A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  “What sort of king is he?”

  Luis raised his hands, palms up. “The king is a man, Errol, forced by an accident of birth to assume the rule of the kingdom.” He sighed. “By most accounts, he’s been a good king. He’s kept the empire strong so that the Merakhi and the nomads have kept their distance. He probably would have been considered one of the best kings ever.”

  “If he’d had a son?” Errol asked.

  “Yes. If only he’d had a son.”

  “Why can’t a male relative take the throne?”

  “There isn’t one,” Luis said. “The royal line has never been overly large and in the last hundred years or so, it has shrunk. Rodran’s younger brother, Jaclin, died ten years ago.” His mouth thinned, leaving Errol to wonder what the reader wasn’t saying.

  “How did he die?”

  Luis shrugged off the question. “Jac left behind a daughter, Adora. That’s all there is.”

  Adora? What were the chances . . . ? The girl from the barracks courtyard was the king’s niece? Errol’s heart fell.

  The night passed in a series of waking moments interrupted by a restless doze. Errol often checked the window, only to find the moon still up. At last the sky pinked to the east and the stubborn sun rose to bathe Erinon in the orange light of early dawn. The grit of sleeplessness filled his eyes, and even the simple tasks of dressing and eating required concentration.

  At ten o’clock a knock at the door announced the arrival of a tall, thin man Luis introduced as the king’s chamberlain. Upon admittance to Luis’s quarters with two servants, one male, one female, in tow, the chamberlain peered at Errol and began making impatient sounds as he circled him.

  “No. No. No. This won’t do at all. I see I should have gotten here earlier.” The chamberlain stood so close Errol could have counted each hair of his eyelashes. He smelled of cloves and rose water.

  The chamberlain raised his arm and snapped his fingers twice, and the male servant stepped forward, pen and paper at the ready.

  “Will, I think a blue doublet and gray hose would be best. Hmmm. Also, bring a black belt and matching boots. I judge him to be nearly eight spans.” The chamberlain peered at Errol’s feet. “Make the boots a span and two. That should be close enough. And bring it all to the baths at the north end of the palace.”

  Will bowed. “Yes, Oliver.” He turned and left, still making notes.

  Oliver took Errol’s chin in one hand and turned it first this way, then that. “Now for the hard part.” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. “What do you think, Charlotte?”

  She held her lip between her teeth as she examined him from the neck up with the intensity of an herbwoman. “He’s well-favored enough, but the hair is a loss, I think. It’ll have to go.”

  “You’re right,” Oliver said, “but he has the facial structure to make a close crop work, if it’s done well. What about the beard?”

  Charlotte shook her head and touched a couple of spots on either side of his chin. “No. See the bare spots? Shaven is the only option. Still, I think he’ll clean up well.”

  The chamberlain jerked his head in agreement. “Let’s be about it, then. Follow us, boy.”

  Errol felt a little overwhelmed and vaguely insulted at their treatment. Was this normal preparation for an audience with the king? He needed help. “Luis?”

  The reader looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Oliver Turing is the only person in the palace who can tell the king what to do and get away with it. What chance do you think you have?”

  “None,” Oliver said. “Now, let’s move, boy. I have to make you presentable before noon.” He lofted an exaggerated sigh toward the ceiling. “This may be my biggest challenge yet.”

  Errol followed the pair of fussy servants to the baths, his mind conjuring frightening images of what would come. They passed through an oversized archway, and the chamberlain stopped before a doorway whose interior glowed from torches burning in thick steam. The air smelled of soap and rose petals. “Here.” He pointed. “The hard soap on the table is for your body. The liquid in the pitcher is for your hair.” His voice became stern. “Meet us in the antechamber in half an hour. Do a good job, or I will have Charlotte accompany you to do it over.”

  Oliver’s female assistant neither smiled nor frowned but only took the statement as simple truth.

  Eyes wide, Errol nodded, vowing that they would find no fault with his cleaning. A row of large copper tubs lined one wall. On the opposite side was the table. He disrobed and for the next twenty minutes, encased in steam, he bathed, scrubbed, and scoured. At the end he felt as if he’d taken off half his skin.

