A Cast of Stones (16 page)

Cruk's hand grabbed his wrist, stopped his hand just short of the pewter handle. “No ale for you.”

Errol tried to pull his hand back. “One drink's not going to hurt.”

Cruk snorted. “You don't know how to have one drink.” To make his point, he set the pitcher beyond Errol's reach.

A thread of panic wormed its way into his stomach. “I-I need
a drink. If I don't have something to drink, I'll get s-sick.” The words stuck in his throat, and the sympathetic looks from Martin, Luis, and most of all, Liam made his face heat.

“The boy's right,” Martin said. “But just one tankard.”

Errol didn't even look up. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to crawl away where no one could see him. If he could have willed himself to die, he would have. The sound of his tankard being filled brought tears to his eyes, and he squeezed them shut and lowered his head even farther, trying to hide them.

Luis took one of Errol's hands and placed it on the cool metal of the tankard. He held it close to his chest, cradling it but not drinking. He couldn't, not this time, not in front of them. Rising, he fled the table, making for the kitchen.

“Let him go, Cruk.”

The words struck him in the back as he left, and he took one sobbing pull of his drink. The Dancing Man served the best ale he'd ever tasted.

He hated it with all his might.

Later—he didn't know how much later—he still sat in one corner of the kitchen, the staff eyeing him, the now-empty mug still clutched to his chest. The door swung open and Cruk came through. He nodded in Errol's direction.

“It's time.”

Cruk opened the door that led from the kitchen to the back alley. A whiff of decomposing vegetables drifted from the compost pile and in through the door. Then Cruk was gone. Errol listened between the pulses of his heart for any sound that might indicate an ambush or an attack, but the alley behind the inn stayed silent.

Moments later, Martin entered, a turkey leg in one hand and a tankard in the other. He swayed as he came in, ale slopping over the side of his mug. But as the door closed, cutting off the view to the front of the inn, he straightened, set the mug aside, and approached the corner where Errol sat.

“Luis is very possibly my oldest friend. He is noble and good and stubborn in ways I still don't understand. He sees in you
something rare and precious.” Martin's eyes clouded. “I know him. If he thinks it's necessary, he'll die to get you to Erinon. Don't let him.”

Errol shook his head. If possible, Martin's and Luis's regard hurt worse than their pity. He couldn't make the mental jump, couldn't see himself in the way Martin described. He was a drunkard. Why would Luis sacrifice himself for him?

He looked up to see the door swinging shut and Martin gone.

Liam came into the kitchen. Even his footfalls sounded self-assured. Errol stood, unwilling to have Liam look so far down to speak to him. Liam stuck out a hand. “If you want, I'll stay back. We can try to make it to the west gate together.”

Errol shook his head. No. Liam was too important to risk. He didn't know exactly how or why, but the abbot's naked hunger betrayed Liam's importance. Morin might try anything. “Martin knows what needs to be done.” He jerked his head toward the door. “You should go.”

Liam nodded and left without looking back. Hollowness settled into Errol's stomach, and for a moment he considered refilling his tankard. Then Luis entered. Sweat shone on his bald head, but his brown eyes were calm.

Errol swallowed before forcing himself to speak. “Only an idiot would leave the back of an inn unwatched.”

Luis pursed his lips and nodded.

“Morin's not an idiot, is he?”

A shake of the head.

Errol took a deep breath, savored the feel of air coming into his lungs. “What makes Cruk and Martin think we can get away?” He forced himself to hold Luis's gaze—as if by sheer will he could force the truth from him.

“The goal is for Liam to get away.” A rueful grin stretched his mouth to one side. “I've never been much of a fighter.” He held his arms out, accentuating his slight build. “I'm not made for combat. You and I have that in common.”

Errol nodded at the simple truth in his words.

“Cruk is a better fighter than you know,” Luis went on. “He'll be doing everything he can to clear the way to the gate. He'll die if he needs to. So will Martin, and that fat priest is no stranger to the sword.”

Errol frowned as he tried to imagine Martin with a sword. The picture refused to hold. It contradicted the image of the man whose pity compelled him to offer bread and wine to Errol over and over again. Despite the priest's build and the thickness of his hands, Errol couldn't see Martin as anything other than peaceful.

Luis took him by the hand and hauled him to his feet. “Come. We should be leaving. We don't want the others to get too far ahead of us. Here.” He held out a cloak, black, like the one he wore.

