A Cast of Stones (36 page)

The guards bowed in acknowledgment and the shorter one spoke. “Primus, let one of us run to the barracks to bring our relief.”

The old man shook his head. “No. The boy here can defend me at need. Get those bodies now.”

His tone brooked no disagreement. The guards left at a run.

“Inside,” the primus ordered.

His quarters were richly appointed. Heavy tapestries in shades of blue hung on the walls, and thick carpets silenced the sound of their steps.

Errol found his way to a chair. The rush of battle drained out of him, and his arm began to throb. He ripped back his sleeve. Deep gashes and punctures filled the area between elbow and wrist. Blood dripped a steady beat on the carpet.

“Here, boy.” The primus grabbed the hand of his wounded arm. In the other hand he held a decanter of a thin amber liquid. “This is likely to sting.” With a flick of his thumb he uncorked it and doused Errol's wounds.

Fire raced up and down his arm. His arm felt as if it was being skinned. He ground his teeth. “What is that?”

“Skote,” the primus said. “Boy, you've just had the kingdom's most expensive drink used on you to fight infection.”

Errol sniffed. The scent of alcohol hit his nose with the force of a blow from a practice sword. A sudden craving for ale passed over him, but the pang of the wound seemed to be dying.

The primus rounded on Luis. “All right, Secondus, let's have it. What makes this boy so confounded important?”

Luis smiled. “Do you have a lot?”

The primus snorted. “Of course I do.” He angled his steps to one of the cabinets that lined one wall and opened the doors. Inside, resting on stands lined with dark velvet, lay dozens of stone spheres.

To Errol, they looked identical to the ones he'd first seen back in Martin's cabin in Callowford, except the stone held a yellowish cast, as though the lots had aged. The primus reached out and picked one from the back row.

He brought it to Luis, his eyes wistful. “I haven't looked at these in a while. They were my first cast as a master.” He regarded Errol. “That would have been about thirty years before you were born, boy.”

Luis nodded. “Give it to Errol.”

With an indulgent shrug, the primus put it in his hand.

“Read it, Errol,” Luis commanded.

“Come, Luis,” the primus said. “You know this is a waste of time.”

Errol turned the stone against the light. “It says
Gallia.”

The blood drained from Enoch Sten's face, etching his wrinkles in shock. He snatched the lot from Errol's hands. “He's an omne.” The primus backed toward a chair, felt behind him with one trembling arm for it as he sat. “By the three,” he whispered. “The boy's an omne. And I just forbade him from the order and put him under penance.” The old man's eyes glittered. “Why didn't you tell me, Luis? Am I that undeserving of trust?”

Luis bowed his head. “There was no time, Primus. Immediately upon his arrival, I brought Errol to the conclave.”

The primus waved an imperious hand. “I think we can dispense with the titles, Luis. We're not in the hall anymore. But did you not think to mention his existence in all these months since your return?”

“The truth is I thought he was dead, Enoch. We became separated when we were attacked by the abbot's men in Windridge.”

Lips pressed together in disapproval. “Didn't you cast lots to make sure?”

“Of course I did.” Luis shrugged. “Nine times out of ten, they showed him dead.”

Errol cleared his throat. “Anomar, the wife of the man who saved me, said I was more dead than alive for two weeks.” The conversation disturbed him. The primus had called him an omne. He'd never heard anyone, not even Conger, mention the term.

Enoch grew thoughtful. “That would do it. The histories record a few such cases. By the three, Luis, you should have made sure.”

“It was nine out of ten, Enoch.” Luis spread his arms in defense. “And we had reason for haste.” The primus nodded. “Aye. Does Martin know about the boy's talent?”

Luis nodded. “He witnessed the boy's testing.”

Errol had had enough. “What's an omne?”

Enoch looked surprised by the question. “You didn't tell him, Luis?”

