A Cast of Stones (34 page)

“You had pneumonia?”

Errol nodded. “Anomar said I was as good as dead for two weeks.”

The reader's face grew thoughtful. “That might explain it. There are writings in the conclave library that mention such outcomes, but I've never cast one.”

“Well,” Martin said with a smile, “it might be a good thing you haven't. Most of you readers think yourselves the closest thing to Deas. A little doubt will do you all some good.”

Luis nodded toward Errol. “I think yon apprentice will take care of that for many of us.”

Errol picked up the thread of his story, but a bare minute later Cruk waved his hand at him, bringing the tale to a halt again.

“You say the man's name is Rale?”

Errol nodded.

Martin turned toward the watchman. “You know the name?”

Cruk shook his head. “No. Never heard of it before. That's what bothers me. The watch makes it their business to know who the best are and where they are in case we ever have need of them.” He cleared his throat. “Our network of informers isn't as well organized as the church's, but it's extensive in its own way. He's a staff man as well. We don't have many of those.”

Errol leaned forward in his seat. Rale's story had been one of the things he'd wanted most to know, but pursuit had driven him away before the farmer could tell the tale.

Cruk shrugged his massive shoulders and leaned back in thought. A sudden smile split his face, and he laughed at the ceiling. “Oh my, that's too good.” He looked at Martin. “I think Errol's teacher is none other than Elar Indomiel. Get it? Spell Rale backwards. It's Elar.”

Martin laughed. “I always wondered what had happened to him.”

“Who's Elar Indomiel?” Errol asked.

Cruk shook his head. “Later. We've already interrupted your tale twice. At this rate we'll be here all night.” He waved an impatient hand toward Errol's half of the table. “Pick up where you left off.”

Errol cast about for a moment before he picked up the thread of his story again. With some reluctance he related the tale of Warrel's death exactly as he'd told it to Rale. He closed his eyes as he did so, not wanting to shy away from the memory ever again. When he opened his eyes at the end, Martin, Luis, and Cruk regarded him in silence, but a tear tracked its way down Martin's cheek and Luis snuffled before blowing into a silk handkerchief. The frown lines of Cruk's face became deeper, making the captain appear grimmer. Errol didn't get interrupted again until he started talking about joining on as a caravan guard.

“You actually guarded for Naaman Ru?” Cruk asked. He breathed the name almost as if he considered it holy.

Errol grimaced and nodded. “I didn't know he was a swordsman himself until the night we were attacked by a man named Eck.” He backtracked a bit to tell the story of his early days as a guard and then turned to Luis. “After we captured Eck, Rokha said there was a compulsion on him. I cast lots to see if the compulsion came from the church or a Merakhi. Now I think it might have been both.”

“Why? I don't—” Luis began, but cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Never mind. Go on.”

Errol told the rest of his tale with occasional interruptions. Toward the end, there were less and less. The only thing he omitted was Merodach's part in freeing him from Ru. He finished with his fights in the barracks courtyard. He looked up to find his friends smiling and shaking their heads.

Cruk spoke first. “I can scarce believe it. Meaning no offense, lad, but you're probably the worst swordsman I've ever seen.”

“I'd like to try you sometime, now that I have a weapon I'm comfortable with,” Errol said. Then he laughed at the surprise on the faces gathered around him.

Luis turned away from Errol with a look of reluctance to speak to Martin. “You know someone must be casting lots to hunt the boy, don't you?”

The reader spoke this slowly, and Errol sensed he'd tried to communicate something more to the priest.

Martin nodded but changed the subject. “What are you going to do about his casting for profit?”

Luis fidgeted in his seat, squirming from one side to the other between the arms of the chair. Then he waved a hand to brush the objection away. “As far as I'm concerned, it never happened. He did it under duress, and it's obvious he didn't profit from it. The conclave will never find out about it. I certainly have no intention of telling them.”

Martin shook his head at this. “For some reason the boy has
enemies, Luis, and secrets have a way of coming out when it's most inconvenient.”

