The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  “What?” He turned to Martin, who managed to look hopeful despite his pain, then to Adora, who stood with pleading in her eyes. Then it hit him. Martin knew. Somehow, he’d uncovered Errol’s parentage. A bolt of anger flashed through him. Only his respect for Rale kept him from lashing out.

  “Thank you, Rale.” His voice sounded overly formal, but he couldn’t soften it without letting the anger loose. “I think I need to hear the good priest before I decide, though any man would be honored to be your son. My presence is causing Pater Martin pain. I think it best if we lift his compulsion as soon as possible.” He considered Martin’s pain-filled eyes. “Compulsion is evil.”

  Martin winced at the rebuke, even as he nodded in acquiescence or surrender. “I think Karele should begin.”

  This surprised him. What possible part could the solis have to play in Martin’s confession?

  Karele came forward. “You should know, Errol, that my presence here is my penance for my earlier failure. Aurae charged me with escorting you to Erinon while I was yet on the steppes. I tarried.” He exhaled.

  Errol almost laughed. “Is that all?”

  “No. Had I been with you, the malus in Morin’s dungeon would never have recognized your importance, or Liam’s. You would have been safe.” He sighed. “I was supposed to be your guide. Because of my failure, you almost died.”

  Now he understood. For an instant, the depth of Karele’s failure yawned before him, but Rale’s presence mollified him. “Why did you delay?”

  “I was loath to leave my master, Ablajin.”

  Errol pressed. “Why?”

  Karele’s lips pressed into a line before he answered. “He is like a father to me.”

  His reticence stabbed Errol’s middle. “Do you not have one?”

  A shake of the head. “No. I am also an orphan.”

  Errol shrugged. “I would have done the same. I’m surprised you’re here at all. I would have stayed.”

  Karele panted as if he’d run miles in the intervening moments. “Don’t you see, boy? I was supposed to be to you what Ablajin was to me.”

  Errol lifted his hand, let it drop. “I think I see pretty well. You wanted to be with your father.”

  He turned to Martin. “Is there anyone else who needs to speak before you?”

  The priest shook his head. The rest of the occupants of the cabin retreated to the walls, granting them a measure of privacy, though they could doubtless hear every whisper that might pass between them.

  “Much of what I tried to keep from you, Errol, you’ve surmised and so becomes moot.” As Martin spoke, the tightness around his eyes and the furrows that split his brow eased, until he looked almost normal. “It is true that I was certain Liam had been chosen by Deas to be king, and I still think he may be, but when Luis finally cast the lots he spent five years crafting, your name came up as often as his.”

  Errol inhaled to pose a question but stopped. Martin’s geas would leave him no room for omission. He waited.

  “In our blind trust for the reader’s craft, we failed to seek out answers to what made you and Liam so important. So the archbenefice granted that Luis, Cruk, and I could return to your village.

  “On our way we were met and aided by Karele.” His shoulders shifted beneath his tunic. “That tale itself deserves to be told, but it has nothing to do with the vow I took.”

  Errol leaned forward. “What does?”

  Martin exhaled into the silence, loud, pained. Despite the pressure the compulsion placed upon him he seemed more than reluctant to speak. The muscles at his jaws clenched. Around the room everyone leaned forward, waiting for that moment when Martin would succumb and break the silence.

  “You and Liam are of an age, Errol,” Martin said, “brothers by circumstance though not by birth. Before they died, Adele and Radere told me the circumstances of Liam’s birth. The timing of his conception and yours was no coincidence. You were both sired when Rodran’s brother, Prince Jaclin, came through on his way to the gap. Callowford had to billet the prince and his men.” He waved a hand. “Soldiers . . . well . . .”

  Errol wanted to laugh. This is what they feared to tell him? “So I’m the son of a soldier and some . . . some tavern wench?”

  Martin shook his head. “No. Not you. Liam. But you, Errol, were a mystery to us,” Martin said. His eyes tightened with a different kind of pain. “And a surprise to the herbwomen.” He stopped, his teeth clenched.

