A Cast of Stones (38 page)

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 Stone.”

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

E
RROL 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 made 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.

But he wouldn't leave. Absurdly, an image of sun-kissed hair filled his mind—an image of Adora, the king's niece. He shook his head at his folly.
Blind, stupid fool.

The king must have misread his train of thought. “No? You mean to deny your kingdom this chance to unmask its enemies?”

Startled, Errol shook himself. “No, Your Majesty, I do not. What is your command?”

Footsteps sounded behind him on the path he walked from the barracks courtyard to the conclave, the same path he'd trod at the same hour of the morning for the past five days. High in the barracks and the conclave and the palace, men of the watch observed him, waiting for the enemy to make their move. The plan was simple—observe and wait for the enemy to attack, and then respond with enough force to drive them off without killing them.

Then follow.

Simple, they said. Somehow Errol didn't think so.

The steps came closer. He breathed through his nose, trying to catch a whiff of corruption, but the breeze, soft as it was, caressed his face and then blew past him. If someone snuck up on him, it wouldn't be smell that gave them away. He twitched his shoulders and clenched his staff. One hand slid up to check the knobblock fastened to the end. Plan or not, he would do his best to kill any of those things if they came near.