  His garments, including his smallclothes, had been removed sometime during his bath and replaced by a thick blue robe. Belting it tightly around his waist, he found Charlotte and Will waiting for him in the antechamber to the baths.

  She pointed to a chair. “The shave first, I think. Let’s see what we have to work with before we cut the hair.”

  Will stepped forward, stropping a razor with practiced familiarity. Five minutes later, Errol was sure the servant had peeled his face like an overripe grape, but no matter how many times he raised a hand to his chin he could find no trace of blood.

  Charlotte ran fingers across his cheeks with the trace of a smile. “Hmmm, there’s more to work with than I thought.” Her hand moved to his hair, ruffling, pulling, and combing. “Yes. Yes, I think that will do nicely,” she said.

  “What will do?” Errol asked.

  She tapped him on the head with her comb. “Never mind, boy. I wasn’t talking to you. Now, hold perfectly still unless you want to go before the king looking like a dog with the mange.”

  For what seemed an eternity, the only sound in the room was the snip of Charlotte’s small shears. Cascades of dark, nearly black hair fell around Errol, and gooseflesh rose on his arms as unaccustomed whispers of air touched his neck. Just as Charlotte finished with a self-satisfied nod, Oliver strode through the door accompanied by Will, who held a pile of clothing.

  The chamberlain stopped, his eyes wide. “Oh, Charlotte, you have worked a miracle.”

  She batted her eyes in response to the praise. “Don’t I always?”

  “Yes, dear. Now, lad, let’s get you dressed. Hurry! It’s almost time.”

  Errol took the proffered clothes and retreated to a dressing chamber, emerging moments later to find the chamberlain tapping one foot with impatience.

  “Finally. Let’s go.”

  “No,” Errol said. “I need my armband.”

  “Ridiculous,” Oliver said. “It will totally ruin the look.”

  Enough was enough. “I don’t care. I’m not going before the king without the band Captain Reynald gave me.” To show the strength of his intent, he sat down.

  The chamberlain’s mouth pursed in disapproval. “Will, get the armband and fasten it, tastefully mind you, on his arm.”

  The throne room of Rodran VI soared above Errol. Buttresses climbed skyward at even intervals along the walls. Tall, narrow windows filled the space between buttresses, and jeweled light streamed through stained-glass to fall gleaming like myriad precious stones. The polished granite floor echoed with the steps of his boots as he approached the carpeted stone platform at the far end.

  Rodran sat on a heavy polished throne, backed by rich drapes of purple and scarlet. Marble statues of long-dead kings filled the embrasures on the walls. Errol walked with tentative steps toward the throne, the eyes of the statues and assembled nobles upon him. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of a shimmering wave of golden hair and he stumbled on nothing.

  At the foot of the raised platform, a courtier with a ceremonial staff awaited him. King Rodran, old and bent with age, nodded as if asleep on his throne. Around him, four black-robed men of the watch stood guard, swords bared, ceaselessly scanning the hall for threats.

  “Name?” The king’s retainer tilted the staff to block Errol’s way.

  “Um . . . Errol, Errol St
one.”

  The staff lifted and fell with an echoing boom three times upon the floor, whereupon the retainer made his announcement in a high, clear tenor. “Errol Stone, so summoned, approaches the throne.”

  Rodran beckoned him forward. The staff moved back to its vertical position, and Errol mounted the steps and knelt.

  27

  WHAT TIDINGS COME

  ERROL KEPT HIS GAZE on the floor, not daring to even lift his head to look Rodran in the eye. In spite of everything he had been told, fear of inadvertently giving offense to the king constricted his throat and he found it difficult to breathe. The floor wavered as if it were covered by rippling water.

  Footsteps.

  Another presence joined him on the platform.

  “Primus,” the king said. His voice trembled with effort and his words held a breathy quality, as though Erinon’s monarch found the air too thick to breathe. “Is this the man?”

  The first reader’s face was grave as he nodded. “Yes, sire.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but his lips pressed into a line and he fell silent.

