A Cast of Stones (6 page)

“How do you know the poison's in the bread, Pater?” Errol asked. He made a mental list of everything they had eaten the night before. Any one of them might have been poisoned.

Martin took a deep breath. He ran a hand through his thick shock of silver hair, then steepled his fingers underneath his chin. His gaze found a spot somewhere over Errol's left shoulder. “Where do you think the poison was, Errol?”

He thought back. They had eaten a rabbit stew for dinner. It might have been in there. Or someone might have slipped something into the rain barrel Martin and Luis used for drink
ing water. But either one of those would have required someone to get to Martin's cabin, poison the food or water, and then slip away unseen. That seemed unlikely. Few people outside Errol's village knew Martin and Luis lived in the rocky hills above the Sprata River. Even fewer knew how to find him. There were a lot of people in his village Errol didn't care for, but there weren't any he would put the title of
murderer
to.

That left the bread and wine Errol delivered the night before. He met Martin's gaze. “I can see the poison had to be in the sacraments, Pater, but why the bread and not the wine?”

The priest nodded his approval as if he'd followed the weave of Errol's thoughts. “Good question. If our would-be assassin had poisoned the wine, Luis and I would have had to make the run to Berea instead of you.”

Errol's confusion must have showed on his face.

Martin smiled. “After the first sacrament, Luis and I didn't drink the wine. If the poison had been in there, you would have been in worse shape than we. Much worse.”

An image of himself curled on the cabin floor clutching his stomach came to him, along with innumerable sips of wine as Martin repeated the rite again and again for his benefit.

“But Luis and I each ate a complete wafer of bread. You had the smallest crumb each time.”

Errol nodded at Martin's logic, then frowned. “Who would go to the trouble to poison you, Pater?”

The priest grew thoughtful but didn't answer. When Errol sought an answer from Luis, the man turned away, shouldering his crate of stones and eyeing the trail to Berea.

Martin levered himself off the boulder and stepped onto the path. “I think it best we continue our journey. It will take a small miracle to get us to Berea before nightfall. Oren may have news.”

Dusk turned the sky crimson as they crested the last ridge and began the descent into the village. Thatched, whitewashed houses covered the rolling hills like scattered sheep, guarding the hedges that lined the fields. Larger dwellings lined the north-
south lane that passed through the hamlet and gathered around the brownstone church that lay on the outskirts.

As they crossed the field and set their feet on the road, Martin set one hand on Errol's shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze as he imparted directions. “Luis and I need to speak with Pater Oren. Why don't you go to the inn and get us rooms for the night. Tell the innkeeper I'll be along presently to pay for it.” His voice dropped until he almost whispered. “And keep an ear out. I don't know who tried to poison us, or where they might be now, but you will be able to hear much that Luis and I would not.” He gave a chuckle. “You'd be amazed how fast a priest's arrival stills the more interesting conversations in a tavern.”

Errol set his feet toward the inn, leaving Martin and Luis to continue on toward the church. He stopped some few paces short of the Sheep's Crook, eyeing the dark interior. Cilla's inn boasted a larger common room, but the owner of Berea's establishment took enough pride in his inn to cover it with a slate roof. The dark canopy stood in stark contrast to the wheat-colored thatch covering the few houses that bordered it.

A din of voices spilled out of the open doorway of the tavern, carried on the same breeze that held smells of mutton, ale, smoke, and people. Errol stepped onto the boards of the porch and entered, searching the crowd for unfamiliar faces, merchants or travelers who might carry word of events at Erinon.

Then he saw them. Two men at the bar, dressed in the fashion of traders, spoke to each other in quiet tones and held about themselves a space the locals respected. Errol spotted an open table next to the pair and sidled over to it, ignoring the sniffs of protest and the way the villagers drew back from him as he passed.

He helped himself to the chair nearest the fire, facing the men. Soon or late Braen, the portly keeper, would notice him. But the man knew him too well. Errol rubbed a spot on his backside in memory of the last time he'd been in this tavern, and Braen, a burly Soede far removed from home, had made plain what he thought of customers who drank more ale than they paid for.
Errol leaned to one side, fished his precious half crown out of his pocket, and placed it on the table in front of him.

