged. “Or was told. When he came back to his sense of self, he read the stack of parchment that bore his writing and, horrified, took it to the archbenefice of Erinon. Priorus impounded the prophecy on the spot. Such secrets are hard to keep. Over time the information worked its way into the writings of some of our more obscure benefices.”

  To Errol it seemed it all came down to one simple question, prophecy or not. “What does this prophecy say will happen when the king dies without an heir?”

  “Your wits have gotten sharper since you stopped drinking, boy. That indeed is the question. The prophecy speaks of the land’s savior, a . . . a new king,” Martin stuttered. The priest looked away and busied himself with his goblet.

  Errol waited for Martin to provide some explanation, but the priest merely traced a finger around the rim of his glass without expanding on his edited tale. By the look on Martin’s face, there would be no explanations given.

  “What does all this have to do with me?”

  Luis cleared his throat but avoided Errol’s gaze. “However the prophecy works out, the conclave will choose the next king.”

  “And someone is killing the readers,” Cruk said. “They’re trying to blind the kingdom and in the process have exposed more than a few cowards within the conclave.”

  This brought a grudging nod from Luis. “We were never meant to be warriors, and the bodies are often disfigured beyond recognition. I can hardly fault my brothers for running away when the faces of their friends and fellows . . . the faces were . . .” Luis blanched. “Excuse me. Many of those killed were my friends.”

  Cruk spoke into the silence Luis and Martin appeared unwilling to break. “Their faces were chewed off, boy,” Cruk said.

  An image of pointed teeth that filled an almost-human face came to him. Then he grew angry. He let rage burn in his gaze and regarded Luis in silence, waited until the reader fidgeted before he spoke. “When did you know that joining the conclave would put my life in danger? Windridge? Before we left Callowford?” His voice rose. “Is that why you used compulsion? Am I fresh meat?”