Errol wished with all his heart he were someplace else. He stared at a fixed spot of the carpet and tried to distract himself by counting his heartbeats. He’d almost reached five hundred when Luis squeezed his shoulder and resumed his place behind him.
After another twenty paces they stood directly before the throne. Rodran’s rheumy blue eyes watched him, his expression thoughtful as Martin stepped around to stand in front of Errol and recount his deeds.
But the benefice didn’t speak. He looked over the hall, his dark eyes fiery beneath his thatch of thick white hair, but minutes passed and Martin still kept his silence. Here and there, an isolated spectator stirred in their seat, and as the silence stretched, more and more of the assembled nobility and churchmen, robed in their finery, squirmed and gestured where they sat.
Rodran leaned forward. “What is the meaning of this, Benefice?”
Martin bowed. “Your Majesty, the deed I am about to recount is beyond all the others, both in scope and breadth of courage. Yet, I fear there are some in the hall who lack the depth to comprehend it. So, Your Majesty, I seek a boon.”
The king smiled, obviously enjoying the drama of the moment. He leaned back in his chair and took a turn at letting his gaze sweep the hall. “Speak, Benefice. What is this boon you seek?”
“I would have Errol’s deeds, including the one I am about to relate, entered into the record, that he might be an example to your subjects, both those living and those yet to come.”
Errol jerked his head in surprise. The record was the official history of the kingdom kept by the royal historian. To be entered was considered an honor, or in the case of misdeeds, an infamy, greater than any other.
Rodran straightened on his throne, forcing his back from its weighted curve to address the hall. “The boon you seek is considerable. I would hear of this deed before I render such a decision. I pray you, speak in full, and let none think to abbreviate your words.”
Martin pivoted and leaned close to Errol. “This may hurt, boy, but I would honor your courage.”
Errol’s throat tightened in fear, and spots swam before his eyes before he remembered to breathe.
Instead of standing and addressing the throne as the others had done, the priest walked a tight circle around Errol and the others, speaking directly to the assembly. His voice filled the hall with its bass resonance, echoing in the vast space with its warm, rumbling tones. As one, the assembled leaned forward, anticipating each word, hanging on each gesture.
Errol had never seen the man speak to a crowd before. Martin’s oratorical skills surpassed anything he’d witnessed. The old priest held the crowd in his hand as he spoke of his move to the village of Callowford and how he and Errol had met.
And then he recounted the death of Warrel, his dying confession, and Errol’s drunkenness.
Past embarrassment now, tears streamed down Errol’s cheeks as Martin opened his past and strewed it across the throne room floor for the entire kingdom to see. The priest’s memory and his gift of description cast Errol’s life on a canvas for the entire hall to see in sordid detail. No account of drunkenness was too sensitive, no episode of sleeping in the gutters too embarrassing, and no occurrence of retching shakes too private to leave out. Errol cringed. He couldn’t even remember some of the events described.
Then the pitch of Martin’s voice changed. No longer subdued with the tenor of defeat, the timbre of triumph filled it as Martin told of how Errol overcame his drunkenness and came to serve the kingdom, though none helped or encouraged him.
Martin’s voice rose. “I tell you, my king, my fellow churchmen, assembled lords and ladies all, though I watched him for years, I knew not the depth of courage that resided in Errol Stone. Stripped by fate of family, name, and dignity, he triumphed still. Can any deny Deas’s favor? I am humbled by his perseverance and fortitude.”
Martin fell silent.
Errol, his world laid bare, kept his head down, hiding his tears.
Through his shame, he saw the king shift his feet. “Errol Stone, look at me,” the king commanded.
He lifted his head against the weight of Martin’s testimony and met the king’s gaze. Rodran grasped the arms of his throne and pushed himself, shaking and trembling on his old man’s legs, to stand. Then he clapped.
The hall erupted in thunder as the assembly followed the king’s example.
Errol collapsed, hiding his face.
“This is too much for him.” A voice, Luis’s he thought, spoke above him.
Strong hands grabbed his arms.
“Some men are more easily broken by kindness than censure,” Martin said. “The kingdom has need of such men.”
This made no sense to Errol. He wanted desperately to leave. Instead the king’s guards hauled him to his feet, the hands gentle despite their strength.
“Errol Stone,” Rodran said, “will have his story entered in the record. More, in accordance with his service to the crown, he is granted the Earldom of Breckinridge. Let our enemies tremble in the face of such courage. My lords and ladies, I present to you Earl Stone.”
He walked the halls of the conclave the next day in a daze. Sleep had been hard to come by the previous night, and his introduction to the nobility this morning had consisted of attending the council of nobles in the palace. Much of the interminable discussion confused him. The nobles wanted to levy a tax to prepare for Illustra’s defense. Yet many benefices in the church objected on grounds the tax would affect their income.
Released at last, he wandered, too tired to think straight but too keyed up to remain in his rooms. Not knowing where else to go, he meandered his way toward the courtyard by the barracks. Maybe a few turns with the staff would tire him enough for sleep, or at least banish the fog from his mind.
