A Cast of Stones (8 page)

“No,” Cruk said. “The boy needs the herbwoman himself, but we can send Cilla. Once we meet the nuntius, we'll need to get a room, one easily defended.”

Martin's brows lowered over his brown eyes. “Why?”

“Merodach is here. He's the one who tried to kill Errol yesterday, and he may not be alone.”

Luis started. “Surely you're mistaken. Merodach is a captain in the watch. They aren't assassins.”

“Weren't,” Cruk corrected with a grimace. “Dirk trailed us from Berea. That's how I got this new decoration in my arm. From what the boy says, he and Merodach were both trying to kill you.”

Martin shook his head. “That doesn't make any sense. Why kill us when they could just leave us here, ignorant in the middle of nowhere?”

Luis steepled his fingers under his chin, his eyes thoughtful. “Impossible to say. But there could be any number of reasons. Church politics are rough enough even during normal times. What must they be like now, with a throne at stake?”

Cruk glanced at the door and then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Have you read something, then, Tremus?”

Luis waved his hand in dismissal, but at the title or the suggestion, Errol couldn't tell. “I haven't finished the lots yet.”

Cruk blushed at this.

“I'm not blaming you, Cruk. You've done your part as quickly as you could have. Durastone is difficult to find and harder to quarry. I didn't have the man power or the tools to craft the lots as quickly as I would have liked.”

Martin shook his head. “We know who it is, Luis. You've
already drawn his lot twice in wood. I've sent word. He'll be coming to Green Isle with us.”

Luis shook his head. “I will not trust this to wood, and a draw from a partial cast means nothing, even if it does—”

“Nonsense,” Martin interrupted. “Wood or stone makes little difference. You know it as well as I do—the hand of Deas has been on the boy since the day of his birth. He's the one.”

Luis rubbed his temples and sighed. “Granted, the boy appears special and Antil thinks very highly of him, but we can't be sure until every lot has been crafted.”

Errol started. Antil thought highly of him? That ruled out Errol. The priest despised him.

Errol kept his eyes on the table, his mind racing. The conversation flowed away from his understanding like water parting around a boulder. For years, only one person in Callowford commanded such tones of respect: Liam. Errol contemplated life in the village without Liam and found the idea pleasant.

Martin smiled, his eyes shining. “Ah, Luis, you leave too little room for the will of Deas. If he had not wanted us to find him, he would not have sent us here.”

“That was a complete cast,” Luis said.

Martin opened his mouth to reply, but Cruk raised one hand a few inches from the table in warning and they sat back. A sudden flood of light from the front door lightened the room, casting a new set of shadows to go with those from the fire.

“There's a church messenger at the door,” Cruk said. “It's the same one who gave the boy the message.”

Errol twisted in his seat, saw the familiar hooked nose, and nodded.

“Finally,” Martin said. “Maybe now we will get some answers. Bring him over, Cruk, and let's see what tidings he carries.”

Cruk retrieved the man, placed a chair for him across from Martin, and resumed his scan of the room.

“How are you called, nuntius?” Martin asked.

The man before Errol, so proud two days ago, ducked his
head, unwilling to meet Martin's gaze. “My name is Seamus Quentin, Pater.”

Martin nodded. “What is your rank?”

Seamus ducked his head again, but his words belied his posture. “I am a nuntius of the first cohort. Now that the messages have been delivered, I really must be back in Erinon. The church thinks highly of my services.”

“I'm sure they do, Seamus.” Martin's voice sounded amused. “I wouldn't ask you to delay your return needlessly. I think, perhaps, you remember Errol?” He pointed across the table.

Cilla had chosen that moment to place two tankards in front of Errol. Out of reflex he'd immediately hoisted one, but he lowered the tankard at the mention of his name, saw the look of disdain on the church messenger's face.

“Yes,” Seamus said and turned back to face Martin. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “You must understand, Pater. I would not have entrusted the messages to him had not my mission been urgent.”

Martin made placating gestures with his hand. “No one is questioning your judgment, nuntius. But there was a problem. Through no fault of the boy, the messages were ruined before I could read them.”