Luis shrugged. “There were some compelling reasons not to.” He gave Errol a brief apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, Errol.” He turned back to the primus. “Errol was in the ale barrel when we discovered his talent. At the time I didn't want to burden him with more than the weight of his being a reader.” He grimaced. “You may want to put me in penance with the lad as well. I put a compulsion on him.”

The primus's eyes grew wide and his lips paled in anger. “You did what?”

Luis shrugged. “It ended as soon as he presented himself to the conclave. I thought it would help guarantee his arrival. He was less than willing to accompany me at first.”

“Luis, you could have killed him!” Sten rubbed his temples. “With Johan Blik and Aurio Centez being killed months ago . . .”

Luis stared at the floor, shaking his head. “I didn't know they were dead until I came to the isle. I didn't consider that possibility when I put the compulsion on him.”

Sten sighed. “You're the secondus now, Luis. It's your job
to consider every possibility. The conclave can't confirm a cast without an omne. We were blind, and you had the answer all along.” He pointed to Errol. “You found the only omne we know of in Illustra, and you put him under a compulsion to drive him here. What if the compulsion had taken him while you were separated?”

“It did,” Errol said.

The two men looked at him as if his presence in the room surprised them.

“I found myself walking away from the morning sun as if I were dreaming. Rale had to slap me awake. They sent me on my way shortly after. As long as I was headed mostly west, I was okay.” He gave a lift of his shoulders.

“What's an omne?” he repeated.

The primus appeared to ignore his question. “Luis, I'm tempted to give you a penance to make the boy's look easy. An omne is one who can read lots cast by anyone,” he said without looking in Errol's direction.

“Can't everybody do that?”

The question seemed to stoke the primus's anger. “By the three, Luis, didn't you teach the boy anything?”

Luis smiled, his dark eyebrows arching over his deep brown eyes as he spread his hands in apology. “I'm sorry, Enoch. When I discovered the boy was an omne, I began teaching him right away, but he didn't even know how to read. And I'm afraid that the most basic calculae of the order are still beyond him.”

Enoch nodded, conceding the point. He paced the rug, each foot placed slowly in front of the other. “I'm too old for this, Luis. The kingdom is tearing itself apart. Benefices and dukes are jockeying for position in their attempts to be the next king, and half the conclave is dead or missing. The king's guard is down by half trying to find them. Two-thirds of the watch is across the strait. The southern provinces are screaming for help against the Merakhi invasion they think is coming, and someone is trying to blind the eyes of the kingdom by killing off our order.” Enoch
flopped in a chair. “The scope of the boy's talent must be kept hidden at all costs.”

He looked exhausted, his skin paper-thin, stretched across his skull.

A knock at the door brought all of them to their feet. Errol gripped Enoch's staff of office, wishing he held the familiar ash of his own weapon. He vowed never to be separated from it again.

Luis admitted the guards.

Their usual stoic expressions seemed to be fraying at the edges. The shorter guard's eyes darted about the room as though he expected his nightmares to come for him at any moment. The taller stood with his jaw clenched. “The bodies have been stored, Primus,” the tall one said. “But they seem to be decaying more quickly than a . . . um . . . human body. Already the smell is considerable.”

Enoch nodded. “Thank you, Aden. Please send a messenger to the king. I request an audience at his earliest convenience.”

The watchman nodded and closed the door.

That was it? Surprised by the brief conversation, Errol cleared his throat in an attempt to catch the primus's attention.

“Yes?”

He pointed at the closed door, beyond which the shorter watchman stood guard. “Aren't you going to have them go after the abbot?”

Enoch smiled as if indulging a child. “Why would I do that?”

Errol fought to keep himself from screaming. “Because he's the one who set the ferrals on us. He's been trying to kill me since Windridge.”

The primus nodded. “Yes. No doubt the good abbot has much to account for, but without proof we can do little. And your suspicions, correct though they probably are, would be insufficient to convince the archbenefice and the king.”