With one hand he unbuttoned his rumpled blue doublet halfway down in an effort to dissipate some of the summer heat. The air hung thick over the island, like a sodden blanket that made sweating useless. He gave serious consideration to shucking the doublet and going about in just his under tunic.
Errol turned the corner to the courtyard to find Liam giving instruction to Derek and Darren. The usual gaggle of admirers watched. At his approach, the three paused and then bowed, bending deeply from the waist. Errol turned to see whom they bowed to, but the walkway stood empty.
When he turned back, the duke’s sons stood smiling at him.
“Methinks it will take some time for the earl to become accustomed to his new status,” Derek said.
Darren nodded but didn’t speak.
Liam, looking as fresh as if he’d just bathed, stepped forward and shook his hand. His friend stood before him dressed all in black, a captain’s insignia plain on his arm. Errol pointed to it. “When did that happen?”
“Right after the fight in the throne room. They’d offered the captaincy to me before, but Martin objected. Once we beat back the attack against Rodran, Reynald tore a strip from his cloak and put it on me in front of the king. Rodran made it official. There wasn’t much Martin could do.” Liam’s smile broadened. “King Rodran has placed me in charge of his personal guard. Can you believe it?”
Errol nodded. “It fits you. You fight like a hero from the stories.”
“Do you want to spar?” Liam asked.
Now that he thought about it, the idea lost its appeal. He eyed the shade where the assembled spectators watched with envy. “Maybe later. I don’t think I’d be much of a challenge for you right now.” He laughed. “Maybe not ever again.”
He turned and faced the daunting array of nobles seated before him. Here and there among the finery he could see an empty chair, but the idea of seating himself among them made his feet itch to be elsewhere. Errol spied and made for an empty table at the edge where he could be part of the company but without presuming on anyone’s acceptance.
As soon as he seated himself, Adora rose and came toward him with almost a dozen other ladies of the court trailing in her wake. They seated themselves, and a
few of them pulled fans from their sleeves. One of them, a dark-haired beauty with olive skin, sat so close to him their knees touched. The look she directed at Errol was frank and her fan rested against her cheek.
“Hello, Earl Stone,” she said. “Tell me, what do you think of your new station?” Her eyes danced as she spoke and her voice was filled with hints and suggestions that had nothing to do with her words.
“Stop it, Liselle,” Adora said. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”
Liselle darted a look of irritation toward the king’s niece. “Then he can tell me himself. I merely wanted to greet the newest member of the nobility. I’m the daughter of Baron Poulos. I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?” She reached out, traced a line down his arm with her fingertips. “Am I, Earl Stone?”
Errol gaped at the woman, floundering for something to say.
Liselle laughed deep in her throat and leaned back, not so much sitting, as draping herself across the chair. With studied intensity, she lightly tapped her lips twice with her fan before letting it trace a seductive line down her chin and throat.
Errol had no idea what Lady Liselle’s fan language said, but there was no mistaking her intent. Shocked gasps around the table only confirmed his suspicions. With his face flaming, he bolted out of his seat. His chair clattered behind him, and he turned to pick it up, trembling and awkward.
“Please excuse me,” he said. “I need to see the secondus.” He wanted nothing more than to flee, but the sight of Adora made him bold despite his heated face. Errol turned toward her. “Would you do me the honor of walking with me as far as the conclave?”
She nodded and with a last glare for Liselle moved around the table to join him.
When they were beyond earshot of the nobles, Errol cleared his throat. “What exactly did Lady Liselle say?”
Now Adora blushed, and she stared at the granite paving stones in front of her feet. “Never mind. I can’t believe she said that in public. She’s hardly better than a courtesan.”
Errol’s face heated again. “Oh.”
The princess laughed. “If that’s what the ladies of the court are going to be saying, maybe it’s better that you don’t know the fan language.” She grabbed his arm, pulled him to a halt. “Have a care, Errol. There are rumblings in the palace about your elevation and support for the herbwomen. Palace politics can be dangerous, and with my uncle . . .” Adora dropped her eyes, not finishing.
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
She gave a fluttery laugh and wiped away sudden tears. “Thank you. It seems like years since anyone thought of him as something besides the end of the royal line. He’s almost alone now. Everyone is so busy maneuvering for the position they want when he dies, they’ve forgotten he’s still alive.”
She stopped; her golden hair swayed with the sudden change in motion. “What he really needs is a friend. The nobles are all trying to get something from him. The priests talk to him, but it’s mostly stuff about his soul and dying well. The watch is loyal, but they serve the crown no matter whose head it’s resting on.” She grabbed his hand. “Would you be his friend?”
Errol nodded. He would never be able to deny those green eyes anything.
Epilogue
A Cast of Stones
A CRESCENT MOON showed above the roof of the palace opposite the conclave. Luis sat at his workbench, the last of the Callowford stones held in one hand and a polishing cloth held in the other. He let his eyelids drift lower until they were mere slits. Surrendering himself to his ability, he turned the stone, rubbing it in soft strokes here and there with the cloth as his instinct directed. At long last, he finished. One stroke more or less and the lot would be less than perfect.