  “Who is my father?” Errol asked. “If he was not some soldier, who?”

  Tears gathered at the corner of Martin’s eyes. “I found him by accident. Please understand, I’d already vowed to tell you everything.”

  “Who?”

  Rale spoke. “Remember, Errol, every man decides what kind of man he will be. You have chosen well, no matter who your father might be.”

  “And I will never give my heart to another,” Adora added.

  He stepped toward Martin, hoping to force the truth from him by proximity if nothing else. “Who?”

  Martin Arwitten licked his lips. “There was a man with Prince Jaclin, a . . . a servant in his command. Every large contingent has one to . . . to perform the rights of the church, to say the prayers over the dead.”

  A horror began to grow in Errol’s mind.

  “This man was found in the act with a young girl in Callowford. Jaclin gave him a choice—marry the girl or remain in Callowford as its priest.”

  The blackness in his mind grew, threw tendrils into his heart.

  “He chose the priesthood. Months later the girl died giving birth to a son. The infant boy was given to a stonemason named Warrel and his wife.” Martin swallowed.

  “Please,” Errol whispered. “Please tell me there was a different priest. Please.”

  Martin shook his head, the tears spilling down his cheeks.

  “Antil is my father.” Errol spoke it, his voice wooden. Something in him bent like a sapling in a gale, threatened to break.

  Martin squinted and bit his lip. “Please, Errol, please leave.”

  It seemed he looked on Martin from a great distance as if through a long tunnel. What he saw would have stunned him had he been capable of anything more than numbness. “What more do you have, Martin?”

  Martin locked his jaws around his secret.

  Adora came forward. “What? There’s more?”

  Nothing could touch him now. His torturer had been his own father. What could compare to that? Errol took his arm. “Let me have it all, Martin.”

  Invisible hands pried Martin’s jaws apart. “Somebody has to die.”

  Errol shook his head.

  Martin vomited the words into the confines of the cabin. “The kingdom can only be saved by blood. You and Liam must fight on behalf of Illustra. One of you must die.”

  The bent thing in him broke with a soft snap in the depths of his mind. No physical death could touch him now.

  He was dead inside already.

  37

  Merakh

  THE SHIP COASTED into the dock, hitting the pier with a soft thunk that testified to the longevity of Captain Tek’s skill. Sun-browned men in loose white clothing shouted orders in the deep-throated language of the Merakhi, sending cold prickles that defied the heat up and down Martin’s skin. He stood on deck, watching, standing as close to Errol as he dared without drawing the boy’s attention. Horses passed before them with tentative, clopping steps down the gangplank to the thick wooden timbers that framed the pier.

  Errol stood alone. He held a space about him that none dared violate, not even the princess. Her brief attempt at conversation had been met with some reply that had sent her to the hold red-eyed and biting her lip. After the horses, the ship’s passengers began to disembark. Rale moved next to Errol and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, which Errol didn’t appear to acknowledge, then said something with his head bent close that Martin couldn’t hear. The two of them moved to follow the mounts.

  Martin noted the city’s mul
ti-arched, white-stone buildings that reflected the too-bright sunshine. Plants bloomed everywhere, serviced by irrigation pipes that ran to the river in the distance. Up a gradual incline decorated with a riot of colorful flowers, a building festooned with countless spires reached to the sky. In one—impossible to tell which—a bell tolled. The dockworkers huddled together for a brief discussion, then faced approximately northwest and bowed in time to the bell, which tolled eleven times.

  “A strange custom,” Martin mused.

  Naaman Ru, standing close, shrugged. “The people of the river worship many gods, one for each day of the year. Each day they will rotate where they stand and bow once for each hour of daylight.” The caravan master sighed, his eyes wistful. “Do you know why they’re called the people of the river?”

  Martin nodded, but Ru either didn’t notice or ignored him in his desire to tell his story.

