A Cast of Stones (19 page)

Errol accepted the man's decision without argument. Rale was much like Cruk in this respect as well—if he said something was so, then it was a very good chance it was so.

The sun's last rays streamed through the kitchen window, casting long shadows that striped the light in the cabin as Rale came through the door. He slammed it closed behind him in haste and checked the window, holding one hand up for silence.

He faced Errol, his eyes hard, angry. “You're leaving, boy.”

Errol nodded. “I know.”

Rale shook his head. “No. I mean you're leaving tonight, as soon as it gets full dark.”

Myrrha stood. “Why, Da?”

“There are men in the village, looking for a lad that fits Errol's description.”

Errol's heart skipped a beat, and he stood. “My friends. Can you take me to them?”

Rale's growl warned him. “I think I know the difference between friends and enemies, boy. These are guards from the cathedral at Windridge. They have a writ from the abbot accusing you of the death of their captain. I listened for a bit. They're not giving any details on your crime.”

Errol's insides tried to escape in any number of directions without him, and he sat in stunned amazement. “But, but surely I can wait 'til morning, can't I?”

Rale's expression said plainly he could not. “They've got a reader with them. I only caught a glimpse because he was surrounded by guards, but he was carving pine lots like he had demons chasing him.”

Anomar gave a sharp intake of breath. “A reader so far away from the capital? How can that be?”

Her husband shrugged off the question. “Strange times. And two of the guards wore the black of the watch.” His face twisted and he shook his head. “As I recall, they're not supposed to leave the king. The abbot is using them like hounds with the reader to guide them. They know Errol's near the village.”

Errol shook his head in mute denial.
No.
It couldn't be. How could they even know he was alive, much less somewhere near the village? “That's impossible.”

Rale snorted without humor. “Boy, they've got a reader with them, and something about him has his guards more than a little scared. I haven't seen men snap to orders like that since the war.” He gave him a look of exasperation. “How much did Luis tell you about what readers can do?”

“He didn't talk about how much—mostly it was just him telling me how.” At Rale's look, his voice strengthened. “We didn't have much time. We were too busy running from Merodach and whoever else we thought was trying to kill us. That put a damper on our conversation. He carved a pair of lots out of wood to choose which way to run.” He still felt a sense of wonderment. “It kept coming up
Windridge
.” He lifted his shoulders. “You know what happened after that.”

Anomar stepped behind him, laid her hands on his shoulders. Her touch felt warm through Errol's shirt, but he sensed worry in the tightness in her fingers.

Rale sighed. “Think, boy. Think. If all you had to do to know anything, anything at all, was to carve a few round balls out of wood or stone, do you know how much power that would give you?”

Errol's mind reeled. It couldn't be true. “Luis never said anything about that.”

Rale squinted as if he had a headache. “Readers are dangerous, boy—not because they're evil, but because there's so little that can be hidden from them.”

“But they're churchmen,” Errol said. “Don't they help people?”

Rale pulled in a breath, let it out slowly. “Boy, a man is either born with the ability to be a reader or not. It's like having blue eyes or a natural ability with the sword. Readers work for the church because King Magnus wanted to cement the provinces under the crown. He instituted the test and gave the church permission to compel anyone with the ability to Erinon.”

Errol's heart seemed to be trying to break free of his chest. “But how could they know I'm alive, or that I'm here?”

A string of curses, the sounds of Rale's frustration, battered his ears. “All they have to do is find someone that knows you. It's not perfect, but with enough throws it'll do the trick. Try to understand this. They find someone who can describe you; what you look like, how you act, the fact that you like to drink—or used to. Then they carve two lots. One lot says
Alive
and the other,
Dead
. A couple dozen draws later, they have their answer.”

“Why a couple dozen?” Errol asked. “When Luis had me draw to choose cities, I did it less than ten times, and only that much because he wanted to prove that casting lots really worked.”

