A Cast of Stones (12 page)

It had something to do with those stones Luis carried. The man hovered over them as though they held the power of life and death. They went wherever the reader went. The intricate
carvings of animals, exquisite in their detail, had been left at the cabin without thought, while those stone balls had been carefully, almost lovingly, packed into padded crates that Luis and Martin kept tied to the back of their horses.

Errol made up his mind. Compulsion or not, when they got to Windridge, he would corner Luis and demand answers.

A little after noon, Cruk led them west toward a line of hills just visible through the infrequent gaps in the trees. An hour later their horses stepped onto the road that ran north toward Windridge. Without a word Cruk nudged his mount into a canter. Errol groaned. Sure enough, Horace slowed after half a dozen strides and lapsed into that torturous trot.

Sore and frustrated, Errol dug his heels into Horace's flanks. Holding the reins with one hand, he reached back and smacked his horse on the rump. His hand stung, but his mount responded with an unexpected burst of speed and galloped until they caught up with the others.

Cruk smirked at him before he returned to his methodical scan of the terrain ahead. “I was wondering when you'd get frustrated enough to teach that bag of bones you meant business.”

Errol didn't know whether to smile at Cruk's backhanded compliment. His hand still stung. “I don't like hitting things.”

The smirk slid off Cruk's face. “Fair enough, boy, but we're not in Callowford anymore. Martin, Luis, and I have been out of Erinon for five years, and the truth is we don't have a clue about what's going on there. We know people are trying to kill us. Not me. Not Martin and Luis. Us. That includes you. If you get into a scrape and hesitate because you don't want to hurt someone, you'll die.”

Errol found himself both repulsed and fascinated by Cruk's businesslike attitude. “How many people have you killed?”

The big man shrugged. “About twenty years ago the nomads swept off the steppes and flooded through the Ladoga Pass in waves. They overran the garrison at Tampere as if it wasn't there and were on the doorstep of Soeden before we could sail enough
men through the Noric Sea to slow them down. I joined the Reine garrison. They sailed us up the Perik River. Our job was to find a way to slow them down. We got to the battle line a day after we landed. I didn't have time to count kills.”

Cruk hung his head for a moment and then shifted his gaze to the horizon. “After the war, I challenged to join the watch. I hadn't killed a man since.”

Errol frowned.
Twenty years?
“Until Dirk found us.”

Cruk nodded. “Until Dirk. Church politics has always been messy, boy, but it was never like this. By the three, members of the watch aren't even supposed to leave the city unless the king does, and Rodran's too old to travel. He's been too old to travel for years.”

They rode north in silence after that, the mountains to their left and the forest to their right. Late that afternoon they caught up to a merchant caravan, its wagons and horses stretched along the road in a sinuous column.

Cruk looked toward Martin. “It might not be a bad idea to ride along with them, Pater, if we can spare the time.”

Martin nodded. “As long as we make Windridge by nightfall. Morin may offer to guest us in the abbey. A dangerous offer, but better the enemy you can see than the one you can't.”

Luis snorted a catarrhal sound that reverberated in his throat. “He hates you. What would make you think he would want you as a guest?”

Martin sighed. “Morin's always been well connected. He's bound to know more than what we've learned about what's happened at Erinon. I'm hoping he won't be able to resist the opportunity to prove it.”

Luis looked unconvinced. “Just try to keep your temper in check. Your last meeting with the abbot was hardly the essence of polite discourse, don't forget. It's a sure bet he hasn't.”

Though most church matters put Errol to sleep, he found his curiosity piqued in spite of himself. “What happened?”

Luis smiled, showing his white, even teeth in a huge grin.
“Our esteemed priest, the man who used to be one of the most influential clergymen in the kingdom, hit Abbott Morin.”

Martin blushed.

Cruk laughed.

Errol stared. “You struck an abbot?”

The priest turned his head, clearing his throat. “Yes, well, theological discussions can get pretty heated at times, and Morin has always been insufferable.”

“What were you talking about?” Errol asked. The idea that Martin would actually hit another clergyman both astonished and amused him. He looked at Martin in a new light.

Martin's eyes lost focus as he stared ahead. “Morin's men captured an herbwoman in the act of talking with a spirit, or said they did at any rate. She said she was speaking with Aurae, but the abbot insisted on digging up the centuries-old proscription against consorting with spirits.” He turned his head and spat. “The fool. As if anyone, even a backwoods herbwoman, could confuse a spirit with one of the malus.”

Errol tore his gaze from Martin's remembered anger and turned to look at Luis and Cruk. Both men wore expressions of understanding—Luis, sad and resigned, Cruk, as angry as Martin.

“What is a malus?”