Braen squeezed through the narrow opening that separated the bar from the rest of the common room and lumbered toward him, his eyebrows—so blond they nearly disappeared against his ruddy skin—pulled together. Errol covered his coin with one hand.

Braen reached across the table to grab Errol by the arm. “No ale for you.”

For a moment, Errol thought he would be hurtled out of an inn for the second time in as many days. Quickly, he showed the innkeeper his half crown. “I can pay this time.”

Far from being mollified, the sight of the coin seemed to make Braen angrier. “Have you taken to thieving, boy?” He gave Errol a shake that rattled his teeth and lifted him from his seat.

Errol was halfway to the door, his feet skimming the ground and his free arm flailing, before he managed to make himself heard over Braen's growls. “It's mine. I got it for delivering a message to Pater Martin. He and Luis are over at the church talking to Pater Oren.”

The innkeeper stopped but didn't let go of his arm. “Boy, if I decide to go over to the rectory and your story isn't true, you'll regret it.”

Errol yanked his arm. It didn't come free. Braen's hand was a flesh-covered vise. “It's true. Have you ever known me to steal? What village would ever let me stay if they thought I was a thief ?”

The big man's brows unknotted until they'd almost resumed their normal position. He let go of Errol's arm and wiped his hand on the smock tied around his ample waist. “You still owe me for two tankards you filched the last time you were here.”

Errol nodded, happy to feel his full weight on his feet again. His arm throbbed. “I'll pay for them.” He met Braen's eyes. “Can I have a drink now?” He looked with longing at the foamy tankards that offered comfort to the inn's other customers.

Braen signaled his daughter, Anya, who stood behind the bar. Then, without a word, he left with Errol's coin clutched in one
fist, as if he doubted its authenticity. The sight of the tankard made Errol's mouth water, and he grabbed it from Anya's hands before she could place it on the table. She smiled, her blue eyes gleaming beneath flaxen hair. She resembled her father the way a beautiful sculpture resembled the slab of marble from which it would be carved. “How are things in Callowford?” she asked with a lift of pale, delicate eyebrows.

Errol shrugged. Since he made a habit, and a meager living, of running plants to the herbwomen of the region, he doubled as a source of news to both villages. “A messenger from Erinon came through yesterday, looking for Martin.”

Anya's eyes widened a fraction at the mention of the seat of the kingdom. “Erinon? Really? What do they want with our hermit?”

“I don't know, but their man was willing to pay me a crown to deliver his message.” He looked into the welcoming foam of his ale. For a brief moment he thought of Martin and Luis, who celebrated the sacrament over and over again to help him through the previous evening. A flash of guilt fired through him. He didn't really need the ale in front of him, not yet anyway.

But he wanted it.

An image of Martin and Luis, gray and unconscious on the trail, blossomed in front of him. Unbidden, older memories came to him. With a savage thrust, he pushed them away and raised his tankard for a long pull. When he lowered it after a long moment, half its contents were gone. “I think you can go ahead and bring me another, Anya.”

A cloud passed over her eyes, and she grew still. “Going to make fast work of yourself tonight?”

Errol heard the familiar accusation in her voice and chose to ignore it, as usual. He took another pull, lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “It was a rough trip from Martin's cabin. Thirsty work.”

She turned her back on him and moved off to answer the call of a pair of sheepherders on the far side of the room.

Errol gave his attention—mellow now that the ale had begun
to work its intended magic—to the two merchants sitting at the bar. They both wore the finery of their houses, long waistcoats over thick breeches, but while one man could have been from anywhere along the Sprata range, the other had the dark skin and hair of a Basqu.

Curiosity wormed its way through Errol's ale-muddled thoughts, and his ears perked. He had seen someone from that far southern region only a few times in his life. What would a merchant from the arid plains want in Berea?

“I'm telling you,” the Basqu said, “something's not right in Erinon. The messengers coming from the citadel are thick as the swallows coming to Basquon's shores in winter.” He spoke with the clipped speech common to his province. His face, dark even after the months of winter, pinched around his words.

The other man snorted, his jowls shaking with the effort. “The church is always in a lather about something. Why should this time be any different?”

The Basqu leaned in, lowered his voice. Errol strained to hear. “They say someone's been poisoning readers. They may not have enough come the succession to choose the new king.”

The other man rolled his eyes. “By heaven's dome! They? Who is ‘they'?”