Rale nodded impatiently. “Yes, because he knew the cities himself. You wouldn't have drawn the other city more than two times out of ten. But if a reader doesn't know someone directly, he can still use the knowledge from someone else. After that, it's just a matter of drawing the lots often enough to get a clear answer.” He lifted a hand, pulled at his jaw muscles. “After they determined you were alive, finding you was easy. They wouldn't need to know you then, just the villages in the area.”

This pronouncement hit Errol's thoughts like a whirlwind. That something so simple could hold so much power, that he held so much power, astonished him. A thought struck him like a blow to the stomach. “But they're already in your village. They'll be drawing lots to see which family I'm with.”

Anomar's hands tightened on his shoulders.

At the same time, Rale nodded. “That's right, boy. And darkness won't slow them down. These people want you, and they're not of a mind to wait.”

His stomach seemed to be trying to drop through his legs onto the floor. He stood, but Rale waved him down at the same time he lifted his gaze to Anomar. “Pack him as much food as he can carry. I'll saddle Midnight.” He turned back to Errol, untied a pouch at his belt, and shook loose a pair of heavy iron tubes on the table.

Errol lifted one. It was closed on one end. “What are these?”

“Knobblocks.” Rale's tone was grim. “I picked them up after I saw the abbot's men in the village. I've never cared much for them myself, but I fear you're going to find them useful. Look inside.”

He turned the tube so the light from the lamp shone down into it. Twin barbs stuck out from either side. “What are they for?”

“They go over the end of your staff. The barbs keep the weights from slipping off.” He sighed. “With those on, you can kill or cripple a man with a single blow. But be careful of them—until
you get used to their weight, they'll slow you down. Work with them each day until you're as fast with them as without.”

“But I'm not ready! I can't fight!” Errol shook his head in denial. “I can barely touch you one time in ten.”

Anomar turned from the bag she was loading with cheese, bread, and dried meat. “He touched you? More than once?”

Rale nodded, and a rueful grin pulled his mouth to one side. “Maybe I'm slowing down a bit.” He gave Errol a wink.

His wife shook her head. “Not likely. I've watched you every day for the last ten years.” She favored Errol with a gaze made all of respect. “You must have a talent for the staff, Errol. No one touches Rale unless he lets them.”

The thought struck him again how much Rale reminded him of Cruk. He knew fighting at least as well as Cruk, and he knew other things as well. “Who are you, Rale? You're not really just a farmer.”

Those somber eyes measured him, nodding. “If you can stay out of the ale barrel, I think you just might live. You're learning to think.” He rose. “But we don't have time for the tale.” Rale crossed the cottage, took the bag of food from Anomar, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and turned toward the door. “It's time for you to leave, Errol. I'll guide you to the river. Follow it southwest until you hit Longhollow. Travel at night. Rest during the day and work the staff as much as you can. When you get to Longhollow, sign with one of the merchant trains as a guard. They don't pay much, but you'll be almost invisible, and it'll get you to Erinon.” He shrugged. “After that, get to the conclave. Try to find your friends.”

Errol saw Rale's eyes squint as he said this last and knew what the warrior-farmer purposely had not said.

If they still lived.

He cupped the heavy knobblocks in one hand, his imagination conjuring images of blood and pain. Those two pieces of iron communicated Rale's concern. The man didn't expect him to survive. He followed Rale to the door of the cottage, where Myrrha stood with tears brimming that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

Her lower lip trembled before she took it between her teeth. She put her arms around his neck and managed a quivering smile that looked ready to flee at any moment. “I would have liked to see you in your smallclothes once you'd spent time with the knobblocks.” She tried to laugh, but the sound broke into splinters. Myrrha leaned forward so quickly Errol had no time to dodge. She caught him in a fierce embrace and kissed him on the lips.

Errol stood dumbfounded, tasting salt as she turned and ran to her room. Anomar studied him with a mix of emotions on her face he couldn't hope to untangle, but there didn't seem to be any anger present.

Rale opened the door, and Errol followed him into the night. A crescent moon glowed softly above the eastern horizon, casting tenuous shadows limned in silver. The farmer's voice came as a murmur from his left. “You'll have about two and a half weeks of moon to travel by before you lose her light altogether. Stick to the riverbanks, so you can see. Hide among the trees during the day. Midnight will graze along the way.”