Martin gave him a long steady look before answering. “When men say ‘by the three,' they're referring to, invoking, Deas, Eleison, and unknowable Aurae. There are some among the herbwomen or herbmen who claim to speak with Aurae, to know what is unknowable. The notion that Deas would send Aurae to communicate to them directly is ridiculous. But even so, they are good people and gifted healers.”

“A malus—” he sighed—“is something very evil, a spirit aligned against Deas, so different from Aurae. Not that Morin really cared.” Martin waved toward the hills on his left. “He dragged the old woman in from somewhere in the hills. She confessed, of course—soon or late, they all do.”

Errol's stomach fell.
Radere. Adele.
“What happened?” The
words hung in the air before dying, leaving an oppressive silence behind them.

Martin didn't answer, and Errol didn't ask again.

Luis pulled his horse over to Errol's until the two of them rode knee to knee. “Not all adversaries carry a bow,” he murmured. “Once we enter Windridge, say little.”

An hour later they crested the last hill. Errol gaped at Windridge spread out before them. A stone wall ten feet high surrounded an area large enough to hold the villages of Berea and Callowford a dozen times over. A road running north and south through massive beamed gates teemed with carts, horses, and wagons that jostled for position along the rutted track. Houses and shops, some of them three stories high, competed for space like saplings fighting for light.

He stared, a sense of something wrong nagging at him. The city didn't look right. More than just the size, something looked out of place. At last he realized what it was. There were no thatched roofs. Even the houses and shops were covered in the bluish slate that sheltered only the churches in the Sprata foothills. Hundreds of chimneys thrust into the air, and tendrils of smoke mingled and writhed until their tenuous existence frayed on the breeze.

“What do you think, Errol?” Martin asked. The gray-haired priest smiled at him and his eyes twinkled.

Errol eyed the commotion that still lay silent in the distance and shook his head in disbelief. “I've heard people talk about cities before, but I always thought they were exaggerating. Why do they live here?”

“Money, mostly,” Martin shrugged. “Cities spring up wherever trade routes cross, and Windridge holds an envious position.” He pointed toward the river. “The river gives them access to the villages and provinces to the west while the road lets them trade as far south as Basquon and as far north as Soeden.”

They regarded the city as the caravan they'd accompanied pulled away to join the press to enter the eastern gate. Errol
looked at the other members of their party, but no one made any motion to move forward.

“What are we waiting for?”

Martin gave him a glance that might have held a measure of disappointment. “Liam hasn't joined us.” He turned his disfavor to Cruk, who jerked his head in a nod of acknowledgment.

“The boy will be here,” Cruk grunted. He looked Martin in the eye. “He has to be—does he not?”

Martin's eyes tightened at this, but Luis looked uncomfortable.

As though the mention of his name held the power to summon him, a thunder of hooves sounded from behind and Errol twisted in his saddle to see Liam, bent low over the neck of his horse. His blond hair flew and his smile was visible even from a distance.

“Humph. You see,” Cruk said. “Deas's chosen.”

Martin cut the air with one hand. “Let no one, no one, hear you utter those words.” He looked back at the city. “Especially here.”

Liam thundered up, sawed the reins to bring his lathered horse to a stop. He leaned down, patted his stallion heavily on the left shoulder. The horse tossed his head and pranced.

Errol looked down at his mount and, with a shrug, gave his horse like treatment. Horace breathed deeply and leaned down to pull a tuft of grass loose, chewing without interest. Errol rolled his eyes in disgust. “That's showing them, Horace.”

“You're late,” Cruk said to Liam.

The smile slipped a fraction from Liam's face. “I wanted to make sure they took the bait. A couple of times they looked ready to turn around and begin searching to the north.”

Cruk gave a grudging nod. “How many?”

“Hard to tell.” Liam shrugged. “I doubled back as often as I could to lay down more than one set of tracks, but if they look closely they'll know it was only one horse.”

Cruk nodded approval. “If they think to dismount and take a close look.”

Martin turned his horse toward the city. “Come, I want to meet with Morin tonight.” He turned toward Errol, gave his clothes a
quick glance. “And I think it's time that we began dressing Errol in something more suitable to his future.”

They rode through the gates of the city without a challenge from the soldiers at the entrance, who they seemed more interested in extracting a bribe from the caravan just ahead of them. Then they entered into noise. All around them people of a thousand varieties teemed and pressed in on them from every side, in endless whirlpools of humanity. Men, women, and children laughed, cried, and yelled to each other across the streets.

Errol had never heard the like, yet in all the variety, none of them looked like him. He tried to look everywhere at once. A hundred voices fought for his attention as shopkeepers competed with street merchants. A woman old enough to be his mother strutted through the crowd and proclaimed her wares. She sauntered up to Liam on his horse, her heavily painted eyes sultry.

“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.”