Luis reddened. “We have to have him, Martin. Even more now than when we first learned of his talent.” He sent Martin a pointed stare. “I did what should not have been done to bring him here.”

Much of their conversation passed over Errol with only hints of meaning, but this last seemed plain enough. “Luis, how do we remove the compulsion? I can still feel it at the back of my head, like the buzzing of a hornet.”

The reader looked embarrassed but held Errol's gaze. “Tomorrow, you'll present yourself to the conclave. Once you do that, you're free.” His gaze became intent. “You're needed, Errol. More than you realize.”

“Because the barrier will fall when Rodran dies?”

Martin growled deep in his throat. “Boy, don't ever say that aloud again. No one knows what will happen when the king dies and there are factions within the church that maintain the barrier is just a myth or a misinterpretation. Even if you prove to be right, they'll hate you for it.”

Errol sighed. The church, the conclave, and the watch all held their own secrets. It seemed that events conspired to make him blind, groping for some way to understand what was happening. His questions led only to half answers and more questions. When would it end? “What do the prophecies of Strand say?”

Cruk looked confused, but Martin and Luis stared at him openmouthed, as though he'd changed into something unrecognizable.

Martin leaned back in his chair, staring at him. Errol refused to look away. Instead, he sat in his chair and kept his face impassive, as though he'd done nothing more than ask after the weather.

“Boy, you've come back to us with weapons on your tongue more dangerous than the staff you carry,” Martin said. “Where did you hear about Strand?”

Errol sipped his water. He'd always believed Martin and Luis
to be his friends, but how much did he know about them, really? What did they want and what did they want from him?

“There's a man in Ru's caravan,” he said at last. “His name is Conger. He's a defrocked priest. I never saw him without a book in his hand. Usually it was something about church history. When we stood guard duty together he'd pull out one of his books and teach me to read using the interesting parts.” Errol laughed at the memory of being bored for hours on end listening to Conger go on. “There weren't many of those, but the stuff from Strand caught my attention because, though I did not understand much, it sounded like some of the same things you and Luis used to talk around. I never got the chance to ask Conger about it. . . .” Errol leaned forward in his chair, willing Martin to answer him. “So now I am asking you.”

Martin turned to look at Luis and laughed. “Your cub has teeth, my friend. I think Primus Sten will like our newest reader, if Errol doesn't drive him to distraction first.”

Errol suspected the banter and the oblique compliments were the priest's attempt to divert him from his question. He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair without taking his gaze from Martin, and resolved to wait until the priest answered his question.

Martin turned serious. “Very well, I'll tell you as much as I think wise . . . and possibly a bit more. Strand prophesied about each and every king in the royal line, including Rodran.” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, he didn't call them by name, though that would have saved more than a little bloodshed over the years, but he numbered them all. Even the worst historian can count, and according to Strand, Rodran is the last of the royal line. In the prophecies, he's called ‘Childless.' Appropriate, don't you think?”

“Who was Strand?” Errol asked.

Luis cleared his throat. “A prophet. His story is very nearly the equal of Magis, the first king.”

Martin shifted his bulk in his chair. “Church historians say Strand saw a vision and for three days and nights he neither ate nor slept while he wrote what he saw.” Martin shrugged. “Or was
told. When he came back to his sense of self, he read the stack of parchment that bore his writing and, horrified, took it to the archbenefice of Erinon. Priorus impounded the prophecy on the spot. Such secrets are hard to keep. Over time the information worked its way into the writings of some of our more obscure benefices.”

To Errol it seemed it all came down to one simple question, prophecy or not. “What does this prophecy say will happen when the king dies without an heir?”

“Your wits have gotten sharper since you stopped drinking, boy. That indeed is the question. The prophecy speaks of the land's savior, a . . . a new king,” Martin stuttered. The priest looked away and busied himself with his goblet.

Errol waited for Martin to provide some explanation, but the priest merely traced a finger around the rim of his glass without expanding on his edited tale. By the look on Martin's face, there would be no explanations given.

