A Cast of Stones (9 page)

He glanced at the three faces looking at him: Cruk, disbelieving, Martin, with that strange look that resembled pity, and Luis, quietly expectant.

Holding the lot so that it caught the light, he turned it slowly, searching, marveling again at how a person could craft something so perfect. His mind wandered, meandered paths of random memories until he forgot Luis's instructions.

Then, for the briefest instant, he thought he saw something different in the stone, a subtle alteration in the way it reflected the light. He stopped, rotated the stone the barest amount.
There. Letters.

“There's writing here.”

Cruk gave a low whistle. “By the three, I would never have believed it. What does it say, boy?”

Errol shrugged. “I don't know. I never learned how to read.”

Luis pushed a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick across the table. “Take the glove off your right hand and copy the letters as best you can, one at a time.”

Errol gripped the stick in his fist with one hand even as he held the stone in the other and wrote each letter in thick, clumsy strokes. It proved harder than he'd expected. Twice he got one of the letters backward and had to scratch it out and rewrite it. At last, he lay down the stick and surrendered the stone to Luis.

Cruk thrust his face over Errol's shoulder to read the heavy scrawl. “Goff,” Cruk said. “It says Goff.”

Errol knew him, the eccentric thatcher who roofed the houses in Callowford and Berea. He talked to himself a lot.

Luis unfolded the parchment in front of him and turned it over. The same name lay written in a neat hand.

Cruk whistled again. “Him? The boy?”

Errol caught Luis's gaze, and there was something of sadness in it.

Luis straightened in his chair and raised his hands. “In front of these two witnesses I, Luis Montari, declare that Errol Stone of the village of Callowford possesses the gift of sight. More, I adjure you, Errol Stone, to present yourself to the primus at the conclave of readers in Erinon.” He lowered his hands. Errol felt a sudden chill, as if someone had uncovered him in his sleep.

Martin's sharp intake of breath drew his attention and he turned to find the priest glaring at his friend, his face white. Luis held that gaze for a heartbeat, two, before he looked away. “It cannot be undone.”

Then Martin spoke, his voice low. “I'm sorry, Errol. You belong to the church now.”

 7 
Bound for Erinon

E
RROL SAT
on a three-legged stool in Radere's cottage. The herbwoman of Callowford lived much as her sister, although her floor was made of rough-hewn pine boards instead of packed dirt and she kept her herbs in glass jars instead of earthen containers. Radere looked like her sister, Adele, too, except her eyes were hazel instead of green. Both women possessed a calm, no-nonsense approach to their art.

His focus on the similarities and differences between the two sisters slipped, and he flinched as Radere vigorously rubbed into his wound a salve that burned and felt cool at the same time. Cruk had left moments before, bent on his mission to ensure they left the village as close to daybreak as possible. Daybreak. What had he gotten himself into? Why did people insist on starting journeys before the sun got warm? It couldn't be healthy.

When he and Cruk had made their way to the healer's cottage, he'd assumed Radere would see to him first. After all, he'd been the one to risk life and limb on a regular basis to provide her with the herbs and plants she needed for her practice. He'd even
hinted as much a couple of times, but the woman had turned to Cruk as if he were the only one in the cabin and ignored Errol completely. Only after the big man's departure did she acknowledge him.

Radere got to the point without preamble. “What happened to drive you to Adele?”

“We were poisoned,” Errol said. “Martin says it was in the bread. I ran to Adele's for help.” He paused. “There was . . . someone in Adele's cabin . . . some . . . thing . . .”

The herbwoman nodded as if in understanding and the pinched look around her eyes relaxed. “Don't speak of it, boy, not ever.”

“What was it?”

She didn't answer but slapped a different salve into the wound. This one stung briefly, and then the entire area around the wound went numb. He rolled his shoulders. Better. She stepped around him, peered first into one eye and then the other before she rattled through one of her myriad cabinets to retrieve needle, thread, and a long strip of linen.