A hand, hard and callused, gripped his arm. “Trust no one you meet along the river. Someone powerful wants you dead, boy.”

The pressure on his arm eased and they proceeded to the barn, where Rale saddled the black gelding and tied the bag of food onto its back.

“I'll lead you to the river. I know the path even in the dark. After that, ride and keep your ears open.”

Errol nodded, then blushed at his foolishness for doing so when Rale couldn't see. They left the barn, Midnight's hooves making a soft padding sound on the dirt that changed to a swish as they circled around and entered the tall grass. The river lay a mile to the north, though the distance stretched in the dark and quiet.

The moon had just started to rise off the horizon when Rale led him through a copse of cedar trees, fragrant in the stillness, and the river came into view. Scant moonlight blocked by clouds sparkled off the water, dancing, uncaring of dangers or fears.

Rale's voice sounded close. “Mount up. One last piece of advice on the staff—don't hesitate to kill if you have to. Deas knows your enemies won't.”

Errol's throat closed on his words. Rale and Anomar's cottage was the closest thing to home he'd had since Warrel died. And though he wouldn't have said so aloud, especially where Anomar could hear him, Myrrha intrigued him, and the idea of her wanting to see him in his smallclothes, even as a jest, flattered him. Leaving them all behind felt like having pricklehog quills pulled out of his flesh.

He thrust out his hand, waved it from side to side until it bumped into Rale. The big man took Errol's hand in his own, gripped it hard.

“Boy, if you live, I'd enjoy hearing the story of how you managed it.” His voice, rough as always, held a note of warmth, and Errol laughed in spite of himself.

“I don't know how good I am at fighting, but I'm really good at running away. I don't want to die.”

A chuckle rumbled in response. “You're an honest lad, Errol Stone. Mind, you don't tell anyone you're a reader. The church isn't universally loved, and there's more than a few that put the blame on the readers misusing their power. Best if you just pretend to be an orphan out to see the world as a caravan guard.”

Errol laughed. “That shouldn't be too hard. That's pretty much what I am.”

He waited for a moment for Rale to say something more, but the air stilled, and he sensed his teacher had already begun his journey back to the cottage. He twitched the reins to direct Midnight's head west and resolved to ride until the sky brightened.

 13 
The Road to Longhollow

T
HE WEIGHT
of solitude descended upon Errol as he rode. The noise of tree frogs and the occasional animal cry served only to accentuate his isolation. Each step of Midnight's hooves took him farther away from the warmth and security of Rale and Anomar's hospitality. He would have stayed with them if he could have—if the church's compulsion and the abbot's search hadn't driven him from cover like a hunted animal.

Hours slipped by, marked by the steady plodding of Midnight's steps and the moon's glint on the river that flowed on his left. In the dark, he imagined that he didn't really move at all, merely pretended to in a scene that never changed. Only the moon betrayed the passage of time, rising higher from her unveiling in the east until it reached its zenith and began its descent to the west. When it stood a handsbreadth above the horizon, the sky in the east began to change from black to gray and then, finally, to a ruddy crimson.

A large stand of cedar and pine presented itself to his right, and Errol made for it. He dismounted and unsaddled Midnight, using thick handfuls of grass to rub the big gelding down before he staked the leads so his mount could graze in the clearing. The
horse confirmed his suspicions about Rale. Though Midnight was past his prime, it was clear what he had once been—no farmer needed a destrier like that.

He ate from the provisions Anomar had packed for him. She kept a well-stocked larder and, it seemed, possessed a strong maternal instinct. The food she'd provided was the best she had to offer, but as he sat alone, without Rale, Anomar, or Myrrha to share it with him, his meal tasted like dirt.

His body craved sleep, and the sun's rising only accentuated his fatigue, but he brushed the crumbs from his trousers and hefted his staff. Rolling his head to loosen the muscles in his neck, he stifled a yawn, pulled the knobblocks from his pocket, and fit them over the ends, tapping the butt of the staff against a nearby tree until he felt the ash bottom against the iron. Curious, he hefted the newly weighted staff in one hand. The iron pieces weren't that heavy, really. How much difference could they make?