“What does all this have to do with me?”

Luis cleared his throat but avoided Errol's gaze. “However the prophecy works out, the conclave will choose the next king.”

“And someone is killing the readers,” Cruk said. “They're trying to blind the kingdom and in the process have exposed more than a few cowards within the conclave.”

This brought a grudging nod from Luis. “We were never meant to be warriors, and the bodies are often disfigured beyond recognition. I can hardly fault my brothers for running away when the faces of their friends and fellows . . . the faces were . . .” Luis blanched. “Excuse me. Many of those killed were my friends.”

Cruk spoke into the silence Luis and Martin appeared unwilling to break. “Their faces were chewed off, boy,” Cruk said.

An image of pointed teeth that filled an almost-human face came to him. Then he grew angry. He let rage burn in his gaze and regarded Luis in silence, waited until the reader fidgeted before he spoke. “When did you know that joining the conclave would put
my life in danger? Windridge? Before we left Callowford?” His voice rose. “Is that why you used compulsion? Am I fresh meat?”

Luis blinked as though he wanted to look anywhere else but at Errol's accusation. “That wasn't my intention, Errol.”

Errol barked a laugh in reply. “Intention? I thought you were all my friends. I've been shot at by assassins, hunted by a demon-possessed Merakhi, imprisoned and forced to cast lots against my will, and after all that you want me to sit here while you and Martin give each other knowing looks and talk around the things you don't want me to know. Were you ever going to tell me there are ferrals in the conclave?”

A pall covered the room. Only the sound of Errol's breathing, impassioned and labored, sounded within the space.

Cruk's hand rested on his sword. “How do you know they're ferrals, boy?”

Errol shook his head at the captain, turned back to the reader. “What have your intentions done except put me in danger? By the three, tell me what I want to know and what you want from me.”

Cruk's hand spun him around. “How do you know they're ferrals?”

Errol met the captain's angry gaze, matched it with one of his own. “There was one with Eck!” He rounded on Martin. “Who's hunting me?”

Martin stood, pulled at his jaws. “I don't know, Errol.” He held up a hand. “If I knew, I would tell you and use whatever influence I had to stop them.”

Errol looked to Luis. The reader shook his head. “I've tried casting for our enemy, Errol, but other than Merakh, nothing comes up. I'm sorry. I am unable to frame the correct question.”

Martin stared at him, and in the brown depths of the priest's eyes Errol beheld a vast sorrow and an even greater determination. “We need you, Errol, more than you know, but the fate of the kingdom rests on a precipice. How do we know we can trust you?”

“Trust
me
? How much more do I have to do?” Angry, Errol
stood and looked pointedly around the room as if searching. For months he'd puzzled over the priest's and the reader's every word and nuance. Each time he gleaned a piece of information that shed light on what the two men were about, he replayed every conversation all over again. Weeks ago, after listening to Conger on night duty, he thought he understood. Now he would put his theory to the test.

He met Martin's calm, assessing gaze with his own. “Does Liam know you plan to make him king?”

Martin and Luis didn't flinch, but Cruk's hand darted, and a foot of steel cleared the scabbard before he stopped, his face wreathed in a grimace.

Errol smiled without showing his teeth and nodded toward the watchman. “So it's true.”

 25 
The Conclave

L
UIS BOLTED UPRIGHT.
His chair fell with a clatter against the polished floor. “We will not make anyone king. The lots will choose.” Martin inhaled to speak, but the reader jerked toward him. “We will not. I told you before only a cast from durastone would suffice.” He flung his hand toward Errol. “By now he's cast enough lots to know for himself.”

Luis spoke the truth, but Martin's reaction gave the lie to the reader's words. When the answer came to him, he almost laughed. “If I were a reader,” he said slowly, “and had to sculpt the stone to find the next king, I think I'd test it in wood first.”

Luis paled.

“You've already done that, haven't you?”