  The king cleared his throat with an effort, a deep cough racking his frail body. “You cast lots for profit.”

  The announcement brought a gasp from the assembled.

  The primus stepped forward, his mouth open to speak, but the king raised his hand. “More, I’m told you assaulted Lord Weir, a noble and the son of Duke Weir, one of my oldest friends.”

  Errol heard a satisfied grunt at this. He looked toward the leader of the conclave. The primus looked as if his hope was dying.

  The king’s scowl would have been terrifying had he not looked as though a breeze could knock him over. “Have you anything to say in your defense?”

  Errol raised his head, suddenly furious. What had he done in the long months since the coming of the nuntius to Callowford that he had not been forced to do? Breath filled his lungs. Curse them all. If they intended to punish him for surviving, he’d let them know what he thought of them before they hauled him off to . . .

  The king’s eyes twinkled.

  Rodran the VI sat on his throne, shivering despite the heavy robe he wore—his grand leonine head covered with the cloudy white of his long hair and beard, his eyes dimmed by time and fatigue. Yet what showed of those blue eyes twinkled. The scowl remained, his lips pressed together in a frown and his brows drawn together in regal disapproval, but light danced in the depths of the monarch’s eyes as though he wanted Errol to share some private joke.

  Errol released his anger and his breath, shaking his head. “No, sire. I have no defense.” He bowed his head. “As you command, my liege.”

  A soft snort, and the sound of the king’s lips flapping against each other sounded. “Your liege, did you say? We shall see.” The king raised his voice to address the assembly. “Let no man think to test the crown.” Under his breath he added so softly that only those on the platform could hear. “I am surrounded by vultures, courtiers pecking at my old bones.”

  Rodran looked over those assembled in the hall. He raised his tremulous voice. “Errol Stone, you are found guilty of violating the trust of the kingdom. You are herewith ordered to serve penance to the conclave in perpetuity until your crime has been expunged. Henceforth, let your deeds so shine before the people of the kingdom that they will laud your liege and lord.” He coughed once. “Humph. This audience is concluded.”

  Errol’s mind spun, trying to sort through the formalities of the king’s language. Perpetuity? Did that mean he had to live out the rest of his life in penance? And what deeds would he have to do to expunge his guilt? He rose and looked at those assembled for some clue to the king’s meaning. Weir and his father stood with disappointment etched on their faces. The rest of the nobles looked bored.

  The king stood, and the crowd began moving away. The primus came to stand at his shoulder. “The king requires your attendance at a private audience. Come.”

  Errol trailed the primus, and together they followed the king and his bodyguards out the rear of the throne room. After a short distance down the hallway they came to a small chamber as richly appointed but more comfortable than the larger hall. The king seated himself with a sigh on a well-cushioned chair.

  “Ah. That’s better. Thrones are hard, boy. They’re made for younger men.” He waved a trembling finger at a nearby chair. “Sit down, gentlemen. I have no intention of looking up at you.”

  Errol sat along with the primus. His hands took turns gripping each other as they sought the familiar comfort of his staff. He felt naked without it. The door opened to admit Captain Reynald and another man the primus whispered was the archbenefice, Bertrand Cannon. Luis, Martin, and Cruk followed.

  Errol didn’t know what manner of greeting to give. The king had told him to sit down, but the instinct to bow his respects to the archbenefice overwhelmed him. He stood and did so.

  “Ha.” The archbenefice laughed. “He’s got pretty good manners—obviously not a noble.”

  The king smiled. “I’m sure the boy expects a certain formal decorum in our language, Bertrand. Try not to disappoint him.”

  A catarrhal sound issued from deep in the archbenefice’s throat as he tried to stifle his laughter. “We don’t have time for that nonsense.”

  Rodran regarded Errol and the rest assembled there. For a brief moment, Errol saw the man the king had been before age and the weight of power had robbed him of his strength. “I’d like to know what’s so important about this boy.” His gaze swept the room.

  “Me?” Errol asked.

  “The enemy wants to kill you,” the archbenefice said. “Which means”—he shot a look at the primus—“that they perceive some threat in you.”

