A Cast of Stones (3 page)

A yawn worked its way up his throat, and Errol clenched his teeth around it, grimacing. “What about your letters, Pater?”

Martin sighed, then pursed his lips. “A total loss, I'm afraid. Of course, that means I will have to go to the village and meet your messenger on his return from Gustin's.”

“But you never come to the village.”

Martin nodded. “Things change, lad, and any news that can separate a churchman from a gold crown is important enough for me to break my solitude—for a while anyway.” He gestured toward the door of the cabin. “You'll have to spend the night here, I'm afraid. There's not enough time for you to make it back to the village before dark.”

Errol's stomach tightened at Martin's words.
Stay?
He couldn't stay. He needed to get back to the inn. He had agreed to clean up after dinner, and there were other . . . more pressing concerns.

“I can make it back across the Cripples before dark, Pater.”
He shrugged to emphasize his point. “Once I'm across, I can find my way along the path in the dark easily enough. I've done it at least a dozen times.”

Martin and Luis looked at him with placid gazes, not blinking, until Errol squirmed. He felt as if he'd suddenly turned into glass and they could look through him and read his secret fear.

“No,” Martin said. “You'll sleep here.” He picked up the arrow and waved it in the air in front of Errol's face. “The man who fired this at you might still be searching for you. You'll stay with us tonight.”

He shook his head in disagreement. “There's no reason for him to be looking for me, Pater. I am certain he was trying to make sure you didn't get your message. You didn't, although he might not know that. Either way, he knows he's either failed or succeeded and he won't be hanging around the gorge anymore.”

Martin waved Errol's argument away and exchanged an inscrutable look with Luis. Again, Errol sensed undercurrents in the cabin that eluded his understanding, and the assassin's arrow lay at the center of it.

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, Errol?” Luis asked. The words were softly spoken, but a hint of steel lay beneath them.

Errol gave a twitch of his shoulders. “Nobody's cared about my life for a long time. The assassin's no different. I'll leave my pack here. If he's there, he'll see I'm empty-handed and leave me alone.”

Martin turned to face him squarely. “No. You'll stay here tonight. I won't chance you getting killed. We'll lock the cabin. Luis and I will take turns keeping watch.” His shoulders bunched and then eased under his linen. “In the morning, we'll all go back together. We'll go north to Berea and take the bridge across the Sprata.”

Errol drew breath to protest. He wasn't about to stay in this small, ale-less cabin.

Martin drew himself up and his eyes glowered. “Don't make me invoke the authority of the church.”

Errol laughed. “The church? It holds no authority over me.
What has the church ever done for me? Nothing. Pater Antil has put me in the stocks more times than I can count. If he ever puts anyone else in them, they'll have to ask my permission first.”

Outside, the pace of the shadows increased. He had to leave soon if he wanted to make it back to the village before he got the sweats. Tremors would follow soon after. The mere thought of them made him want to dry the palms of his hands.

Martin stepped forward, pulling his vision from the waning sunlight. “If you stay, I'll make sure Antil never punishes you again.” His voice dipped. “That I promise, Errol.”

The earnestness in the priest's voice tempted him, but staying in the cabin meant cramps and pain until he could get to an ale barrel. He rolled his shoulders against the memory of the lash. It would almost be worth it to be free from Antil's punishments. Almost, but not quite. He turned toward the door. His hand had just closed on the latch when Martin's voice stopped him.

“I can help you with the shakes as well, if you'll let me.”

He turned to see Martin and Luis staring at him, their eyes heavy-lidded with pity—a look he'd seen from friends and strangers a thousand times. Now it made him angry. “What would a priest know about the shakes?”

Martin laughed and shook his head. “Boy, I haven't lived in this cabin my whole life. Do you know how many postulates come to the church just to break the shackles that chain them to their wineskins?”

Errol shook his head. “No, and I don't care. I'll stay if you promise to get me through tonight.”

That earned him another nod but no comment.

Martin turned toward his servant. “Luis, I think it would be best if we ate early. Can you prepare a quick supper?”