She caught his chin in one hand. “Suppose you tell me why I'm acting the field doctor when there hasn't been a war around here since Prince Jaclin graced us with his presence.” Old bitterness tinged her voice.

Errol started to shrug, thought better of it. “We were attacked on the way here from Berea. Ever since that messenger from the church showed up, I can't seem to go more than a few hours without someone trying to put an arrow in me. Cruk says they're people that used to be in something called the watch.”

Radere's hands jerked in surprise, but she didn't speak. She knotted his stitches, then motioned for him to raise his arms and began wrapping the cloth around him, binding his wound. “What else?” she prompted.

“When we got back to Callowford, Pater Martin spoke to the nuntius who gave me the messages.” He paused. “Do you know what a nuntius is?”

She gave a curt nod, her lips pressing together in a line. “A church messenger. They know a dozen languages and have a gift for memorization.” She sniffed. “Not overly bright, most of them. The church uses them to carry sensitive messages. Their minds are—” she hummed as she searched for the word she wanted—“split. They have a very high opinion of themselves.”

Errol laughed. “Yes. That sounds like him. Anyway he said the king was still alive, but the church wanted Pater Martin back for some kind of big meeting. I can't remember the name.”

Radere twisted the cloth, reversed the direction of the bandage. “Judica,” she said, her voice clipped and short.

The herbwoman had never cared for churchmen, an implacable resentment she never bothered to explain. He couldn't blame her. “That wasn't the strangest thing, though,” he said. He savored his secret in the silence and waited for Radere to ask.

“Spit it out, boy,” she commanded after a moment.

“Luis had me look at this stone ball, and . . .” He stopped at the look on Radere's face. “Are you all right?”

She grabbed him with one hand, her small, bony fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. “You can't read, boy. I know you can't.”

All anticipation of sharing his secret fled. He shook his head, spoke in tones that barely escaped his lips. “I, uh, didn't have to. When I told them I could see writing on the stone, Luis gave me a piece of parchment and had me copy the letters.” He grimaced. “Writing is a lot harder than it looks.”

Radere shook him, her face angry now. “Were there witnesses there, boy? There have to be at least two witnesses.”

A knot of fear bloomed in his stomach, like the feeling he wouldn't be able to get to an ale barrel in time. He nodded. “Pater Martin and Cruk. Luis said I had the gift of sight.”

Tears sprang to Radere's eyes. “Oh, my boy, my poor boy. You should never have looked at the stone.” She shook her head. “But you didn't know. Of course not. There was no way for you to know. The church owns you now.”

Errol jumped from his stool. “Owns me? I won't go! Luis said I have to present myself to somebody called the primus. But I don't have to, do I?”

Radere paled, then thumbed his lids to peer into his eyes again. She spewed choice words for Luis into the stillness. “He put a compulsion on you, boy. You'll find yourself going whether you wish to or not. Luis will take you to Erinon to train you in his craft.”

Errol scrubbed away tears. “Isn't there anything I can do?”

Radere nodded, became calm and businesslike once more. “Yes. Go to Erinon and become a reader. The hand of Deas is on you. You're a good boy, Errol, and if you can ever manage to pull your head out of the ale barrel, you'll be a good man. The kingdom needs good men.” She turned away, moving to her jars. “I'm going to give you some supplies you may need for your trip.”

Whether she spoke to him after, he couldn't remember.

He left her hut and crept from shadow to shadow around the front of Cilla's until he reached the back and then slipped into the cellar where they kept the ale barrels. Sometime later, he passed out.

Water splashed his face, and he thrashed, convinced Cruk had thrown him into a puddle while he slept.

More water. “Wake up, boy.” Strong hands lifted him, set him on his feet.

He blinked against the light that streamed through the doorway. The blur gradually resolved into the figure of Cruk.

“By the three, boy, couldn't you leave the ale barrel alone for one night?”