He shrugged himself into the cloth, pulling the hood up.

Luis stepped to the door, paused and turned back. “I'll lead. Keep twenty paces behind. If anything happens to me, run. Get to Erinon however you can and find the first of the conclave, Enoch Sten.” The reader's gaze became intense, as if by his stare he could force Errol's obedience. “Tell him everything about your test for the sight. Leave out nothing, not even the smallest detail.” Without another word, he left Errol to stare at the space where he'd been.

Tightening the hood of his cloak, Errol crept out the back of the inn, spotted the dim figure of the reader some twenty paces away, and made to follow. A breath of wind wormed its way under the warmth of the thick cloth to chill him, and he pulled it close.

They stuck to the shadows until they cleared the immediate surroundings of the inn. After that, the reader moved toward the busier main streets, always heading west toward the gate and freedom. Errol checked behind often for signs of pursuit. There were none.

A man bumped him as Luis turned a corner, and for a moment Errol lost sight of his friend. A muffled shout sounded, quickly
cut off. Errol's feet raced the sudden pounding of his heart to catch up. He ran to the cobblestoned intersection and spied the reader a scant ten paces ahead, going west.

His breath shuddered with relief, and he forced his feet to match the pace of his guide. He could just discern the outline of the city gate in the gloom, perhaps half a mile away. His steps quickened in anticipation. They were almost there.

At the next street, Luis turned left, away from the approach. Errol followed, the gate disappearing from view behind a row of two-story shops. He felt a pang at its passing. What had Luis seen to make him take the detour?

They walked on. The reader backtracked now to narrower, less-traveled streets. Many times, it was just the two of them. A sense of unease filled Errol. Why weren't they making for the gate? He swiveled, checked every visible alley and street for the cause, and couldn't find it.

Enough. He would ask the reader. Errol quickened his pace, but Luis sped up as well, keeping his distance. His feet hastened until his shoes slapped the pitted cobblestones, and still Luis stayed ahead of him. He turned a corner and a beam of light from a dilapidated shop fell on his guide. The gleam revealed a strand of long glossy black that had escaped the confines of the hood.

Errol stopped. It wasn't Luis. Footsteps followed him. Without thought, he broke into a run. The rasp of metal clearing scabbard came from behind. He flew past the alley. As he flashed by, a figure leapt toward him with a snarl, nails clutching for his face, tearing skin.

Blinded by panic he ran. Steps pounded behind him. The gray stone buildings blurred, interrupted only by the darkness of alleyways opening between them, alleys that might lead back to the west gate and safety, or to a dead end.

He couldn't chance it. Not knowing what else to do, he ran on, hoped the street would merge with a larger, more populated, one. He glanced back and saw the Merakhi woman, Karma,
chasing after him, running with the graceful strides of one accustomed to traveling by foot. Behind her another figure ran, sword drawn.

Water.
Instinct guided him toward the sound of rushing water, and he followed it until it roared in his ears. Errol entered an intersection and stopped in the midst of a broad street with the comforting rush of a river coming from his right. He'd done it; he'd put himself in the middle of the largest street in the city, the one that led to the bridge over the river—the Keralwash, if he remembered Luis's mention correctly.

And the street was deserted.

Almost.

A figure stood at the far end, cloaked in black and beckoning him.

The river raged in the height of the spring rains, pounding around the pillars that supported the bridge. He ran toward the figure, his breath rasping through his throat with a plea for help. Halfway across, he stopped. In the lamplight, beneath silver hair, he recognized a pair of light-blue eyes, eyes he had seen at another river.

It couldn't be. How? “No,” he breathed. “It's not possible.”

Merodach ran forward, his bow in one hand and a black arrow nocked. “Come with me, boy, if you want to live.”

Errol reversed, took two strides, and stopped. A dozen paces away Karma waited. Savage glee twisted her face, turned her mouth into a rictus of hate. Behind her, his eyes burning, stood Captain Balina.

“Come, boy. If you make me chase you, I can promise your end will be uncomfortable.” The possessed Merakhi's voice rasped; it no longer held the seductive tones he'd heard in the prison. Her eyes glowed as if lit from within.

Merodach called to him from behind. “Boy, I could have killed you any time I wanted. If you want to live, stay out of her reach. Look at her, boy. She's possessed by the malus, and the guard is under her spell.”

Errol, trying to look in two directions at once, backed away from Merodach and the Merakhi until the stone rail of the bridge pressed against his back, stopping him. Below, the floodwaters of the Keralwash thundered.