The Basqu refused to be put off. “Men from my village who've overheard the church's messengers talking where they think no one can hear.”

The other man waved one hand in dismissal. “You know how villagers are, Paolo. They grab a morsel and make it a meal to help themselves feel important. Who can tell what they really heard? All these stories of strange things are just fancies. Tomorrow they'll be talking about something else.”

“I've seen things myself,” the Basqu said. “Things that look like men but act like beasts hide in the swamps near Madera and the neighboring townsfolk too afraid to go near the place.”

“People are always fearful—especially villagers. They rarely see past the ends of their noses.”

The merchant from Basquon flushed and ground his teeth. “That's not all. Spring looks fine here, but down south the plants have a yellowish cast to them, blighted, and the winds across the Forbidden Strait bring a foul smell.”

For the first time the other merchant looked alarmed. His eyes widened and his face paled, but he quickly schooled his features. “Yellow? It's probably just a trick of the light. Everything looks strange under a cloud of dust.”

The first speaker shook his head. “It's not just Basquon, you know. Two weeks gone I ran into Jarl Pencivik.”

“The ice merchant from Soeden?”

The first man nodded. “The very same. I bumped into him two weeks ago at Longhollow. He says spring is coming late up north.”

The features of the second merchant relaxed at this, though Errol failed to see why. He took another long pull from the first tankard, set it down after it emptied, and started on the next one. The merchants' voices faded into the background, swallowed by ale-induced lassitude.

Hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, pulled him up from the table and back into his chair.

Martin's voice came from his left. “Let's go, boy.”

Errol looked around. Customers still sat at most of the tables in the inn. He blinked in confusion. When did he ever leave a tavern before it closed? A tankard still sat in front of him. Tilting it, he noticed it still held ale. It wasn't like him to be wasteful. He hoisted it, opened his mouth in preparation—and watched as those hands left his shoulders to cover his tankard, forcing it back to the table.

Luis's face came into view. “I think I'd prefer my guide to Callowford be functional in the morning.”

Errol blew his lips like a horse. “Guide? You don't need a guide. Just follow the road.”

Luis's face clouded, but he didn't say anything more.

Martin pulled the tankard from his hands and moved it beyond his grasp at the far edge of the table. “Berea's priest has sent word for the nuntius to await our arrival tomorrow morning and has given the three of us lodging for the night. Come, Errol, you can sleep better in a bed than on the floor of a tavern.”

Martin hauled him bodily out of the chair and guided him into the night.

 5 
The Road from Berea

E
RROL WOKE
the next morning, his face pressed against the unfamiliar softness of bedding and his legs and feet warmed by a thick wool blanket. Martin had been right. He rose, pushing aside the unaccustomed covering. A draft raised gooseflesh on his skin, and he looked with longing back at the blanket, gave brief consideration to begging Berea's priest for it. With a sigh, he dismissed the thought. The people of Berea and Callowford knew him too well, even Pater Oren de Voral. Possessions given to him were bartered for ale sooner rather than later, and people had long ago given up on trying to change him.

Errol opened the door of the acolyte's cell they'd let him use and stepped out into the hallway. He made his way past the sanctuary, with its high-ceilinged austerity, toward the rectory. The smell of food—eggs, salted pork, and tea—drifted to him from ahead. His stomach growled. Maybe, just maybe, his unexpected good fortune would last and he would be able to capitalize on Martin's company to finagle a free meal to go with last night's lodging. Being in the company of the priest had its benefits.

He walked into the kitchen, where the cook—he didn't know her name—and her assistant, dished up steaming platters of food.

She eyed him up and down and then smiled, her ancient blue eyes twinkling. “You look as if you've a few meals to make up for.” She held out a platter of eggs to him. “You must be Errol. Pater Martin and Pater Oren are in the dining room with Luis. Take this in and tell them the ham will be coming soon.”

She pointed to a heavy wooden door at the far end of the kitchen. Errol held the platter in front of him, breathed through his nose, and floated on the savory smell of scrambled eggs. He kept his mouth closed, but it watered every step of the way. He backed his way through the door and into a simple dining room with a large maple trestle table surrounded by eight chairs. Only three of them were filled.