Martin answered before the reader could speak. “Well, Errol, it seems we have no choice but to trust you.” He looked toward Cruk. “That or kill you, and you're far too valuable for that. It is as you suspect. Liam will be king. That young man is the salvation of our kingdom.”

“Who knows?” Errol asked.

Martin smiled. “Only those of us in this room, the primus, and
the archbenefice. We controverted the power of the church and its Judica. If it became known, we would be excommunicated, including the archbenefice and the primus.”

Cruk snorted. “At best.”

After a moment, Martin nodded.

“But why?” Errol asked. “If Liam is to be the next king, then he's to be the next king. You could have waited for Rodran to die and the conclave would have selected him.”

Martin nodded, but not in agreement. “Possibly. Forgive me if I speak obliquely, but our actions were deemed necessary to protect the future king. I cannot say more without putting him in danger.”

Errol turned to Luis. “How close are you to the cast?”

“There are five lots left to craft,” Luis said. “I have the stone, but it takes time, much more time, to sculpt stone than to carve wood, and for obvious reasons, we require a much higher degree of perfection.”

White. Smooth as glass and as round as the sun. Errol remembered Luis's treasure, a crate full of stone lots that would determine the next king. Beyond doubt, it would be Liam. If there was ever a man born perfect, it was him.

“Does Liam know?”

Martin looked away. Luis and Cruk fidgeted.

Errol shook his head in disbelief. “You haven't told him. That's why he's not here.”

Martin sighed. “For four years we've groomed him to take the kingship. Cruk, Luis, and I have taught him everything we know from sword craft to church history.” He grimaced. “Liam will be a king for the ages precisely because he is uncorrupted by the power he will wield.”

Errol nodded. “I doubt he'll thank you when the time comes.”

“We are in your power now, Errol,” Luis said. “If the Judica discovers that we've already cast for the king, there are men, powerful men, who will see us imprisoned for it.”

“Or worse,” Cruk said.

A sigh whispered through Errol's lips at the secrets within secrets. They tired him. “I won't tell anyone.”

Guards patrolled the halls of the conclave in constant vigil. Men traveled the corridors in twos and threes, one man looking forward and one looking behind at all times. Everyone, reader or not, kept a ready hand on a sword, and the hiss of steel answered each unexpected sight or sound. Some, men who wore their struggle against fear in plain sight on their faces, went with naked weapons held at the ready.

Cruk growled at the sight as he escorted Luis and Errol. “A few more attacks and we'll be saving our enemies the trouble. We'll just carve each other up.”

The only men who dared walk the halls alone without bared weapons were gray-clad monks. They shuffled through the corridors, their cowled heads bent toward the floor. One of them passed him just as Errol inhaled through his nose.

He gagged at the stench. When the man turned a corner, the air burst from his lungs. “Phew. Why don't they bathe?”

Luis exhaled with a heavy sigh. “They're monks from Carthus. Their vow of poverty constrains them from earthly indulgences.”

Errol coughed. “I don't think heaven will let them in smelling like that. Even when I was a drunk, I let it rain on me every now and then. Someone should find something for the monks to do in the courtyard the next time a storm passes through.”

Cruk inspected Luis's quarters while they waited in the hall. Satisfied, he waved them in and left. Immediately after his departure, Luis bolted the door. “Last week we found two readers dead outside their quarters.”

“How many have been killed?”

Luis busied himself around his quarters. His hands drifted at the task, tentative and unsure. When he answered, his eyes were wide and haunted. “The conclave held a thousand readers once.” He shook his head. “Some vitality was lost to us; perhaps
it is connected to the weakened kingship somehow. With each year, fewer and fewer join our ranks. When I left for Erinon a little over five years ago, our numbers had dwindled to fewer than four hundred.”

He turned away. “Now most of the rooms are empty. Apprentices who have no more than a year in the craft have their pick of journeyman's quarters.”

The details drifted past Errol as if blown on a breeze. What he hadn't heard was what scared him. Luis hadn't answered his question.

“Curse it, how many are left?”

“Two hundred.”