  Enoch Sten, primus of the conclave, shrugged. “I can only surmise that Morin is attempting to eliminate those who can testify against him.” He regarded Errol with utter calm.

  A brief look of irritation, like a wisp of cloud passing in front of the sun, marred the archbenefice’s face before he continued. “We must use their interest to try and bring them out into the open.”

  Errol didn’t understand the archbenefice’s meaning and looked to Martin for an explanation.

  At a nod from the king, Martin spoke.

  “They mean to use you as bait, boy,” the priest said. Unconcealed scorn filled his voice. “Instead of the recognition you should have received for saving the primus’s life, the king means to set you up as a target in hopes of luring our enemies out into the open.”

  “What do you think, Errol?” Luis asked. His voice sounded brittle, on the edge of breaking.

  A sense of loneliness and betrayal stabbed Errol, kept stabbing him. In this room, not one of these men would come to his defense. To a man, they only wanted to use him to further their own ends. Jealously and envy of Liam so deep it threatened to drown him crashed upon him in wave after wave. He bowed his head, waiting for the flood to ebb.

  At last the emotions receded, replaced by loneliness and longing for honest company: Rale, Anomar, Rokha, or Conger.

  Even Ru had been straightforward in his greed and ambition.

  What do I think? If he thought they would allow him to go, he would be off the island before nightfall. Errol stood before them, bound by the king, the primus, and the archbenefice, forced by the three most powerful men in the kingdom to bait their trap.

  He took a deep breath and let them know what he thought. “I wish I’d never seen that nuntius in Callowford. Since I met that crow, I’ve left every friend to obey the church.” He spat the words, throwing them with contempt at his puppet masters. Then he turned to look at the king, and stopped. Some sense of the king’s nearly infinite sorrow struck him, and though Errol’s anger still burned like a blacksmith’s furnace within his chest, he could not bring himself to rail against this fragile old man. His voice softened. “More than anything, Your Majesty, I wish you had a son.”

  Quiet descended upon the room. Tears tracked down Rodran’s cheeks, but he ma
de no move to hide them or wipe them away.

  “I’m sorry, Errol,” the archbenefice spoke at last. “The kingdom is in our care.”

  Errol laced his voice with contempt. “And I’m a necessary sacrifice.”

  “If need be, we are all necessary sacrifices, boy,” Cruk said. “We don’t have time for you to feel sorry for yourself.”

  Stung, he rounded on the watchman. “Have I not done everything you’ve asked?” He thrust an angry finger toward the primus. “And more?”

  “I don’t think the demon spawn were after me,” the primus said. “It was only after Morin failed in his attempt to gain control of you that they attacked. They could have killed Luis and me easily. The secondus and I stood, unarmed and defenseless. Yet all three of them went after you, Errol.”

  The king snorted his derision. “Five of the finest minds in the kingdom are gathered before me, and yet no one can tell me what makes this boy so important. What about you, boy? Do you know your part in this?”

  Errol licked lips that had gone dry. “Sire, six months ago I was wandering the Sprata foothills looking for enough herbs to buy ale.”

  The king sat back, his face cold. “Secrets. I pray, gentlemen, that you know what you’re about. Your plan carries risk, yet it is obvious the boy is crucial to it.”

  “And that is our chance, Errol,” the archbenefice added. “By having the king forsake you in public yet keep you tied to your penance, we present our enemies with an opportunity to attack you again.”

  Errol shook his head. “Why not just take the abbot and question him?”

  The archbenefice sighed. “The abbot is only the foot soldier of the enemy. We need to know who is pulling his strings. And for that . . .” He shrugged.

  “You need bait for your trap,” Errol said.

  Awkward stillness filled the room. The men waited on him. They couldn’t force him to be their bait, he saw. Luis’s compulsion had been fulfilled and unless they put another one on him, he could tell them whatever they wanted to hear and then run for the mainland as soon as they turned their backs. The idea appealed to him. He could take his staff and find some corner of the kingdom where no one would think to question him and become a farmer. Why not? If it worked for Rale, it could work for him.