The messenger's face blanched. “Ruined? They will think I've failed.”

Martin shook his head. “Nuntius, just tell me the contents of the message. You know it.” Martin's voiced dipped into a soothing tone. “Simply tell it to me and your charge is complete.”

The messenger looked anything but soothed. His mouth worked as though his mind couldn't decide which language he was supposed to speak. Errol passed him his spare tankard. The nuntius grabbed it, lifted it to his face, and drank deeply.

“There were two messages, Pater,” he sputtered. “Yes, I can relate the church's message, but I was not permitted to see the other one.”

Martin leaned back in his chair with a frown. “Who entrusted this message to you?”

Seamus squirmed. “I don't know. After I memorized the recitation of the first message, I found the second one in my pack—with instructions not to open it.” The messenger's chin lifted a fraction. “It's not the place of a nuntius to question those who use our services.”

“Interesting,” Luis said with a smirk. “Even readers can't account for the machinations of the church.”

“Leave it,” Martin said, though his eyes belied his casual tone. “Seamus, I'm sure you are in a hurry to return to Erinon, and I would not delay you any longer. Please, recite the missive from the church in Erinon.”

As if Martin's words unlocked a page of the messenger's memory, Seamus's eyes grew blank and he straightened in his chair.

“From our most holy church to all servants of Deas, Eleison, and unknowable Aurae within the boundaries of the kingdom. Greetings to you from the Archbenefice of Erinon, seat of the church and home of the one true king. By order of Bertrand Cannon, Archbenefice in the blessed isle, you are commanded to make all haste to Erinon to attend the Grand Judica, the purpose of which to determine the means of succession upon the death of our most beloved servant, King Rodran. The Grand Judica will convene on the first moon of the eighth month.”

Seamus's eyes refocused, and he relaxed where he sat.

“That's it?” Luis asked. “There's nothing more?”

The messenger looked at Martin and bowed from the neck. “I swear by my office that I have delivered the message.”

“Seamus,” Martin said, “I would ask you questions, if I may. There is much in your message that needs clarification, and there are other matters that are not mentioned.”

The messenger fidgeted in his seat before he nodded. “I will answer as best I can, but as you know, I have no memory of the contents of the recitation, Your Excellency.”

Errol had barely followed the conversation to this point, but now he could not fathom why the nuntius would address Pater Martin with such a title.

“Very well,” Martin said. “The message seems to indicate that Rodran is still alive.”

Seamus looked surprised at this. “Oh yes. The king lives.”

Martin frowned. “Is he sick?”

“No, Excellency.” He shrugged. “At least, he wasn't sick when I left Green Isle four weeks ago.”

Martin leaned forward, his eyes boring into the messenger's. “Seamus, did you know that the archbenefice has called for a Grand Judica?”

Seamus nodded. “It was rumored, though no one would confirm or deny it.”

Luis put his hand on Martin's arm, leaned over, and whispered. Martin nodded. Turning to the messenger, he spoke in slow, careful tones. “Seamus, rumors have come to us from several sources that say the readers at Erinon are being killed. What do you know of this?”

The church messenger stilled, and for a moment his eyes took on the cast of someone who wished greatly to be elsewhere. “It's true, Excellency, though we are forbidden to speak of it.”

“How many? Who?” Luis looked ready to jump across the table and take the information by force.

Seamus bit his lip, glanced at Luis before he answered. “Nearly a score when I left the isle.” His mouth hung open for an instant longer, and then he closed it and sat still.

“Come, Seamus,” Martin said. “You are a nuntius of the first order. Few are positioned to hear as much as you. Tell us the rest.”

“I am a nuntius. We do not trade in rumor.”

“Then, for a moment, I want you to be a man,” Martin said. “We have been attacked by assassins, Seamus. I left a church at relative peace five years ago to come to this region.” He grimaced. “Now things are not as we left them. Whatever you can tell me will be helpful.”

The messenger hung his head. “That's just it, Pater. The rumors are so thick at Erinon that it is impossible to sort them.”

“Try.”