“Is it done?” Martin asked.
Luis nodded. His heart couldn’t seem to decide whether to hammer away in his chest or stop altogether. Years of effort lay before him in five score lots, one to represent each male in Callowford. And every year, with each stroke of the chisel or brush of the cloth, he had focused on the same question—who would be the next soteregia, Illustra’s savior and king? At long last, he released the thought, felt the burden of that single-minded intensity lift from his soul.
He carried the first tray across the room to the drawing sphere, similar to the drum they’d used to find Sarin but more finely wrought. Supported by four rollers underneath, the container could spin in any direction, but was weighted so that a small opening at the top would descend toward the bottom as the sphere slowed. Then one of the lots, and only one, would fall from the hole. They’d moved the sphere from the main conclave workroom to his private one. No one must know.
With the care of a surgeon, he rotated the container until the hole faced up and then fed the lots in one by one. The soft clacking sound as they rolled in filled him with growing anticipation. By the time he let the last stone sphere roll from his fingers, his heartbeat rocked him back and forth where he stood.
“You’ll probably want to close the door,” he said. “The conclave is empty, but this will make a fair amount of noise even so, and it wouldn’t do to have one of the palace guards interrupt us.”
Martin pushed the door and after a moment’s hesitation barred it. “I have no desire to be hauled in front of the Judica and forced to give an explanation.”
That only made sense. What they were about to do would be considered tantamount to subverting the succession protocol. The members of the Judica were jealous of the readers’ power. When Martin returned to stand by his side, he put his hands on the drawing sphere and pushed with all his might, spinning the container on its rollers.
The sound of over a hundred rocks tumbling against each other in the thick steel container deafened them, and Luis clapped his hands over his ears. With each rotation the hole drifted lower until it could no longer be seen. As it slowed, the noise subsided and Luis crouched beneath the sphere with his hands cupped underneath.
After six years and an eternity, a single lot dropped from the hole to smack against his hands. He held it up against the light of the window.
“Liam.”
Martin breathed a sigh of relief and then whooped.
Luis found himself wrapped in the priest’s hug. “You did it, Luis. By Deas in heaven, you did it!”
When he could breathe again, he rotated the sphere, dropped in the lot, and pushed against the steel until the drawing hole faced the ceiling. “We’ll need to draw several times just to make sure.”
Martin laughed and waved. “Of course. Of course.” He put his hands behind his back and strolled around the room, his face wreathed in a look of contented accomplishment.
Luis spun the sphere.
“It’s been quite a journey, hasn’t it, Luis?” Martin faced the window, his eyes distant. “To think six years ago we started from right here, casting for the province and the city that would provide the next king.”
The sphere stopped, and Luis caught the lot in his hands.
“Liam will be a king for the ages,” Martin said behind him.
Some instinct warned him. Whether the lot felt cooler to the touch or just different, he couldn’t say, but he knew even before he held it to the light.
“Errol.”
Martin spun. “What? That’s impossible. You must have done something wrong.”
Luis spun in anger, thrust the stone at his old friend as though he could see something more than polished rock. “It’s as perfect as I can make it. It says Errol.”
Martin licked his lips, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Draw again.”
What else was there to do? He replaced the lot and pushed against the container with all his strength. Then he waited, standing next to his friend watching the glimmer of reflected light bounce back from the steel drawing tank. Gone was the thrill of moments ago. Now he eyed the sphere warily, as though it had the power to attack them.
“Liam.”
He looked at the priest, but Martin knew better than to celebrate now. His
brows furrowed and he pointed a shaky index finger at the sphere. “Again.”
Luis nodded, repeated the steps exactly as he’d done before, his reader’s training taking over as doubt and disbelief banished rational thought from his mind.
“Errol.”
They cast lots late into the night. After the first four, they’d started a tally sheet. At the end of the third hour, tired and fatigued by apprehension and lack of sleep, Luis shook his head and let the pen fall from his grasp.
“There’s no trend, Martin.”
His friend’s face looked as if it might crumple any moment. “What does it mean, Luis?”
For a brief moment, the temptation to lie or pretend some knowledge overwhelmed him, but they’d been friends too long for him to try to salve feelings that way.
“I don’t know.”
Martin buried his face in his hands.
“Deas help us.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people who helped bring this to fruition, but I would be remiss not to call attention to the Middle Tennessee Christian Writer’s Group and especially Kaye Dacus, who teaches us all; to Dave Long and Karen Schurrer, my editors at Bethany House, who sweated the details and pushed me to be a better writer; to Lynn Rochon and Holly Smit, who taught me how to polish my work; and to you, the reader, because you love stories and tales as much as I do.
After graduating from Georgia Tech, Patrick W. Carr worked at a nuclear plant, did design work for the air force, worked for a printing company, and was an engineering consultant. Patrick’s day gig for the last five years has been teaching high school math in Nashville, Tennessee. Patrick is a member of ACFW and MTCW and makes his home in Nashville with his incredible wife, Mary, and their four awesome sons, Patrick, Connor, Daniel, and Ethan. A Cast of Stones is his first novel.
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