  “The Altaru River winds back and forth, east and west, for thousands of leagues, beginning in the mountains that separate Merakh from Ongol, hundreds of leagues to the south. The river cascades from the mountains in a torrent, gradually slowing as it approaches the coast, where it splits over and over again. All along the river’s incredible length, the Merakhi irrigate their fields from its massive flow.” He gestured to the irrigation channels in the distance. “Maybe one Merakhi out of ten lives more than a league from the river. It is their life.”

  Martin surveyed the strange people milling around him. Away from the docks, men and women worked together at the market—the women dark-haired, their eyes and lips heavily painted in blues and greens. Yes, a very strange people.

  Luis spied him and broke off from the main group to come stand at his side. “Merodach has found a stall in the city market that sells Merakhi clothing.” His voice sounded almost normal, but the effort made it too bright, like the sunshine on this side of the strait. “Rale says it would be best if we wore clothing to blend in.”

  Martin nodded to show he’d heard. “I’ve been watching Errol for hours, Luis. He’s dead inside.”

  “Perhaps not,” Luis said. “The shock of the truth may wear off in time.”

  The words were meant to comfort, but they only drove the barbs of Martin’s guilt deeper into his heart. “Perhaps, may. The boy believes he must die.”

  “And he may be right,” Luis said.

  Startled, Martin faced him. “Harsh, my friend. Has your heart become like one of your casting stones?”

  Luis’s brown eyes tightened at the accusation. “Is it harsh to desire the survival of the kingdom? From Soeden to Basquon, there are millions who will fall to the Merakhi and the Morgols if Errol fails. He and Liam must fight this evil. Someone must die if the kingdom is to survive.”

  “What makes you think it will be Errol who dies?”

  Luis pointed to the object of their conversation. “Look at him. Even if he survives this trip and the coming war, do you think he would ever consent to be king? Can you see him working with Duke Weir or the Judica, the body that tried to kill him? He’s nearly used up, like a fire running out of fuel.”

  “You should be more consistent. Didn’t you argue with me when I insisted Liam would be king?”

  “Things change.” Luis shrugged. “You should never have made the vow.”

  Martin sighed, his anger turning back on himself.

  Luis’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “If he lives to save the kingdom, he will be revered as the kingdom’s greatest hero, even more than Magis. The kingdom and its people will live.”

  Martin nodded. “But what of Errol?” He pointed to the figure standing wooden and lifeless some little distance away. “What of him?” He noted the sudden lack of warmth as Luis lifted the hand meant to comfort from his shoulder and moved away.

  Rale moved among the company and crew, speaking in low tones to issue orders. He spoke to Errol, who only acknowledged him by moving to follow as they headed deeper into the city.

  “I’m sending most of our company back to Erinon with Tek,” Rale said.

  A sense of vulnerability threaded its way into him. “Won’t we need the watchmen?”

  “A thousand of them wouldn’t be enough to force our way to Valon, and too many of them look like watchmen no matter what clothes they wear.”

  “Who’s going on?”

  “Errol, myself, you, Luis, Karele, Merodach, Naaman Ru, Rokha—” he paused, looking angry—“and Adora.”

  “You’re letting the princess come?”

  “She outranks me, Pater. I’m not letting her do anything. She threatened to follow us on her own.”

  “A kingdom woman in Merakh?”

  Rale gave a curt nod. “I’m glad you appreciate the problem.”

  Knowing there was nothing they could do, Martin simply nodded and said, “I have information the archbenefice needs. Which of the watchmen should I give it to?”

  “Give it to Conger.”

  “What?” Old prejudices bubbled up in him at the mention of the defrocked priest. “What if he reads it?”

  Rale regarded him under heavy-lidded eyes. “Does it matter at this point, Pater? We left enemies behind us. The last person they’ll suspect of carrying messages is Conger. I’ve paid Tek to drop everyone off in Erinon and then meet us back here.”

  Martin noted the captain didn’t bother to expound on any of the hundred things that might go wrong. He was just as happy for Rale’s silence.

