A Cast of Stones (4 page)

He clenched his trembling hands, regretting his decision to stay. His stomach lurched, demanding ale. The meal sat on that demand, like dead weight. Then it moved.

His chair clattered, bounced on the floor behind him as Errol bolted for the door. Wrenching the handle, he jumped from the porch to land in the garden, his stomach emptying even as he moved. Cramps forced him to his knees, where he heaved again and again, the spasms forcing blood into his head until his face swelled and burned. Still they went on. He fell to his side.

Later, unsure how much later, his body at last noted his dry heaves, believed his stomach no longer held food. His throat burned, and he longed for something to drink, even water to wash away the bile. Crossing the Sprata was beyond him now. He doubted he could even drag himself back into the cabin. He tried to relax as much as his knotted stomach would allow. As his breathing slowed, images came to him, pictures of himself before he'd disappeared in the ale barrel.

No.
He thrust himself from the ground, away from the stink of his meal, and staggered, hunched and aching, toward the cabin. As he set foot on the threshold, hands came to him, supporting his weight, and brought him back into the light and warmth. He found himself looking up into Luis's eyes, their deep brown dry but sympathetic.

“Come,” he said, “Martin is ready to celebrate the sacrament.”

Errol's memories swam before his eyes, superimposed themselves in a mismatched tapestry against the interior of the cabin. “What could I possibly have to celebrate?”

“Ah, Errol, there is always something to be thankful for.”

His response died on his tongue as he saw Martin standing behind a narrow table. While he'd been throwing up in the garden, the priest had donned a chasuble and stole. They were wrinkled, but he wore them with dignity. The interior of the cabin reflected light from a trio of large candles on the table, and the rough furnishings took on an austere grace. Luis deposited Errol on the couch and then offered a dented hand bowl to Martin to rinse his hands.

The priest dried them on a towel Luis had draped over his arm and then took a stoneware pitcher and poured a cupful of water into an earthen goblet. Facing Errol, he intoned the familiar rite.

“May Deas be with you.”

“And with all who gather in his name,” Luis responded.

Errol had heard the rite hundreds of times, sometimes from inside the church but more often from a distance. Too many times he'd been forced to listen to Antil recite the liturgy from the
confines of the stocks. The memory galled him, and he clamped his mouth shut to lock the response behind his teeth.

Martin looked his way, but the old man's eyes held no recrimination that Errol could see. Softly—not looking out over the heads of the gathered communicants, as a priest usually did, but directly into Errol's eyes—Martin continued.

“Lift up your praises,” he encouraged.

“Do not be afraid; lift them up to Deas, and Eleison, and unknowable Aurae,” Luis replied, speaking as though the response were his own.

“Let us give thanks to the Father Deas,” Martin said. Errol would have said the words were the priest's own had he not heard them hundreds of times before.

“It is right for us so to do,” Luis responded.

“It is right and our bounden duty, in all times, in all places, to give thanks unto thee, O Deas, Father, everlasting.”

Almost, the spell of Martin's sincerity held Errol, but memories of loss and Antil's cruelty festered in his gut. His stomach roiled. He curled over, his folded arms pressing into his midsection, trying to ease new cramps. A metallic taste filled his mouth. A spasm put him on the wooden planks of the floor, and he retched, his stomach trying to rid itself of what was no longer there. Above him, Martin intoned the measured cadences of the sacrament.

“For by Deas, through Eleison, and with the unity of unknowable Aurae, the heavens were cast and the world found purchase in the firmament. All glory be unto thee, Deas, Eleison, unknowable Aurae, world without end.”

Errol pictured Antil's likely reaction at seeing him so indisposed at the altar and gave a bitter laugh. The priest would fall over from rage. The image of him, red-faced and gasping, only made him laugh harder, his breath wheezing past the cramps that kept him on the floor.

“Lift your voices,” Martin said, but something in the priest's voice broke. “Eleison, our champion, has triumphed.” The last words were delivered just above a whisper. Errol curled tighter
around the pain in his stomach. He knew from experience what would happen next. No priest would suffer their office to be so disrespected. He didn't care—the lash or the stocks, what did it matter? Soon or late he would get back to Cilla and she would give him ale.