Martin sat at the head of the table with Luis on his left and Oren on his right. Errol thought it odd Berea's priest would defer to Martin but didn't comment. The strangeness of the place and the fact that he might not be allowed to stay for breakfast served to stitch his mouth closed. He put the platter of eggs on the table within easy reach of all three men and stepped back, waiting.

Martin motioned him to the chair next to Luis. “Tell me, Oren, why does Mara still put up with you? She's the finest cook in the foothills. And don't tell me it's because you pay her so well. She could walk out your door, ask for twice the pay, and get it before lunch.”

Oren de Voral laughed, his mouth stretching beneath his red nose. His thin old man's shoulders moved up and down, and the wisps of his remaining hair waved with his mirth. “To tell you the truth, Martin, I don't know. I've asked her that same question any number of times, and every time I do, she just tilts her head and looks at me with those eyes the color of belle flowers and says she wants to stay here.”

Luis dropped his gaze to his plate, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He scooped eggs on Errol's plate and passed the platter. “Eat well, Errol,” he murmured. “The surprises of the day will be easier to face on a full stomach.”

It was lightly said, but something in Luis's tone set Errol on
his guard. Surprises? He didn't want any more surprises. Deas should have used them all up by now. He shoveled eggs into his mouth as though he could keep the unexpected at bay with food.

He looked up to find the priest of Berea staring at him.

Pater Oren started and sought Luis's gaze. He cleared his throat. “Tremus, are you sure that you wish to do this thing?” Oren asked, his attention darting back to Errol. “After all, there are certain, ah, hazards to taking postulates that are, um, more mature than usual.”

Errol kept his eyes on his food, but his ears tingled.
Tremus?
Why did Oren call Luis Tremus?

“Pater Oren, please call me Luis. It is my name after all. I haven't been tremus for five years.”

Oren nodded and bobbed his head as if he'd been rebuked. Errol frowned. The men spoke in arcs, hinting, relying on the other men's familiarity for understanding. And it was obvious that the other men at the table understood. Errol sat, fidgeting and trying to puzzle out the conversation's meaning.

Martin grabbed his cup, downing his tea in a gulp. “Luis is right, Oren. The conclave has probably long since named a new tremus. As for his decision—” Martin snorted—“I wish you luck in swaying him. I did everything but order him against this course.” He waved one hand toward the window. “You might as well preach to the stones.”

Luis stiffened. “This matter is for the conclave. I may no longer be tremus, but I am still a reader. This decision is under my jurisdiction.” He slumped back in his chair as if defeated. “Besides, you know I don't have any choice, Oren. There are special considerations here, and if what you tell us of the news coming from Erinon is true, we'll need every resource we can muster.”

The door behind Martin opened, and Mara bustled through, laid a platter of ham on the table, and smiled at Pater Oren before she left. The men at the table fell silent. Errol cleared his throat, afraid to speak but wanting to find some way to keep the men talking. He suspected the conversation involved him, but exactly how eluded him.

He coughed and ducked his head when all three men turned to look at him with various expressions. Oren wore a look of surprise and Martin that of mild expectation. Luis looked like a man braced for bad news who attempted to hide it. His expression so surprised Errol that he nearly forgot what he was going to say. He stared, his gaze locked with Luis's.

Martin smiled. “Yes, Errol? Was there something you wanted to say?”

Errol flushed as he turned to Martin, felt his ears grow warm and pink. “In the tavern last night I overheard two merchants talking, and one of them said that someone was killing the readers in Erinon.” He stopped, waiting for a reaction, but the faces of all three men grew blank, held to strict impassivity from within.

Errol, following instinct or impulse, looked away from Martin toward Luis. “What's a reader?”

Luis opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Martin and Oren voiced inarticulate sounds of protest at the same time.

“I concede your right in this, Tremus,” Oren said. “But take care. Once done, it cannot be undone.”

Luis's face clouded at the interruption, and his dark eyebrows gathered like a storm. He faced Errol once more, smoothing his features before beginning again.

“Errol, the church has many parts, some more . . . visible than others. The structure of the church mirrors our theology. As Deas is the head, so the
clergy
—the archbenefice, benefices, and priests—are head of the church. But there is another part of the church, much smaller, called the
conclave
that consists of a group of men referred to as readers—though that description belies the complexity of their task. The purpose of the conclave is to provide information and guidance to the church and the king.” Luis drank and then inhaled like a man preparing to dive into a pool. “The head of the conclave is titled primus. Only the archbenefice and the king outrank him.”