When he took the first swing, he got his answer. The knobblocks' weight, multiplied by the distance along the staff from his hands, made the ash feel as heavy as iron. Errol went through the forms against a small sapling. Every move he made crept at half speed. Before five minutes passed, sweat poured down his back. The more he tried to move the wood at its accustomed pace, the slower it seemed to go.

Twenty minutes in, he stopped, gasping, his shoulders refusing even to lift the weighted staff, much less swing it with any threat or authority. He plopped on the ground, hung his head, panting like a dog. “Rale wasn't kidding. At this rate it'll take me forever to muscle up enough to use the staff with these things on it.”

He ate a little more of the bread and cheese and then, using his saddle as a pillow, he slept.

A shaft of sunlight from just above the western horizon woke him. Midnight grazed, still tied to the tree, but some sound or absence of movement put Errol on his guard. He grabbed the
staff and yanked the knobblocks off in haste, searched the trees, peering through the shadows, his heart yammering in his chest, urging him to flee.

What had set him on edge? Nothing moved. Even the breeze had died. Silence ruled, as though the woods in which he hid were nothing more than a painting.

He froze.
That's it.
There was no sound.

He turned in slow circles, searching the shadows between the trees. Then Midnight threw his head and gave a soft whinny. The horse looked directly over Errol's shoulder.

At something behind him.

He whirled, spinning the staff.

The wood parried a thrust aimed at his gut. He jumped, seeking distance between himself and the man whose sword moved back in line, pointing again at his midsection.

A predatory smile revealed crooked teeth beneath a sharply hooked nose. “They told me you had a demon's own luck.” The man stepped forward, light and sure on his feet. “But they also told me you didn't know how to handle a sword. Do you think that stick is going to save you?”

Errol took a step back, his mind churning, trying to keep pace with his heart.
They?
Who were they?

“How did you find me?”

The man shrugged, blinking. “Once we found the farmhouse, one of us was bound to. That stupid farmer wouldn't talk. Tough as a boot he was. The captain knocked him unconscious.” The man shook his head. “Too hasty, that. No man can talk when he's out cold.”

Errol shook his head. He couldn't believe Rale would go down without a fight. “I don't think so. He fought you, didn't he.”

Another shrug and a blink began the man's answer. He circled to Errol's left. “Aye, he fought. Put down three men before the captain rapped him on the head.” The swordsman nodded toward Errol's stomach. “I like gut wounds. People scream more, and they take longer to die.”

He flicked his sword, and Errol twitched the staff. His arms shook so that the staff wiggled in his hands like a live thing. Bile rose in his throat. The man's sword weaved leisurely figure eights, and Errol moved to the man's left, desperate to keep himself out of reach. “Rale didn't tell you where to find me. Who did?”

For the third time the man gave a shrug and a blink before he answered. A plan formed in Errol's mind.

“That farmwife told us.” He punctuated the revelation with coarse laughter. “She would have told us anything when we put our hands on her daughter.”

Errol's throat tightened and he fought to breathe.
Myrrha.

A grimace tightened the man's face. “Captain told us not to harm her. Said we couldn't afford to leave that kind of trail. Too cautious, Captain is.” He circled back to Errol's right, dark eyes becoming intense.

Now. It has to be now.
“What's your captain's name?” He waited the merest fraction of a second, saw muscles tense as a prelude to a shrug and a blink. The eyelids started down.

Errol struck.

He stepped and swung the staff, forced the ash to move faster than he had ever pushed the wood before.

The man finished his blink, eyes growing wide in surprise, and tried to parry. The staff slipped under the blade. The man hadn't expected a low-line attack. The crack of wood against bone sounded in the clearing. Using the momentum of the rebound, Errol shifted his hands, brought the staff around as his opponent tried to shift his weight.