He heard footsteps coming toward him. He hoped Martin wouldn't kick him in the stomach. Antil had done that once.

A hand slid between his head and the floor, lifted him gently from the boards, and Martin's voice, so very close now, rested on his ears. “The body of Eleison, interposed to keep us safe so long as the world lasts.”

Errol pried his eyes open. Martin held a wafer between his thumb and forefinger, offering, waiting for Errol to open his mouth and accept it. He shook his head. If he ate that, if he ate anything, he would throw up again. “I can't.”

Martin nodded his understanding. The priest pulled his hand back, broke the smallest piece from the bread he could, scarcely more than a crumb, and offered it again. Errol opened his mouth, accepted it, and cheeked it with his tongue. Martin stood, retreated a step, and nodded to Luis, who came forward with the cup.

Tears glistened in the servant's eyes. “Errol, this is the offering of Eleison, the champion of our world.”

Errol stared at the cup, his eyes just above the rim. Lamplight glittered off the surface of the red liquid. His need spoke for him and he reached out, put his shaking hands over Luis's and tilted the crude chalice until the wine flowed over his tongue.

Too soon, barely a swallow later, Luis lowered the cup from his lips and stood, but the mouthful Errol received flowed to his stomach and his cramps eased a portion. He let his head rest on the floor. In his state he was just conscious enough to feel gratitude for the lack of punishment.

“May Deas be with you.” Martin's voice filled the cabin again, washing over him.

“And with all who gather in his name,” Luis responded.

Errol opened his eyes, confused. What did Martin think he was doing? Hadn't they just done this? Too tired, too cramped to be curious he closed his eyes and let the priest's voice fill his thoughts. Besides, what did he care if Martin wished to recite his liturgy again?

Moments later, he felt himself lifted again, another crumb of wafer placed on his tongue. Luis crouched to offer the cup as before. Once more a mouthful of wine slid down to his stomach and his pain eased another fraction.

Errol lost track of how often Martin and Luis repeated the rite. Sometime before dawn, he slept.

 3 
Crimsonweed

A
SOLITARY SHAFT
of sunlight falling across his left eye woke him early the next morning. He sat up to the sounds of packing and turned to see Martin stuffing bread and cheese into a pack, his face serious. On the other side of the cabin, Luis emptied the cabinet of the strange spherical carvings. He wore the black wool gloves, each movement slow and methodical as he placed the balls one at a time into a heavily padded crate. The urge to lift the orbs and see their lettering came over him again, but neither Martin nor Luis looked as if they would tolerate any interruption. Martin's attention to the food seemed only slightly less intense than Luis's to his carvings. The two men didn't look at each other or speak, but tension crackled between them.

He stood, the floor creaking beneath his weight. Surprisingly, he craved food rather than ale. He probed his abdomen with the fingers of his right hand. How long would it be before his stomach remembered itself and renewed its demands for Cilla's brew?

Seeing him upright, Martin beckoned, holding out a piece of bread. “Here, lad, I don't think you're ready for cheese yet, but this should sit easy enough on your stomach.”

Errol accepted it as the memory of last night's sacrament ghosted through his mind. “Why are you packing?”

The priest laid several apples into the bag and regarded him, his brown eyes thoughtful. “I don't think Luis and I will be coming back here, Errol. The message you delivered from the church yesterday was almost certainly intended to call me back to Erinon.”

Martin's reasoning escaped him. “But you didn't read the message, Pater. How do you know what was in it?”

Martin chuckled. “Errol, how many times have you journeyed forth across the Sprata to make deliveries since we came here?”

He shrugged, his thin shoulders bunching up around his ears before falling. “More times than I can count, Pater.”

Martin nodded at him. “And in all those times, how many messages from the church have you been commissioned to deliver?”

“None.”

The priest held up a finger to show he'd made his point. “Exactly. In truth, I've been waiting for and dreading this message for the past five years.”

Errol shook his head. He could still see the remnants of the message laid out on Martin's table. Tracks of ink like streams that fed the Sprata during the spring floods stained the parchment. Not one word of the letter retained its legibility. “But how do you know what was in it?”

Martin's eyebrows rose and he nodded in approval. “A fair question. Come.” He walked over to the still-damp parchment and pointed. “Look at the lower left corner and tell me what you see.”