Errol glared, or tried to. His eyes didn't want to cooperate. Two versions of Cruk held him at arm's length, faces wrinkled with disgust. “Just charge it to the church. They own me now, don't they?” He tried to straighten. The floor seemed to ripple
under his feet. “As a reader of the church, I order you to let me sleep until I'm sober enough to travel.” He favored the ale barrels with a smile. “Which will be a while.”

Cruk growled. “If you think I'm going to wait for Merodach to find us just because you're feeling sorry for yourself, you're in for a sad disappointment.”

Errol belched and waved one hand, pretending to brush away a fly. “Just take care of him like you did Dirk.”

Cruk laughed a sharp sound that cracked on Errol's ears, his lumpy face contorted into a parody of amusement. “You need to learn to pay attention, whelp, if you want to stay alive. Comparing Dirk to a captain of the watch is like comparing a puppy to a wolf. On my best day I might have been a match for Merodach, but my best days are long gone.” He shoved Errol toward the door. “Now, move. We're leaving even if I have to tie you onto your horse.”

Errol stumbled into the sunshine and blinked away sudden tears in the glare. He followed Cruk's shadow to the front of the inn. Horace waited for him, saddled and listless in the early morning air. His ugly head dangled from his neck. Errol rubbed one dirty sleeve across his eyes to clear his vision. Martin and Luis sat mounted on horses.

Liam waited off to one side—on a pearl-white stallion, of course. He sat his mount as though he'd been born in the saddle, which, Errol reflected, was just possible. The bundle tied to the back of his saddle confirmed Errol's earlier suspicions; the epitome of human perfection would be coming with them.

“Good morning, Errol,” Liam said. He held out one arm, palm up. “Isn't it a glorious morning?”

Errol didn't feel well enough to pretend to be polite. He grunted in reply, struggled into the saddle, and moved Horace as far away from Liam as possible.

Martin frowned. “We're going to be together for quite a while, boy. Long journeys go better if everyone's polite.”

Errol couldn't keep himself from gaping. “You've declared me
something called a reader and you're forcing me to travel to Erinon, and you want to lecture me on manners?” He turned away.

Cruk mounted a large roan gelding leading a packhorse and clucked twice as he tapped his heels to the horse's flanks. His mount set off at a brisk walk, with Martin, Liam, and Luis following.

Horace brought up the rear.

They rode west out of the village past Radere's cottage. The herbwoman stood on the granite stoop out front and watched them approach. When Luis came into view, she called out, “Reader, a word if you're willing.”

Luis pulled his horse aside, but when Errol moved to follow, Radere shook her head. “Not you, boy.”

Puzzled and hurt, he rode on. What could the herbwoman have to say that she wouldn't want him to hear? When Luis caught up and passed him minutes later, Errol urged Horace into that maddening trot and sidled up to the reader. “What did Radere want?”

Luis gave him a sidelong glance before answering. “She told me to watch after you.”

There must have been more than that. Radere didn't waste her time on the obvious, and it was a given Luis was interested enough in Errol to look after him. “That's not all, is it.”

Luis grunted, looking troubled. “No. But if you want to know the rest of it, you'll have to circle back and ask her yourself. Not that she'll tell you. If she'd wanted you to hear, you'd have heard. Silly, superstitious woman.”

That last annoyed Errol. Radere had always been kind to him. “I don't think she's silly or superstitious,” he said. “She patched up Cruk and me last night, and Adele knew enough to save us from poisoning.”

After that they traveled in silence until a league from Callowford a circle of vultures caught Cruk's attention. “Wait here.” He returned a few minutes later, his face grim and troubled.

Errol longed for a drink.

“We have a problem,” Cruk said. “Or maybe not.”

At a look from Martin, he pointed. “What's left of the nuntius is in a gully a hundred paces that way. He was killed with a borale.”

Martin rubbed his heavy jaw with one oversized hand. “Merodach's work.”

Cruk nodded. “Or someone who wants us to think it is.”

“I can cast for it,” Luis said. “But it will take time.”