A Cast of Stones (14 page)

Martin's eyes held his, and Errol had the sense the priest tried desperately to tell him something, but what?

Slowly, in halting tones, with frequent checks for assurance from Martin, Errol related the tale of his trip across the gorge and the Cripples. He saw Koran and Jarel give grudging nods as he described the arrows his would-be killer used. As he came to the end of the story, he lifted his shirt to show the crescent scar Merodach left on his shoulder.

Morin nodded in acknowledgment and even clapped his hands as though Errol were a bard or a fool. “Well done, boy. But is it true?”

Errol nodded.

“Jarel?” Morin asked.

The squat man shook his head, his brows furrowed. “It sounds true enough.” He pointed at Errol's shoulder. “And the boy wears a wound that certainly looks like it came from a borale
.
Captain Merodach always did prefer the black arrows, but it just doesn't make sense.” Jarel met Errol's eyes. “How many times did you say he shot at you, boy?”

Errol glared at the absence of his name, but kept his tongue, counting. “Five, including the last that struck my pack.”

Koran turned to Morin. “That's just it. Merodach wouldn't have missed once, much less four times. Watching him use that bow was more like watching someone practice sorcery.”

Jarel nodded agreement. Even Cruk looked thoughtful.

Errol felt his face heat. Did no one believe him?

“He was trying to shoot from the worst footing,” he protested. Even as he said this, he knew it wasn't completely true. There had been at least one shot where the assassin stood on the firm ground offered by dry stone.

And he had still missed.

Morin sprawled back in his chair, his hands draped in casual disdain over the arm. “Nobody's seen or heard from you in five years, Martin. And now you come through Windridge with the tremus, a captain of the watch, and a pair of oddly mismatched youths in tow. The skinny one's speech marks him from the hill country east of here. Tell me, Martin, did you and Luis find what you were looking for amongst the huts and pigsties in the hinterlands?”

Martin took a sip of wine, gave no sign he'd heard the question.

Morin's smile slipped a fraction, tightening on his face. “What was the name of that village you disappeared to?”

“No place important,” Martin answered. He gazed at the furnishings that surrounded them. “And not nearly so grand as Windridge.”

The abbot's smile disappeared and his eyes glittered. “And does the local priest allow those cursed herbwomen to practice their deceit in this village?”

Errol watched Martin lean forward, his eyes hard over his broad nose. “The herbwomen are many things. They are simple. They are uneducated and many times they are ignorant of what they are dealing with, but I have yet to meet one who was evil.”

Morin leaned forward, his unfocused eyes bulged and spittle dripped from his lower lip. “Pah. Evil is whatever the church says, whatever I say, is evil.”

Errol's stomach churned with fear at the arrogance in the abbot's statement.

Martin looked as if he might throw up. He leaned back, his face twisted with disgust. “Tell me, Abbot, did the execution of one old herbwoman get you anything? Did it advance the church or the kingdom? Or did it simply take away healing for peasants?”

Morin's mouth opened to emit peal after peal of shrill laughter. “You think I killed her? I wouldn't dream of it. She is far, far too useful to waste in such a manner.

“Ah, I see I have surprised you at last, good priest.” He rose, knocked his chair over. He ignored it. “Come, I will show you the folly of your misperceptions. Koran, Jarel, let us escort our guests to the cells. I would not have it said the abbot of Windridge is stingy with his knowledge. Come, good priest. The herbwoman awaits.”

They left through the small door located behind Morin's seat and entered a small gloom-shrouded hallway that smelled of must. Errol's eyes strained to adjust to the dim lighting after the brightness of the dining room. He put one hand on Cruk's belt to serve as a guide.

They turned down a corridor that held a single door on the far end. As they approached it, the musty smell grew stronger. Morin pulled a large iron key from somewhere beneath his robe and placed it in the lock.

“Only I have the key,” he said. “Such treasure as the herbwoman offers must be protected.” He gave Martin an evil leer. “Words do not suffice. Come and see, good priest.”

Martin peered through the small opening at the top of the door and shook his head. “You threw her down here to rot?”