  An hour later Tek’s ship unfurled the foresails and drifted away. Their company was reduced to nine, of which only five were accomplished with a sword. Martin, Luis, Karele, and Adora would be of little use if it came to a fight.

  “We will not have to worry about bandits,” Ru said. His mouth twisted to one side. “The akhen take pride in devising . . . creative ways for criminals to die. It discourages people from taking up the practice. Executions, though rare, are a very popular form of entertainment.” He laughed at the look on Martin’s face.

  They rode out of the city, past whitewashed walls and laughing women with water jars on their heads, and took the road south following the river. A sense of absence nagged at Martin for a mile or more until he realized that he missed the sound of wagons. They didn’t have any. Their cargo—medicines and herbs from the kingdom—didn’t warrant the use of the clanking, horse-drawn contraptions. Instead a train of mules—bored, disinterested-looking creatures—carried the cargo. Their group seemed pitifully small as they followed the verdant path cut by the river along with the other caravans. Rale and Naaman Ru dropped back to speak with Luis, who rode a piebald just in front of Martin.

  “Your services are needed, Secondus,” Rale said.

  Luis nodded and pulled a knife and a bag of blanks out of a pack behind him. “What’s the question?”

  Rale looked toward Naaman Ru, who spoke. “This road follows the Altaru River, which winds east and west repeatedly through the entire length of Merakh. A hundred leagues south from here lies the city of Guerir, where the ilhotep rules.” He turned from his survey of the road to Luis. “The ilhotep pretends to be the power, but it is the six hoteps that advise him who hold sway. They are rumored to be ghostwalkers. If your Sarin Valon is here, I think he is in that city, which makes this little more than a march to our death.”

  “Do they allow traders in that city?” Rale asked.

  Ru nodded. “Traders who are willing to make the trek are handsomely rewarded, but the slightest offense against Merakhi custom turns you from a trader to a slave. And they are easily offended.”

  Luis nodded. “It is a simple cast to see if that is where Valon is, a yes or no question.”

  Ru darted glances everywhere. “Keep your movements small. Readers are forbidden in Merakh. If an akha sees you, we’ll envy the fate of bandits.”

  Luis worked as he rode, his hands hidden in his bag.

  “Can you do that on horseback?” Martin asked.

  Luis shrugged. “It’s clumsy, but for a question this simple, I hardly need the quiet
of the conclave.”

  Martin edge his horse closer, dropped his voice. “Why did we not just ask Karele? Aurae could tell us with more certainty than lots.”

  Luis continued to focus on the work beneath his hands. “The solis is wary of revealing his ability to Naaman Ru. Lots will take longer but will provide the same answer.”

  Some moments later, Luis grunted, sounding unsurprised. “It is as Ru suggested. Valon is in Guerir.”

  “Won’t he see us coming?”

  “Karele says he will not.” Luis nudged his horse forward toward Rale and Naaman Ru. Martin followed.

  With reluctance, they left the lush green of the river and set off south across the sand.

  “There’s a village halfway between loops of the river,” Ru said. “A place called Shagdal. There was a man who ran an inn there who helped me and Rokha escape. We can camp there.”

  “Thank you,” Martin said.

  Ru spat, jerked his head in Errol’s direction. “Don’t thank me, priest. I’m under compulsion to help that whelp, and I’d like to live to see my way out of Merakh again.”

  Two hours before sunset they rode through the hard-packed dirt of the village. A man in a white conical cap standing next to the well in the center of town surveyed their arrival with narrowed eyes.

  Ru steered them well clear of the man toward the inn. He drifted back, whispering instructions. “The fellow in the hat is an akha, a servant of the hoteps in their high council. Keep your eyes down. Direct eye contact is a challenge. Gather at the back of the inn. I will bring up the rear. Say nothing until I arrive.”

  When they rounded a corner a voice rose to greet them. The owner, a tall, broad man with heavy jowls and sun-browned skin, yelled what must have been a welcome in his native language. Seeing Rokha, he approached, a smile broadening under dark curls fading to gray.