Luis nodded. “We've got some soup left and a bit of the rabbits we roasted last night.” At a nod from Martin, he turned toward the cupboard.

“Errol, our bowls are in that cupboard. Would you get them, please?”

Floorboards complained as he crossed the cabin. When he opened the cupboard doors, Errol gasped, the bowls forgotten. Inside the cupboard, posed in miniature, stood a collection of animal figurines, each one sculpted in astonishing detail. He reached in, withdrew the figure of a dog, his fingers registering the fur painstakingly carved into the stone. He touched the nose, noting, almost in surprise, that it was neither wet nor cold. Replacing that figure he brought forth a bear that stood on its hind legs, its head tilted to one side, and its mouth open in a roar. He could almost hear the creature's deep-throated defiance.

A touch on his arm startled him, and he turned to find Martin there.

“Do you like them?”

He nodded, returned the carving to its place on the shelf. “They make everything else I've ever seen look clumsy. Who carved them?”

Martin gestured loosely toward Luis. “Your cook for the evening. He's not nearly as good with food as he is with stone, but we won't go hungry.”

That earned a snort from his servant. “Humph, just because I don't drown everything in pepper the way you do.”

The two men proceeded to argue over food. Errol closed the cupboard door. Beneath it was a large drawer, two hands high with heavy iron pulls. He leaned down and, straining, pulled it open a few inches.

The knife in Luis's hand stilled, and a small noise of protest escaped his throat. Martin's hand on his servant's arm kept him from speaking, but a flash of concern bordering on fear blazed in both men's eyes. Curious about what could spark such a response, Errol pulled the drawer open the rest of the way. It squeaked as the wooden runners protested at the revelation of its contents.

Martin appeared at his side. “You've discovered Luis's greatest work.”

Errol stood, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men. What work of Luis's could be so precious that he would
object to Errol just looking at it? Martin stood with a half smile and a look of encouragement for Luis written large across his broad features. Errol knew that look. He had seen fathers in the village bestow that look upon sons who had just accomplished something difficult and important.

Errol hadn't received such a look since Warrel died. Unwilling to touch the memories that lay behind that train of thought, he leaned forward to gaze into the drawer that Martin and Luis regarded as if it held rare jewels. At first, he suspected the two men of making sport of him, but when he glanced their way he found them as before—Martin with a look of pride and a frown of concern pinching Luis's features.

The drawer lay open at his feet. Squatting, he examined the contents, tried to understand. Dozens of gleaming white spheres lay nestled on a thick blanket of blackest wool. Every orb reflected the muted light within the cabin, creating the illusion they glowed from within.

And they were all identical. Try as he might, Errol could find no difference between them. Each sphere, half a handsbreadth across, was bereft of feature, color, or imperfection. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The effect of those identical objects reminded him of the times he'd suffered from split vision after a night of too much ale. Curious now, he reached to take one of the spheres in hand. He could almost feel the smooth roundness against his fingertips, cool against his skin.

“Don't touch!” The command, louder after the prolonged silence in the cabin, startled him, and he jerked his hand back from the drawer as if burned.

Martin squeezed Errol's shoulder with a chuckle. “You'll have to forgive Luis. He's probably afraid you'll break one.”

Luis shook his head in denial. “Such dissembling ill becomes you, old friend.” Turning to Errol, he continued. “The lots are carved from durastone. They're nearly indestructible. You probably couldn't break one if you tried, but the dirt on your hand would mar the stone's balance.”

Errol checked his hands. The palms bore telltale nicks and scratches, but the winter runoff from the Sprata had scrubbed them clean. Not a speck of dirt or blood showed on his skin. His confusion must have shown on his face.

“These lots are as perfect as I can make them, Errol. The balance and shape is so wrought that if you were to place one on a perfectly flat, clean floor and nudge it, it would roll for hundreds of paces before it stopped. The slightest bit of dirt or grease from your hands would change its balance.”

Luis came forward, reached into a small cranny within the same cupboard, and produced a pair of gloves made from the same midnight wool whereon the stones rested.