Morin flared, the whites showing around his eyes. “We are locked in a battle for control of our world. Sacrifices must be made.”

Martin snorted. “I notice the people who say such things usually expect someone else to make the sacrifice.”

With a snarl, Morin turned the key in the lock and threw open the door. The stench of unwashed bodies drifted up the stairwell. Errol threw an arm across his nose. He knew that smell. Many times it had covered him during the worst of his binges.

The abbot led the way down a circular granite staircase. After ten steps, the door above them clanged shut, cutting off the light from the corridor. Morin grabbed a torch, one of the few that burned, and smiled in triumph.

Errol couldn't make out Martin's expression in the dark but saw the priest give one curt nod toward the abbot. Cruk continued in front of him as before, but something in the set of the big man's shoulders looked tight, as if he expected an attack any second.

For another minute they descended in unrelieved darkness except for the bob of Morin's torch. At last the stairwell opened out into a cavernous guardroom, a circular affair with pikes and swords mounted along the walls. At a large table in the center, two men, unkempt and rough-looking in spattered uniforms, rose from a game of dice to stand at attention before the abbot.

The far end of the room contained the only other door, bound with iron straps and blackened with age.

The worst of the smell came from there.

“Is this necessary, Morin?” Martin asked. “You have the poor woman in your power. Your authority in the province is absolute. There is no need to parade her to prove it. If I had the authority to order her released, you know I would have done it by now.”

Morin smiled, his dark eyes glittering in reflected torchlight. “My good priest, you have no idea why I've brought you here. Far be it from me to allow you to remain in your ignorance. When
we go to the cells beyond, follow my instructions to the letter if you would obtain enlightenment.” With a jerk, he pointed at the guards. “Unlock the door.”

They entered a niche carved into the dark granite under the city. Four vaults—fewer than Errol had expected—filled the space, separated from each other by black iron bars. A man stood in front of the nearest, dressed in red livery. Officer's stripes decorated his sleeves. He stared straight ahead, impassive. Errol edged around the back, moving from behind Cruk to stand next to Liam, straining to see in the dim light.

Black cloth draped the first cell, and no sound came from behind the veil.

“What game are you playing at, Morin?” Martin asked as he pointed at the first cell and its heavy shroud.

Morin's voice floated out of the darkness. “Doubtless, you wish to see your precious herbwoman.” He paused. “She is in the next cell.” The abbot stepped through the knot of people to approach her prison.

Errol stepped to the bars along with the others. His eyes searched, but failed to see anyone. The cell was sparsely furnished. Besides a straw pallet that lay crumpled in the corner farthest from the first cell, only a waste bucket and a pile of rags broke the unrelieved emptiness of the space.

Morin's laughter whispered in Errol's ears. “She is somewhat shy.” He turned to address the lump of rags. “Come, Odene, we have guests.”

The rags stirred without rising.

Steel crept into the abbot's voice, and he gestured toward the officer on guard. “I'm sure you don't want me to call on the services of Captain Balina again.”

The rags unfolded themselves from the edge of the pallet, and a woman, made small by age and neglect, tottered toward the bars.

She kept herself as far away from the first cell as she could.

“You see, Martin,” Morin said. “She is well. I gave her mercy she did not deserve. The church could have demanded her life,
yet as a gesture of grace I have allowed her to live and render such service to me as she is capable.”

Martin's hands and eyes filled with an emotion he could not contain. “
Mercy
you call it? To be locked in this lightless hole to render service? What service could she possibly render to you?”

“Ah, well. I do not expect you to understand.” He gestured toward the herbwoman, his face hard. “Speak with Odene. I insist.” The guards behind him tensed at the hard note in his voice.

Cruk's hand drifted toward his sword. Martin's hand on his arm stopped him. “What is it you hope to accomplish, Morin?”

The abbot smiled but did not answer. “Talk to her. I find her insights . . . informative.” His eyes darted toward Liam.

Martin's eyes narrowed. “Errol, speak with her.”

Morin smiled in triumph.