Errol waved his hands at his surroundings. “Then cast lots. I'll help make them.”

Enoch shook his head. “That is not possible. You are new to our
order, so there is much you have to learn. After Magis's war the provinces nearly descended into anarchy. The kingdom, welded together by desperation, fractured apart as provincial leaders fought for supremacy.” His tone became almost mournful. “They were aided in this by readers who obeyed no law but their own desire for power. Magis's only surviving son, Magnus, decreed that all readers would henceforth be under the authority of the church, by compulsion if necessary.” Enoch Sten sighed. “It was a dark time, but after twenty years it was done.

“Our order survives because we allow ourselves to be constrained. Whether to judge innocence or guilt by lot is for the archbenefice and the king to decide, not us. The archbenefice and king will never order a cast without proof. To do so would be to place the aristocracy and the church under the power of the conclave. Such power corrupts.”

The primus took a deep breath. “At any rate the abbot has learned by now that the attack on us was unsuccessful. When no pursuit occurs, he may believe himself to be above suspicion. You have your penance to begin. Your exploits yesterday are on everyone's tongue. I understand Captain Reynald has requested your presence at the barracks courtyard. Have Lakken—he's the short one—escort you there. You'll stay with the watch until you're sent for.” He smiled. “Once your staff is returned, please send mine back with Lakken, if you would. I can't wield it the way you can, but people expect me to have it.”

 26 
Adora

L
AKKEN'S DEPARTURE
left Errol at the edge of the yard clutching his staff. The wood, polished by his hands over the past months, comforted him like an old friend. He slowed as he noticed for the first time the variety of people. Knots of men sparred in the barracks courtyard as before. Besides watchmen dressed in black, young men wearing a broad range of finery littered the grassy expanse. With a grudging admission, Errol conceded that some sparred nearly as well as the men who instructed them.

On the balconies overlooking the courtyard, women watched the strutting nobles, giving appreciative or encouraging smiles as the occasion warranted. Though the summer air on Green Isle did not approach the sultry heat of the mainland, each woman fanned herself in complex motions. Something about the fans stirred a memory, and he dredged for it. After a moment, he gave up. It refused to surface, and he had other, more pressing matters.

The lieutenant he'd bested walked by, his attention on four pair of men who sparred with practice swords.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Garrigus?” Errol called.

The watchman's face registered his recognition before the customary impassivity of the king's guard returned it to its neutral expression.

“I'm to report to Captain Reynald,” Errol said. “Do you know where I might find him?”

The lieutenant pointed to the far end of the yard. “You'll find the captain instructing the sons of Duke Escarion over there.”

Errol thought he'd heard a hint of disdain in the lieutenant's voice. He retreated to the walkway that bordered the large rectangle of the courtyard and made his way through the cacophony to the captain. As he neared the far end, more of the men who sparred wore the colors of the nobility and fought under the watchful eyes of watchmen of rank. It seemed the richest nobles commanded the highest-ranking members of the watch to be their instructors.

Curious, he tried to imagine how Duke Escarion, whoever he was, could merit the senior captain as his sons' teacher. Here at the far end of the field, spectators grew thick not only on the overlooking balcony but on the walkway as well. Tables and seats had been brought in order to accommodate them, and Errol had to pick his way among the press. As he moved, he became conscious of how plain the grays and browns of his clothes appeared next to the brilliant plumage of those who watched.

He threaded his way through the tight press of spectators, intent on working his way to Captain Reynald without bumping into any of the nobles present. He moved to step around a dark-haired noble whose indolent posture managed to fill not only his chair but most of the walkway as well. As Errol shifted, a glint of sun-gold hair and the flash of green eyes caught his attention. His feet stopped moving and he found himself before a woman about his age. Sensing his stare, she turned from the bout to meet his gaze.

Startled into motion, he turned away from the girl to hide his embarrassment and stepped on a foot extended well into the walkway. Errol bowed his head—“Your pardon, sir”—and shifted to move on.