He held the gloves by a loop attached to the wrist opening and offered them to Errol. “Here. Make sure you don't touch the fingers or the palms of the glove. Use the loops to pull them on.”

Errol did so, and at a nod from Luis and Martin, he selected one of the white spheres and examined it. He'd heard of lots but had never seen one. The stone was indeed as perfectly round as Luis claimed. More, its whiteness was uniform beyond imagining. If he had not felt his hands turning the stone he wouldn't have known it had changed position.

He shrugged. “It's perfect. But what's it for?”

Martin and Luis exchanged a glance that filled the space of a dozen heartbeats. In the intervening silence, Errol found his gaze drawn back to the pristine sphere nestled in his palm. What purpose or power had Luis crafted into the stone? He held it to the light, turning it in idle curiosity. And then he stopped.
Letters.
He blinked and looked up at Martin and Luis. Had he imagined them, or had he seen letters reflected in the stone's glistening surface?

Slowly now, so that he wouldn't miss them, he held the stone against the flickering lamplight, searching for whatever lay written there. Twice the letters flickered against his vision and were lost and he had to try again. On the third time he held the image.

Writing wrapped itself against the surface of the sphere, small
and the merest shade of white different than the background. Errol looked toward Luis. “There's writing here. What's it say?” Having never learned to read, he held it toward Martin's servant without thinking. “See? There are letters right there.”

Luis just stared at him.

Curious to see what images or writing might show on the other stones, Errol moved to exchange the orb he held and draw another.

Luis came around the table, his movements, slow, deliberate. “Tell me, Errol, do you remember your testing day?”

Errol shook his head. “No.” He reached for another stone.

Martin's hand covered his. “Let's wait for another time, Errol. Luis gets nervous when people handle his best work too much. Besides, I think you should eat. You've had a long day.”

Errol shrugged his disappointment and snaked first one hand and then the other out of the black wool gloves and, holding them by their loops, replaced them in their nook.

But when he turned, Luis's expression bore little resemblance to nervousness. He stood, eyeing Errol in shock as though he'd become a puzzle to solve. After meeting Errol's gaze for a split second, he jerked away, turned his attention back to their meal. The knife resumed its work, though less rhythmically.

Their dinner bore testimony that Luis's skill extended to more than stonework. The rabbit stew, mixed with vegetables and delicately seasoned, might have been the best meal Errol had ever eaten. Martin took one taste and then, without looking, thrust out a hand, grabbed a spice jar, and proceeded to lace his stew with a generous amount of black pepper.

That earned him a glare from Luis. “Well, at least you tried it first. Why I ever agreed to cook for a fat priest from Ostliche is beyond me.”

Martin grunted without raising his gaze from his bowl. “You didn't agree. You undertook the culinary duties by proclamation, exclaiming you'd rather go hungry than eat anything I might prepare.”

Luis harrumphed and turned his attention back to his own meal.

Errol ate, gulped desperate bites of stew, hoping the meal would somehow mollify his body's demand for ale. Outside, the last purple rays faded from the sky and unrelieved darkness covered Martin's cabin. As if on cue, Errol's hands began shaking. His spoon rattled against the side of his bowl as he tried to take another bite. Martin and Luis turned toward the source of the noise and lifted their gazes to Errol's face. Embarrassed, he dropped the spoon and clenched his hands under the table. Perhaps they wouldn't notice the sheen of sweat that covered him. He felt the blood draining from his face, knew he would be sick if he didn't get ale soon.

He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Pater Martin, do you have any ale? I-I'm thirsty.”

“I'm sorry, Errol. I don't.” The priest's voice was soft. “And if this is what ale has done to you, my son, wouldn't it be better to forsake it?”

Errol laughed. Ale hadn't done this. Outside, the last of the purple disappeared into darkness. In the five years he'd served as Martin's messenger, he'd never attempted a crossing of the Sprata at night. But with luck it might be done. It would certainly take longer than the four hours it had taken to bring him here, but in five, possibly six hours he could be back at the inn and Cilla would still have time to sneak him a few tankards out the back window. In five or six hours he'd be fine . . . or dead from a fall.