Errol stepped toward the herbwoman. Her head rested against the bars in front of him, her eyes milky with blindness.

One shriveled hand stretched through, touched him on the face. It was warm. A voice too soft to carry past the bars greeted him. Old eyes gazed at him in wonder. “You've been touched by Aurae. Thank the creator! I did not know any other of the solis yet lived.” She paused. “Deas's hand is on you.”

The singsong cadence of her voice caressed his ear. “Solis?”

She smiled. The teeth that remained were broken, testimony to the abbot's hospitality, no doubt. “Our name for ourselves.” She dropped her head as if he held no interest for her. “Is the abbot still in the room?”

Errol strained to hear her, and it took him a moment to understand her question. He breathed his answer through the bars. “Yes.”

“Beware. There is a malus here. The abbot thinks to make it serve him. He is under its influence, though he knows it not.” The hand withdrew. “I had better move on.”

Errol locked his emotions away where they would not show on his face before he faced the others. He saw dismissal on Morin's face.

Martin drew himself up. “I see no need to continue this, Morin. Take us out of here.”

“What you see is no concern of mine,” Morin said. He pointed at Liam. “Let us see what kind of reaction the herbwoman has to him.”

Liam stood like a rock, showing none of the nervousness that plagued Errol.

“I insist,” Morin said. Behind him the guards and Captain Balina drew steel.

The herbwoman crept toward the bars. Errol saw her start in surprise, then cover the motion with a cough. He watched her repeat every gesture she'd made with him, beginning with the touch on the face. Minutes later, she withdrew her hand from Luis and retreated back to her pallet.

Errol turned to see the abbot's face etched with disappointment.

Martin's palpable relief filled the cell. “If you are quite finished, Abbot, I think we should be going.”

The abbot's eyes narrowed. “Do you not wish to know why I have the herbwoman imprisoned?”

“I assumed it was to satisfy your need for vengeance.”

Morin sneered at the jibe. “Did I not say she rendered service? The herbwoman can sense the presence of a malus.”

Martin shook his head. “Morin, they cannot. Do you, a servant of the church, now believe their claim to know Aurae? If so, then the herbwoman is innocent.”

Morin laughed. “Innocent? I don't care if she's innocent. She's useful.” He leaned forward, the torch he held casting ghoulish shadows across his face. “Even the most depraved spiritist can be a source of valuable information, Martin. If one had access to someone enslaved by a malus, their knowledge would be there for the taking.”

“You're mad, Morin. Even if you could find one—which is impossible—would you befoul yourself with the knowledge of the fallen?”

Morin laughed. His cackle bounced from the stone walls until
it filled every niche of the prison. With a snap of his fingers, he signaled Captain Balina, who stepped forward and removed the thick covering from the first cell. With a cry like a wounded animal, the herbwoman retreated to the far corner of her cell and curled into a ball.

Behind the bars facing Morin stood a woman in her twenties. Lithe and raven-haired, she leaned against the rough stone that made the right wall of her imprisonment. The barest of smiles curved her full red lips, and her eyes, dark brown against the flawless chestnut of her skin, shone with amusement.

Her eyes swept over Martin and Luis, and she stalked toward the pair in a sinuous strut. At the bars, she challenged them with a gaze that smoldered underneath her lashes. “Hello, priest.” Her voice, breathy and low, carried suggestions in those two words that made Errol's ears burn.

“Morin, what have you done?” Martin asked. He tore his eyes from the woman to look at the abbot. “She is undoubtedly a wanton, but a malus?”

The abbot looked at her, his mouth open in naked hunger. He took a step toward the cell as if unaware but then shook himself. “She is not what she appears. She came into Windridge with a caravan from Basquon. She's from Merakh. Though she may appear calm and rational now, Karma is quite insane.”

“She came across the strait?” Cruk asked.

The abbot nodded. “Strange, is it not? We've had almost no contact with them in hundreds of years, and now their caravans appear in every city.”

“Granted, it is strange, but strange things happen somewhere every day.” Martin waved one hand at the woman. “What makes you think she is possessed?”