Errol cut his gaze to Martin and Oren. They sat in their chairs
like statues of flesh, lifelike, yet not moving, bound by Luis's will and apparent authority, but resisting it in silence.

Before Luis could continue, Cruk entered—wearing a sword, of all things—and the tension in the room broke to exhales of relief and disappointment. For an insane moment Errol thought the man would cross the room, grab him by the back of his shirt, and throw him into the street.

He looked back to Luis, but Martin's servant, or the man Errol used to think of as his servant, no longer seemed inclined to speak. The moment of Luis's revelation had passed. Errol wavered between disappointment and relief. He couldn't escape the feeling Luis wanted something from him, something important. Instinctively, he resisted.

Martin levered his bulk away from the table, grabbing a last slice of ham in the process. “We thank you for your hospitality, Pater Oren,” he said in formal tones with a bow. Then he smiled. “You still set the best table in the Sprata foothills.”

Oren rose, bending from the waist in acceptance of the compliment, and bade them farewell. Martin trailed Cruk out of the room, followed by Errol, who preceded Luis. As he passed Pater Oren, he caught a glimpse of the old priest reaching out to grab Luis by one arm.

On the street in front of the church, four horses stood saddled, snorting plumes of mist into the cool morning air and stomping their forefeet on the earth. Cruk lifted his leg, slipped his foot into the stirrup of a large bay gelding with practiced ease, and swung himself into the saddle. Errol watched as Martin sketched a rough imitation of Cruk. The horse in front of Errol, a piebald that looked ready for pasture, tossed its head in expectation.

He backed away, his hands raised. “I don't think so.”

Cruk grunted, towering over him. “Mount up, boy. You're coming with us, and we don't have time to walk the horses so you can keep up.”

Errol craned his neck to meet his gaze. “Why do I have to go with you?”

“That was my decision.” Luis stepped from the church and mounted, his skill nearly matching Cruk's. “There are still things we need to discuss.” At a look from Martin he paused, then added, “At the proper time.”

Errol wished he could find some way to leave Martin and the rest of the company to their journey. The inn would be opening in a couple of hours, and he still had plenty of coin. It would be better if he stayed behind. The look on Cruk's face, however, convinced him they meant him to ride back to Callowford in their company, lack of riding experience or not. “I don't know how to ride.”

Cruk's eyes narrowed. “You'll have to learn on the way. I'll teach you. First lesson, don't ever annoy your teacher. Second lesson, put your foot in the stirrup and mount up. Horses think in groups—most of them, anyway. Relax and let your horse follow ours.”

Errol circled around the part of his horse with the teeth, trying to remember how Cruk had mounted. Holding the reins and gripping the saddle with his right hand, he placed his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself. Halfway up his foot slipped out to leave him sprawled across the horse's back, his head next to the neck and his feet wiggling in the air next to the hindquarters. The horse shied, sidestepped to the right, and snorted.

Cruk rode forward, leaned over, and grabbed the horse by the bridle. He spoke in soothing tones. “Easy, Horace. The boy will stop his thrashing in a moment.”

Martin's and Luis's laughter didn't help matters.

Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol's horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace's backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.

Half a mile out from Berea, they rounded a sharp turn in the dirt track that served as the road to Callowford. Errol reined in, ignored Horace's snort of protest, and slipped from the saddle
to rub his backside. Cruk, Martin, and Luis disappeared down the long tunnel of foliage. Stillness fell as the sound of hooves diminished and then faded altogether.

Errol clutched the reins in one hand and walked bowlegged around to the horse's head. “Do you think you could stop trotting,” Errol pleaded, “just for a while?” He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Horace smile.

He sighed. “I didn't think so.” Errol looked at the saddle, felt a throb in his backside. “Come on.” He tugged the reins. “We'll walk for a bit.”

They trudged along for a couple minutes. Errol stopped every few seconds to massage the ache out of his inner thighs. He winced. The pain, unsatisfied with his posterior, seemed intent on spreading down his legs and up his back. He fished the change out of his pocket and counted: three silver crowns and four pennies. The way he felt right then, regardless of any further damage Horace inflicted, his money wouldn't buy more than two days' worth of ale at Cilla's inn.