The air in Luis's room became stifling, difficult to breathe. “So two hundred have been killed since you left for Callowford?”

The reader shook his head. “No. At least, we don't think so. There are many factors. They've found about a hundred bodies over the last year. As for the rest”—he shrugged—“it is presumed they ran away. The primus and the king have sent guards to the mainland to try to bring them back.”

“At least one was tracking me from Windridge,” Errol said.

“After tomorrow,” Luis said, “we'll have one more reader to help cast the lots when the king dies.”

Errol strained against the implication. Could he stay? “How many readers will it take?”

Luis shrugged. “I don't know. It's never been done before. The lots will have to be perfect. Every benefice in the kingdom will insist on nothing less.”

Errol slept in Luis's quarters. Sometime close to dawn, the reader woke him. He wore the deep blue robes of his order, and his movements were slow, almost formal.

“Leave your staff here,” Luis said. “Readers do not enter the conclave under arms.”

At a prearranged knock from Cruk, they descended down
the broad stone staircase to the main hall of the conclave. Two watchmen stood guard at the huge double doors. As Luis approached, one of them opened the way with an effort. Inside, close to two hundred blue-robed men sat on benches arranged in half-circular terraces around a large dais.

Luis leaned to mutter into Errol's ear. “This is the meeting hall of the conclave. In this place the primus, first of the conclave, rules supreme.” He nodded toward an ancient-looking man whose blue robes bore a single red stripe down each sleeve. “Not even the archbenefice can overrule the primus, unless at greatest need.” Luis tugged on his sleeve. “Come, I'll introduce you to Enoch Sten. Address him as Primus. He holds more power than any in the kingdom except the archbenefice and the king himself.”

They descended the steps, moving from the back of the hall toward the dais. Halfway there, the primus took notice of their arrival and smiled.

“Welcome,” he said as they stepped toward the dais. “Secondus, you continue to surprise.”

Secondus?
Errol turned toward Luis, who held a look of regret, as if just then realizing he had forgotten to mention something. The news would have to wait; they turned their attention back to the primus.

Tall and spare, his green eyes piercing over his hooked nose, the man appraised Errol. Bits of wispy hair encircled the crown of his head like a halo. He put Errol in mind of an aging falcon.

“How old are you, boy?”

With a start, Errol realized he'd spent his naming day onboard ship. Small wonder considering he'd spent the crossing clutching the rail. “Nineteen, primus.”

“He's old, Secondus, old to start the training, but strange times call for unorthodox decisions. You have tested him, yes?”

Luis bowed. “Of course. I think, Primus, that Errol's talent will justify the suspension of orthodoxy.”

The old man nodded, then pushed himself from his seat. He grasped a dark staff held in a stand beside his seat and rapped its
metal-shod end three times on the floor. The concussions echoed around the chamber, and all talk ceased.

“Hearken! One comes as a supplicant to our order,” the primus intoned. “He has been tested by Secondus Luis Montari, and found worthy of admission to this body. So say you all?”

A chorus of “Aye” bounced back and forth between the walls.

The primus rapped his staff on the stone floor once. “Hearken! Does anyone have any objections as to why . . .” He paused to look at Errol. “I've forgotten your name, boy.”

“Errol Stone.”

Wispy eyebrows lifted in response. “Hmmm. Haven't had an orphan as a supplicant in some time. Interesting times, indeed.” He turned back to the chamber. “Any objections to admitting Errol Stone to our order?”

Silence rested on the chamber. Errol's heart thudded his excitement against his chest.

For his part, the primus looked a little bored. Then he rapped his staff twice against the floor and called again in his clear tenor. “Hearken! If any have objections to why Errol Stone of . . .” He stopped with a look toward Luis this time.

“Callowford.”

“Ah, yes. If any have reason why Errol Stone of Callowford may not be admitted to our order, let him speak.”

Again silence fell over the chamber. This time Errol surveyed the audience and found the men occupying the benches wore the same bored expression as the primus.

“Once more,” Luis whispered into Errol's ear.