The wood whistled, crying in the air as he brought the staff around its circle to strike the man's head. Blood erupted. Crimson drops blossomed in the air even as the man's eyes struggled to focus. With a snarl he hobbled forward, head shaking, his sword still pointed at Errol's gut. But it trembled now.

Errol gritted his teeth, changed his grip to slide his hands closer to the end of the staff, and thrust. A groan, deep and
tearing, sounded from the man as the wood crushed into his solar plexus.

The sword fell. The man followed a second later, dropping to his knees.

Swinging with all the terror and fury his heart couldn't hold, Errol hit him across the head. He watched, brandishing the staff in readiness as the man fell face forward.

His chest heaving, he watched the still form on the ground in front of him, ready to strike again at any movement greater than a drawn breath. Finally, he picked up the sword and went to his saddlebags. There was no rope, but there was a long strip of burlap Anomar had used to wrap the food. It would have to do. Cutting it into three pieces, he tied the man's feet and ankles and used the final piece to gag him. It probably wouldn't hold for long. He'd never learned how to make a decent knot, but by the time the man freed himself, Errol would be gone.

He searched the woods until he found his assailant's horse, took the food and money from the saddlebags, and put the flat of the blade against its rump so hard, it took off with a scream.

Dusk settled over the landscape, painting the shadows in soothing shades of purple, but Errol's heart continued to beat against his ribs as if he still fought. He scrubbed away tears as he saddled Midnight and made for the river.

He needed to get stronger. That the man had still come after him after that blow to his leg frightened him. With knobblocks the strike would have broken the bone and the fight would have been over before it started. As he reached the riverbank and turned to follow the water southeast, he resolved to spend every possible minute working with the weighted staff.

Darkness wrapped him like a blanket. Only the moon's washed-out glimmer shining off the water relieved the night. By feel he lifted the staff, fished the knobblocks out of his pocket, and fitted them to the ends of the wood. Careful to avoid hitting Midnight, he moved through the basic staff movements Rale had taught him. The moves felt clumsy on horseback, but he pressed
on. When his arms tired and the weapon threatened to strike the horse, he rested and ate. As his strength returned, he forced himself through the forms again.

At last the sky pinked, and with a sigh of relief, he guided Midnight into the forest away from the river. The cedars and pines still dominated but were interspersed now with hardwoods. He dismounted at the forest's edge, took the reins in one hand, and searched for a secluded clearing.

He rubbed Midnight's nose. “I need to sleep, and I bet you're tired of the bit and saddle.” Gloom lived beneath the branches of the trees. That was fine by him. Whoever pursued him would find it difficult to see him among the shadows. He unsaddled Midnight, his shoulders trembling with the effort. But after he staked the leading rein to the ground, he took the staff and cudgeled his muscles through the forms for defense and attack for another hour, after which he collapsed to the ground, sweating and out of breath, and slept.

Every day and night he followed the same routine. Gradually the ache in his shoulders began to subside and his lungs no longer labored as hard during his workouts. Midnight became so used to the swish of the ash staff that he seldom more than cocked an ear when Errol practiced the forms. But the incessant workouts took their toll. A voice in the back of his head told him he pushed himself too hard, needed to take more time for rest and food.

One morning as the sun peaked over the horizon, he slipped from the saddle, took a step forward to remove the bridle from his mount, and collapsed. He pushed against the ground, tried to rise. The movement caught the attention of Midnight, who pushed against him with his fuzzy nose, whickering.

“I'm fine, boy,” Errol said. The earth pulled at him, weighed him down. His eyelids took on a weight of their own. “I just need . . . to . . . sleep.”

He woke to the sightlessness of dark and the sound of crickets and tree frogs. The moon shone from well above the treetops, looking small and isolated as it tracked across the sky. He shielded
his eyes from the moonlight and waited for the darkness to fade. Midnight grazed off to his right, still saddled. A long growl accompanied by a twisting cramp came from his midsection. He fumbled with the saddlebags in the dark until he located a wedge of cheese and a chunk of heavy bread to eat on the ride. The moon glowed on his right as he led Midnight northeast, back toward the river.