Errol bent at the waist, his eyes searching. There, at the bottom, the parchment still held an imprint of a seal: three tongues of flame surmounting a rectangular block. He'd never seen its like before.

Martin's voice became serious. “That's the symbol of the archbenefice's office at Erinon. I've been expecting his summons.”

“For what?”

The priest's face became grave. “To help select a new king.”

“Why would we need a new king?” Errol asked.

“Because Rodran has no heir.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. People died all the time. What was the need to select a new king to him? Nothing, really, but he would miss Martin, especially after last night. The priest was the only clergyman who'd ever been kind to him. “When are you coming back?”

Martin shook his head. “I'm not. I'll be needed in Erinon.” He looked around the cabin before returning his gaze to Errol. “We'll let the people in Callowford and Berea know that whoever wants the cabin may have it. We won't need it anymore.”

Errol pushed away the thought of his life without Martin or Luis. People constantly left or died. That was the way of things. Unbidden, a craving for ale came over him, and he thought of leaving Martin and Luis to undertake the trek north to Berea by themselves so he could cross the gorge and get back to Cilla's inn and the ale barrels it held.

“What about you, Errol?” Luis asked. “Have you ever thought of leaving Callowford? The kingdom of Illustra is far larger than you can imagine from here. Someday you might even see Erinon. Would you like that?”

The tension between Luis and Martin seemed to heighten at this, but Errol could see no reason for it.

“I will not travel far from Cilla and her inn.”

Martin nodded and turned away, but not before Errol saw the look of relief in his eyes.

Errol's craving for ale strengthened a notch. “I was thinking I could go back across the gorge and meet you in Callowford,” Errol said. “That way, if the messenger comes back before you do, I can tell him to wait.”

Martin gave a self-assured laugh. “He'll wait, Errol. He has to. The archbenefice has little patience for incompetence.” He gave Errol a look that seemed to plumb his soul. “Have you forgotten the man who tried to kill you?”

In truth, Errol had forgotten. But surely the man was gone by now. With the message ruined, he had nothing the man, or anyone else for that matter, wanted.

“Come, Errol, you carry the food. Luis will need me to carry his tools. He won't trust his lots to anyone, I'm afraid. They're practically like children to him.”

Luis smiled as he slowly hoisted the crate to his back, snaking his arms through a pair of ropes so that it rode just below his shoulders. “The stones require as much work as children, and sometimes they're no better behaved than the meanest brats.” He glanced at Martin. “Someday you may learn that for yourself.” Without a backward glance he strode out of the cabin and into the early morning sunshine. Martin and Errol followed. Outside, Errol looked back once. The cabin door hung ajar and it was dark inside. Already, the life had gone out of it.

They picked up the path leading west toward the village of Berea, skirting the Sprata for most of the way. Two hours out, Martin called a halt, sweating and panting as they climbed another of the interminable hills that lay between them and their destination.

“How much farther?” Sweat plastered his gray hair to his forehead, and he dabbed the sides and back of his neck with a wet cloth. Dark splotches of effort marked the rough fabric of his cassock where it stretched over his bulk. Sunlight reflected off the itch vines to his left, giving his face a greenish cast. His chest heaved.

Luis wiped his brows, the tanned skin of his bald head gleaming wetly in the light. “It's another hour to Berea, then, once we cross the bridge over the Sprata, two more to catch Falls Road and then another three hours back east to Callowford.” He gulped for breath between sentences.

Errol smiled. Aside from the occasional craving for ale, he felt better than he had in a long time. His sweat cleansed him, and after crossing the Sprata yesterday, this hike was insufficient to tire him. “It would have been a lot quicker to cut across the gorge. Even allowing for a trip across the Cripples, it would have cut this trip in half.” He made no effort to keep the overly cheerful tone from his voice.

Luis smiled, but Martin shot him a look of irritation as he brought the cloth forward to mop his face. “Speed is the least of our considerations. There is news I need before I meet with the church's representative, and the priest of Berea is the closest source.”

Luis's mouth drew to one side, and he gave a slight shake of his head. “You don't even know if they've bothered telling the local priests what's happening, Martin. Berea is so far off the beaten path they might not hear about it for a year or more.”