Rough hands grabbed him from behind and spun him. The lord had vacated his seat, grabbing Errol by his tunic to pull him close to a face filled with disdain. “Watch where you're going, peasant.” The man spat each word like a curse. Then he shoved Errol in the chest so hard he careened backward, tripped over unseen feet, and tumbled out into the courtyard to end up on his backside as the crowd laughed.

The two men sparring for Captain Reynald paused to share in the merriment.

“Derek. Darren,” the captain yelled. “Do you think there'll be time to pause during battle for amusement?”

Neither of the young men appeared to notice or care that one of the best warriors in the kingdom found fault with them. As Errol scrambled to his feet, the older one, dark-haired and haughty, laughed. “But we're not in battle, good captain.” He pointed at Errol with his sword. “And besides, it would be a shame to miss the antics of yon peasant.” He turned a wicked grin to the other young man, blond but obviously his brother. “What say you, Darren? We could be witnessing the future king's fool.”

Darren snorted, but otherwise said nothing to deepen Errol's shame or the hue of his face. “Go easy, Derek. It's a rare man who's never been embarrassed. Would you make it worse?”

The first man looked with affection on his brother at this. “If the peasant wants to keep himself from notice, he should perhaps watch his steps.”

“He had eyes only for Adora,” a voice behind Errol called out.

Derek's eyes widened, and he gave a mocking bow to Errol before approaching and putting a conspiratorial arm around his shoulder. “Your clumsiness is understandable, good man.” He pointed his practice sword at the girl whose appearance had precipitated Errol's fall. “In truth, Adora has a reputation for causing the most graceful nobles to become awkward as boys.”

Errol's blush deepened until he thought his hair would burst into flame.

“Enough!” Captain Reynald yelled. “You do yourself a disservice and dishonor your father, the duke. In battle, it matters not your birth. Your life will depend on the loyalty of those who serve with you—peasant or noble.”

Darren looked down in shame, though he had done nothing wrong that Errol could discern, but Derek merely gave the captain that same impudent grin.

“Come now, Captain,” the man who had pushed Errol said. “We're only having fun, and he is, after all, just one peasant.”

“Just one peasant, eh?” The captain looked at the man with an arch of his eyebrows. “The fate of many can be bound to one such as him. Why don't we see what ‘one peasant' can do?” Reynald crooked a finger at the man. “Come, Lord Weir, arm yourself.”

The man's eyes grew wide. “What, you want me to fight the peasant?” His fingers flicked the air in Errol's direction as if he were banishing a fly.

“I don't
want
it,” Reynald said, his voice soft, dangerous. “I insist upon it.” He turned to the two brothers. “Go sit down and attend.”

Weir rose and sauntered out into the sun of the courtyard. Derek tossed him his sword, and he swung it lazily back and forth. “Does he mean to fight me with that stick as if I was some sort of dog?” Lord Weir's face—women probably considered him well-featured—wore a self-indulgent look that appeared to be permanent. His chiseled features flowed into a sneer.

Errol gritted his teeth. “In truth, I'm not much good with a sword, but I have too much respect for dogs to use a staff on them.”

Weir's face reddened at the insult and he spluttered.

Reynald winced at the jibe, then stepped over to whisper to Errol. “Weir thinks highly of himself, as do most of these.” He gestured at the crowd. “But do no permanent harm to him. His father is a powerful and spiteful man.”

He nodded, remembered his bout with Rokha. “I have more than my fill of enemies already. I think I can beat Weir without
striking him, as long as permanent harm doesn't include his dignity.”

The captain's face beamed. “No, I don't think it does. That sounds like an excellent idea, Errol Stone, most excellent.”

Reynald stepped back, trying to suppress a grin as Errol and Weir faced each other. “Gentlemen, you will spar until one of you quits, is rendered unconscious, or I call a halt. Is that understood?”

Errol nodded.