The woman took another slow step toward him, her smile stretching the cuts and bruises on her face. “I don't care who kills you, boy, but do you really want to die by the borale?” She laughed. “Do you relish feeling it rip and tear its way out of your flesh, leaving you to die from blood loss, screaming in pain?” She nodded back toward Balina. “The captain has a sword, freshly sharpened. He can make your end quick and painless.”

“Don't believe her, boy,” Merodach said. He pitched his voice to carry over the flood below. “A malus never kills quickly. They feed on pain. Come with me. I can take you to safety.” He took a step.

Errol tried in vain to watch everyone. The pounding of his heart merged with the floodwaters. He cast the briefest of looks down, fought to keep from sobbing. The roiling depths were too far away for him to survive a jump.

He was going to die. All that remained was to choose between the arrow, the sword, and the water.

Without turning his back to Merodach or the malus-possessed woman, he climbed the railing.

The three of them inched forward.

“Come, boy,” the woman crooned. “There's no need for such a death.” Her voice grew mocking. “Don't you want to be buried in your faith? Don't you want the priest to bless your grave?”

“Errol, don't.” Merodach's voice cut across the woman's.

For a moment, something in the assassin's voice penetrated the fear that clouded his thinking. Could he be telling the truth? If he'd wanted Errol dead, he could have simply fired. It would be impossible to miss at such short range—but shooting at Errol would leave Merodach open to counterattack by the Karma and her guard.

He didn't want to die. Errol took a tentative step toward the
assassin, tried at once to ignore the arrow aimed at him and brace for the impact that would kill him.

An animal-like snarl erupted from behind him. Merodach raised the bow, drew . . .

Errol launched himself into space, heard the whine of the arrow merge with a cry of rage and pain. The water rushed up to meet him.

 11 
The Keralwash

E
RROL FELL,
accelerating through the mist off the river until the wind roared in his ears. He closed his eyes and pulled his arms up to protect his chin and face.

When the impact came, it pounded against his feet as though he'd landed on stone instead of water. His knees buckled, twisted to the side with a tearing pain. He drew breath to scream. The blow of the water against his ribs forced the air from his lungs. Deeper into the water he moved, slowing, but without air in his lungs to buoy him, still sinking.

At last he stopped, somewhere above the riverbed but far below the surface. Deep beneath the pain that painted his thoughts red, he knew the river must be sweeping him downstream. But he felt nothing of such motion. He kicked, ignoring the pain in his knees and tried to surface, but it was dark and the river's currents tumbled him. Which way was up?

His lungs protested, and his muscles ached with the need for air. Errol put both hands over his head, cupped them, and brought them down to his side, pulling for what he hoped was the surface. Again. He felt sleepy now, and though his knees
still ached, they didn't seem to hurt so much. Spots swam in his vision, then merged into a soft light, comforting him.

As consciousness faded, his hands bumped something hard and rough.

Noise.
At first Errol didn't recognize the sound. He opened his eyes, exchanged one blackness for another. Clinging to a piece of wood as big around as his waist, he bobbed in the flood like a twig. And the roar grew.

With a sense of resignation, he placed the sound, knew where he'd heard it before.
Falls.
Somewhere ahead of him the river dropped, spilling over a precipice high enough to carry the sound back to him. He searched for some glint of light, but the darkness was complete. Laughter bubbled up in him at his plight. For all he knew he might be right next to the riverbank, with safety no more than a few kicks away.

He would never know. Without warning, he rose in the water, then plunged as the river pitched him through a series of rapids. Air exploded from him before he realized he'd smashed into a boulder. He reached out, groped for some handhold, but the current tore him away, washing him toward the falls. Twice more it threw him against rocks jutting from the riverbed. Each time he was too slow to grab on and climb to safety.

The noise of the falls intensified at the same time the water calmed. He floated faster now, picking up speed. And then he fell again. At the last second, he thought to push the log away to avoid being crushed by it.

Time passed in disconnected segments. Sensations mixed, and he moved from chills to fever. Hands, sometimes gentle, moved him, held his arms as chills thrashed him, or beat his chest. It hurt to breathe. Errol no longer battled the river, but his lungs protested at each breath. Fits of coughing took him,
ripped through his chest with tearing pains severe enough to make him vomit.