Martin nodded, as if conceding the point, but said nothing that would indicate he'd changed his mind. The priest sighed and levered his bulk off the rock he'd used as a seat and continued along the path. His steps faltered. He stumbled over nothing, then righted himself. “Luis, I think that messenger was sent just in time. My isolation in the cabin for the past five years has taken its toll.”

Luis, gray and sweating, nodded his agreement. “I seem to be feeling the effects as well. My legs feel like lead.”

Errol watched the two men struggle up the trail, suspicion and panic growing in his mind. He stood transfixed, looking on in horror as first Martin and then Luis fell panting to the dust. He ran to the priest, kneeling to pour water for him. The old man's skin felt cool and clammy to the touch. He poured again. Martin drained the cup before nodding weakly toward Luis.

Errol raced over to Martin's servant, offered water as his mind reeled. What was wrong with them? The walk, like any other in the Sprata foothills, tested a man's endurance, but the pace had been easy and both men had seemed fine only a few moments ago. But they were old. They'd never mentioned any infirmities to Errol, but who knew what ailments the men brought with them to Callowford?

Luis drained the cup, his tanned skin blanched to the color of dust. He struggled to a half-sitting, half-lying position on the trail and took the waterskin from Errol. “See to Martin.”

The priest lay sprawled across the dirt and rock of the trail, his
eyes closed and his breath coming in shallow gasps. Errol put his hands on his chest, rocking him back and forth. “Pater Martin? Tell me what's wrong.”

The priest's eyes fluttered open, and he rolled his head toward Luis. “Poison,” he whispered.

A blow like the strike of a smith's hammer hit Errol in the chest. Pulling his pack from his shoulders he flung it open and dumped the contents on the ground, hoping against hope. He searched, throwing each item to the side. “Where is it? I just picked some.” There. Smashed under the spare waterskin lay a damp clump of crimsonweed. He grasped the plant by the roots and in a single motion stripped the foliage with his spare hand. Discarding the stalk, he grabbed half the pulpy leaves that lay on the ground and rolled them between his hands until they massed into a wet lumpy ball and a sharp tang filled the air.

Opening Martin's mouth, he forced half of the wad into the back of his throat and then poured water across the old man's lips until he was forced to swallow. He waited, his heart hammering, just long enough for the priest to catch his breath before rushing over to Luis to repeat the process. Martin's servant seemed to be in better shape, if barely. His eyes were open and aware. His breathing was less labored.

When Errol placed the first wad of crushed crimsonweed between his lips, Luis roused himself. “What's wrong with us?” he gasped around the medicine.

“Martin says you've been poisoned.”

Luis blinked and gave a sparse nod, then chewed twice, juice rolling down one cheek, and swallowed thickly. Errol tilted the waterskin, letting him drink.

Luis struggled, taking a deep breath. “You know Adele?” he asked.

Errol stilled, caught off guard by the question. He did know Adele. The herbwoman lived outside of Berea, seeing only those she trusted. Errol was one of those. He brought her the plants she needed that grew along the Sprata. If he was clever and managed
to procure the roots and mushrooms that grew in the cracks and caves of the river, she paid him enough to keep him in ale for a couple of days. She and her sister, Radere, who lived outside Callowford, did a fair trade with the villagers and farmers for a couple of leagues around.

The church barely tolerated the two women. More than once, needing some excuse to give Errol a beating, Antil had caught him coming from Radere's hut and put him in the stocks. Not Radere, just Errol.

“Boy.” Luis's breathing slowed as the crimsonweed took effect. “Do you know Adele?” At a nod from Errol, he continued. “Then hurry.”

He left each man a waterskin and raced away without a backward glance, his feet churning the dust on the trail. As he ran, his thoughts swam sluggishly in his mind and his peripheral vision blurred until the trees and plants at the side of the trail blended into an unbroken swath of green.

Luis and Martin were dying. The image of Martin, gray-skinned and sweating, flashed across his mind and he held it. Casting about for any sign that might help Adele decipher the poison, he called up the image of the two men over and over again. They had stopped to rest. At the time Errol had paid no attention, but now it seemed strange that they should tire so quickly—and on the easiest part of the trail at that. Then they had fallen.