The nuntius sighed. “Very well. The king lives. The king has died and the church is hiding his death. The readers are all dead. No, only some of the readers are dead and the rest are in hiding. The barrier is weakening. The Morgols are coming from the steppes.” Seamus took a breath, looked around the table and then found Martin's gaze. “It goes on and on, each rumor contradicting the one before it.”

Martin leaned back. “Thank you, Seamus. Nuntius of the first order, you have delivered your message,” he intoned. “You may return.”

Their messenger popped out of his seat like a prisoner unexpectedly paroled. “Thank you, Excellency.” Without another word, he turned and left the inn.

Cruk's gaze followed the nuntius from the room. “I don't recall messengers being so nervous.”

“You are overly suspicious, my friend,” Luis said. “Troubled times make for troubled people.”

Errol drained his tankard. His mind swirled with all that had been revealed since being charged with the nuntius's letter packet. But a church crow was no concern of his. The cool drink slid down his throat and began the job of warming him and wiping away his concern. Soon, he felt sure, Martin and the rest of them would leave Callowford and he could go back to gathering plants for Radere and Adele in exchange for ale. Who knew? Cruk might leave as well, leaving Cilla to make all the decisions. Errol found that he enjoyed that prospect. He smiled into his tankard.

Martin turned to Cruk, his voice low and businesslike. “Cruk, can we be ready to leave for Erinon in the morning?”

The big man nodded. “I think so. The boy and I need a few moments with the herbwoman, and then I can see about getting supplies.”

Martin's faced pinched at the mention of the herbwoman, but
Cruk either didn't notice or chose not to respond. “How many horses should I get?” he asked. Errol tried to ignore the way Cruk glanced in his direction.

Martin glanced at Luis, who gave a sharp, stubborn nod. “Five. I'll have to talk to Knorl. It's time for Liam to challenge for the watch.”

“Will he release the boy from his apprenticeship?”

Martin shrugged. “I'll buy out his service, if I have to.”

Errol's flagon jerked in his grasp. Five? Though he paid more attention to his ale than the conversation, he'd heard enough to realize that they intended on taking Liam with them.

But Liam would bring the traveling party to four. Five meant . . . they planned on Errol going as well.

He cleared his throat. “Um, five? Who all is going with you, Pater?”

Martin never answered. Luis leaned across the table. His dark brown eyes glinted under the shade of his black eyebrows. “Don't play the fool, Errol. We touched on this in Berea. You will be going with us.”

“Why do I have to go? Why would you even want me to go? I can't ride. I don't know anything about fighting.” He waved toward Cruk, who sat in his chair like a giant sack of grain. “Ask him. The only things I know how to do are gather herbs and drink.”

Cruk grunted and grimaced his imitation of a smile. “The boy's got the right of it. He is pretty useless.”

Errol nodded with satisfaction. “See?”

By way of answer, Luis rose from the table. “Wait here a moment.” He looked around the empty common room. “Cruk, could you lock the door for a bit? This won't take long.” Then he ascended the stairs.

Cruk moved to the door, leaving Errol momentarily alone with Martin. “What's he doing, Pater?”

If Errol hadn't known better, he would have thought the look Martin gave him held pity in it. He shivered and edged closer to
the fire. The bottom of his tankard stared back at him, but Cilla was nowhere in sight.

Luis stumped back down the stairs at the same time Cruk returned to the table. The reader resumed his seat. With one hand he placed the black gloves that Errol had seen in the cabin on the table. With the other he pulled an object wrapped in black wool from his pocket.

“Put the gloves on,” Luis directed. “And remember to use the strap.”

After Errol had done so, the reader placed one of the large white balls from the cabin into his waiting hands. Then he placed a folded piece of parchment on the table in front of him.

Luis leaned close, catching his attention. “Do you remember in the cabin how you looked at one of these and saw writing on it?”

Errol nodded.

“It might surprise you to know that very few people can do that. It calls for an extra special gift.”

Cruk snorted. “Him? You can't be serious.”

Luis held the big man's gaze for a long moment before turning away. “Errol, I want you to look at the lot in your hand and tell me what's written on it.”