In the brief interludes between bouts of coughing and unconsciousness, someone spooned broth into him. Most of it dripped down his chin. Why couldn't they just let him rest? In stages too slow to be measured, he became able to discern that three people managed his care: two women and a man. The women's hands were gentle, one pair soft with age and warm and the other pair cool and firm. The man's hands held him when his fever shook him. Then they would restrain him until the fit passed. Once, calluses like bark ran across his bare skin before the hands stripped him of sweat-soaked garments.

Errol woke to sunlight, so weak he couldn't lift his head from his pillow. He tried his arm instead and discovered he possessed just enough strength to lift it from his side before it collapsed on his stomach. A hand, one of the warm soft ones, took his.

“Here now,” a woman's voice said. “You just lie still. The soup will be ready in a moment.”

He made to speak, wet his lips in preparation. “Wh-ere . . .” His voice croaked with disuse. His keeper placed a waterskin between his teeth, allowing him two swallows before taking it away.

“Where . . . am I?” The sound of his voice barely reached his own ears. He tried to pull enough breath to make himself heard and succeeded in producing a fit of coughing that brought spots of exhaustion to his eyes.

A hand stroked his forehead for a moment before it withdrew. “If you promise not to do that again, I'll tell you everything I think you want to know.”

He nodded. The hand belonged to a middle-aged woman, her long brown hair tied back, accentuating the deep blue of her eyes. Full lips parted in a smile. A network of fine wrinkles ran to her temples.

“I'm Anomar Reven. My husband, Rale, found you washed up
on the riverbank like a piece of driftwood.” She brushed back a stray lock of hair, tinged with gray. “He thought you were dead, so he threw you over his horse and brought you back here.” The voice turned wry. “Rale figured to bury you. Said he didn't want you rotting on the bank and drawing vultures to his favorite fishing spot. The ride back to the farm may have bounced some of the water out of your lungs. I don't know, but you coughed once as we took you off Chester's back, so we knew you still had some life in you. Right now you're flat on your back in our home, which is about five miles outside the village of Rivenwash.”

Without fighting or drawing too much, Errol inhaled until he held enough air to phrase a question. “Windridge?”

The woman's eyes widened. “Is that where you fell into the river?”

Errol tried to nod but was unsure if he succeeded.

When the woman began again, an edge of uncertainty had crept into her tone. “Curse me, boy. I don't know how you survived. That's more than thirty miles upstream. You've had the worst case of pneumonia I've ever seen, and I've seen more than a few. Rale says you're touched.” She gave a short laugh. “Touched or not, you've been on the edge of crossing over for the past two weeks.”

He let his surprise show.

“Oh yes. For a fortnight now, Rale and my daughter, Myrrha, have helped me tend you. Your fever broke again this morning. It might keep this time, but it'll be some while yet before you can get out of bed, much less travel.”

Travel.
How long would he be able to stay in one place before the compulsion overtook him and forced him to Erinon? At the thought, he felt a tug deep within his chest. Or was he just imagining it?

Under Anomar's watchful eye Errol regained his strength. Four days after he first woke, he left his bed and tottered past
the fireplace of the cabin, its two bedrooms, and through the door into unexpected sunshine. He leaned, trembling against the rough oak frame of the house and lifted his head to the late afternoon light.

The sound of displaced air to his left caught his attention. There, silhouetted on a low rise, Rale moved, spinning a staff that blurred and hummed. The farmer slipped from one stance to another, flowing as though in a dance, the staff in constant motion. To Errol, it looked at once more beautiful and deadly than anything Cruk had ever shown him with the sword.

Anomar stirred behind him, arms crossed and wearing a grin made all of pride. “Rale says he hasn't got much use for a sword, but I'd wager he's one of the most dangerous men alive, even so.” She sighed, shifted to lean against the other side of the door from Errol. “I do love to watch him move.” Her smile turned dreamy.

Errol nodded and continued to watch her husband in his private dance. “Do you think he'd teach me?”

Anomar breathed a soft laugh that he felt as a featherlight touch on his neck. “Are you sure you want him to? Rale doesn't do anything by half measures, he doesn't. The young men from the village come out sometimes to learn the staff from him. Most of them tire of the bruises after a week or two.”

To Errol, Rale sounded a lot like Cruk. Maybe collecting bruises was the only way to learn how to fight. “He sounds like someone I know.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “And who would that be?”

He lifted his shoulders. “A man from my village named Cruk. He used to be in the watch. He was teaching me how to use a sword.”