Weir smiled. “You're having a really bad day, peasant. Perhaps a few blows to the head will relieve you of the memory of your embarrassment.”

Reynald closed his eyes and shook his head. With a deep breath he raised one hand. “Begin.”

Weir's first stroke made it obvious the man knew his way around the sword but also made it plain he'd never been in a real fight in his life. He jumped and pranced like a hero from the tales and seemed more interested in impressing the crowd than fighting.

His shock when Errol parried the blow aimed at his head was laughable.

Deprived of instant victory, his smile fled, and he riposted to strike at Errol's head from the opposite side.

Which was also parried.

Weir's legs lay exposed to the most rudimentary staff attack Rale had taught him, but Errol refused to take advantage of it.

Reynald must have noticed as well. The mirth in the captain's voice became plain as Errol moved, parrying each of Weir's attacks. “Come, Lord Weir. He's only a peasant after all. Surely one so skilled with the sword should be able to command, nay demand, the respect of one such as he.”

Stung, Weir threw himself into an all-out attack that rained blows upon Errol's staff for ten minutes. At the end he stood, gasping, sweat streaming down his face, his sword arm so worn he could barely raise the weapon.

The nobleman hadn't even been as good as Norad Endilion,
the fourteenth. Errol stepped back, ground his staff, and leaned upon it. He would not shame himself by striking this fool. “Do you surrender?”

Weir sneered at him and rose to attack, but exhaustion tripped him and he fell.

“Halt!” Reynald called. He turned to regard the stunned audience. “With nothing more than a staff and without striking a blow, this peasant won.” He turned to Weir. “If you are not man enough to apologize for your comments, Lord Weir, I wonder if you are man enough to lead.”

Weir hawked and spat at Errol's feet. “I won't apologize to a dirty peasant.”

Errol filled his voice with scorn. “I don't want your apology.”

The noble pulled himself off the ground. “You will address me as ‘my lord.' ”

“You're not
my lord
. You're a strutting peacock who couldn't beat the least of the men I've fought.”

Weir drew himself up and again spat at Errol's feet.

Reynald's face clouded, became a storm on the verge of breaking. “Does anyone else want to spar with the peasant?”

No one moved.

“I thought not.” The captain pulled a dagger, bent to the hem of his black tunic, and cut a strip of cloth a handsbreadth wide. He moved to Errol's side. “Raise your arm, Errol.”

Errol did so.

Reynald tied the cloth around his right arm before turning on the crowd. “This strip of cloth from my tunic signifies that Errol Stone is an honorary
captain
of the watch. He will undertake to teach those of you with the ability to learn”—he shot a look of contempt at Weir—“how to use the staff.”

“I have no interest in the peasant's weapon,” Weir said as he turned and strode away.

Errol watched him leave. Several of the onlookers left with him.

Derek came forward and offered Errol his hand. “I don't know
that I want to learn the staff,” he said. “But I think I'd better learn how to defend against it at the least.”

His smile as he shook hands seemed genuine.

Darren leaned in from behind. “It's about time someone put that idiot in his place. And you did it without striking a blow. It's going to take years for Weir to live this one down.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Errol watched Adora rise with a group of women and leave. He felt a curious pang at her departure.

As if Derek's and Darren's approval had broken a dam, a line of young noblemen came forward to shake Errol's hand, and he spent the rest of the afternoon sparring and instructing them on the use of the staff. After he had beaten most of them, pulling his blows to avoid injury, the nobles attempted to goad Reynald into a match with him.

The captain shook his head and deferred.

“Why not?” Darren asked.

“Fair question, lad,” Reynald answered. “Attend.” He held up a finger. “Never fight a battle that doesn't need to be fought.” He raised a second. “Unless you have to, never fight a battle you know you're going to lose.”

Those closest to Errol took a step back. More than one face looked at the captain in disbelief, searching, but Reynald's eyes wore no trace of mockery or jesting.