The Hero's Lot (4 page)

Errol's face heated. “Yes. As I have explained before, I hunted herbs for them.” He locked eyes with the archbenefice. “They used them to help sick people in my village.”

“Don't play games with me, boy,” the archbenefice shot back. “I'm not interested in their deeds or your justifications. Were you touched by their spirit?”

Errol's back stiffened, and he glared at the men around the table. “Yes. And if I had to do it over again, I would welcome the embrace.”

The archbenefice jerked, but before he could speak, the primus raised one hand to interject. “Perhaps we should hear the boy out, Bertrand.”

The head of the church settled himself back into his chair and signaled Errol to speak with a curt nod.

“Somebody poisoned us—Pater Martin, Luis, and me—with moritweed. I went to Adele, but she couldn't figure out what poison had been used. I remember lying on her floor. I was dying. Then the herbwoman went out back and called out in a language that sounded like the sighing of trees. Then there was something there with me. It spoke to Adele in a voice of wind, told her how to cure me. She said it was Aurae.”

The archbenefice's face pinched in disapproval. “Ridiculous. Aurae is unknowable. Of the three, only Deas and Eleison can be discerned. It must have been some other spirit, possibly even a malus. It would have been better had that thing never touched you.”

Errol laced his voice with as much scorn as he could manage. “I'll try to remember that the next time I'm poisoned. Then I can die all nice and clean and pure.”

The archbenefice jerked as if stung. His voice cracked across the space between them like a whip. “Boy, I'm trying to help you. Don't you know I have the power to send you to the inquisitor?”

Errol's staff clattered to the floor as he rose from his chair. Reynald mirrored him and drew his sword.

Errol jerked loose the laces of his shirt and slipped it over his head. Months of working with a weighted staff had added muscle to his frame, but he would always be leaner than most men. “We have our own inquisitor back in my village,” Errol said. “I don't think he ever asked me why I was drunk. I'm pretty sure he didn't
care. He was too eager to get to the punishment.” Errol turned his back, let them see the network of old wounds that laced and relaced his skin with puckers and scars until almost no normal skin showed. “Our inquisitor's name is Antil—Pater Antil.”

He jerked his shirt back into place. “I'm sure the church is very proud of him, Archbenefice. He's a very zealous priest. When he would get done beating me, I'd walk or crawl to Radere, a cursed herbwoman, and she'd tend to my wounds.”

Errol dressed and seated himself, took in the ashen faces in front of him. With deliberate care, he retrieved his staff and placed it in the crook of one elbow.

Archbenefice Bertrand Canon stood and gave a slight bow of acknowledgment, bending from the waist, his movements oddly formal. “The church owes you recompense, Earl Stone. You have more than just cause to doubt her intentions, but I promise I will do whatever I can to keep you from harm.”

He turned to Captain Reynald. “Good captain, please summon a pair of the watch to escort Earl Stone to his quarters. I'm sure the events of the day have left him fatigued.”

 4 
What Passes for Penance

R
OUGH HANDS SHOOK ERROL
until he sat up from the austere comfort of his bed to squint against the light of lamps that blinded him. He tried to see past the glare, but his eyes had yet to adjust. He sensed rather than saw a group of four men about him.

“Come, lad.” A man, the primus he thought, urged him. “There's much to be done before you're brought before the Judica.”

Errol turned toward the window. It reflected only the lamplight of the men in the room with him. So it was sometime before dawn. He clenched his teeth against the retort that would surely start another argument. The figures of the primus, the archbenefice, and Captain Reynald resolved into clarity. Another watchman, unknown to him, stood behind the other men—his guard, no doubt.

“Come, Errol,” the leader of the conclave urged again. “You must dress. And then you must work your craft.”

The archbenefice handed him a blue doublet and hose, the clothes Oliver Turing had given him when he'd been presented to the king. They were his best. “You should always look good if
you're going to be condemned, boy. It's important to have style, and it will sow a seed of doubt in the minds of your judges.”

A bolt of anger flashed through Errol, heated his skin. “So, it's already been decided, has it?”

“Of course it has, boy,” the archbenefice said. His tone still held its flippant humor. “Otherwise we'd have to leave things to chance, and I don't think you'd like that.”

His confusion must have shown on his face, because the primus cut in. “He doesn't understand, Bertrand. He thinks you've deprived him of a fair trial.”

The head of the church snorted his derision. “Fair? Somebody's been feeding the boy fables. Probably the king's niece. Humph. Nice girl. Too many romantic notions, though.”

The archbenefice tapped him on the chest with one finger. “If we don't allow you to be convicted on Benefice Kell's charges, Benefice Dane will press his accusation in front of the Judica, and no power in the church can keep him from pulling the truth from you.”

Errol shrugged into his clothes. “But I'm innocent. I didn't cast lots for the next king. It was Martin and Luis.”

The archbenefice rolled his eyes. “I know that, boy. Who do you think told them to do it?” He turned to Primus Enoch Sten. “For an omne, the boy's remarkably dense. Haven't you taught him anything?”

The head of the conclave chuckled. “The boy's been busy, if you'll recall.”

Archbenefice Bertrand Canon straightened, rubbed his chin. “Ah yes, saving the kingdom and all that. Well, he's about to get a harsh lesson in church politics.”

He turned to the watchman at the door. “Resume your post, Lieutenant. I assure you we are quite safe.”

After the lieutenant closed and bolted the door, Canon turned back to Errol, all signs of his bantering tone gone. “Listen closely, boy. I tried to call a grand Judica six years ago.” He laughed at Errol's surprise. “Ha. I see that means something to you. The primus and I decided we couldn't afford to wait for the king to
die; we needed an heir. But the motion was rejected by the lesser Judica. Too many of the benefices said it was risky to select a new king while the old one still lived, that it begged for civil war.”

Now Errol understood. “So you had Luis cast for the location of the next king and they came to Callowford.”

The archbenefice nodded. “Very good. Yes, Primus and I violated the will of the Judica with Martin's and Luis's help. If they find out, we'll be excommunicated and possibly executed. They must not find out.”

Errol's face flushed. “So you want to use me to keep yourselves safe?”

The archbenefice snorted in disgust and turned to Sten. “What is the matter with this boy, Primus?” He shook his head like an exasperated teacher. “Of course I want you to keep me safe, boy. If the Judica banishes me, I can't find the snakes in my own house.”

His voice dipped, and his gaze bored into Errol. “Our kingdom's enemies in the church and the conclave are counting on blinding us by getting you out of the way. An omne is the only way to verify a reader's cast. With you gone, we don't know for sure whom to trust.”

That didn't make any sense. Their enemy was gone. They'd cast for Sarin. The former secondus had escaped Erinon and passed beyond retribution into Merakh.

The archbenefice gripped his shoulder, gave him a little shake. “Do you think Valon worked alone, boy?”

Errol's stomach floated as if he'd jumped the cliff overlooking the Cripples and was waiting for the fall to end. “What's going to happen?”

The archbenefice nodded. “Better. We're going to let Benefice Kell rant and rave about your involvement with evil spirits—I have enough influence to get you convicted on the charge—and then we're going to impose penance that will keep you sequestered here in Erinon, where we can use your abilities to help us kill the snakes in the Judica.”

“But what about Benefice Dane?”

The archbenefice chuckled. “That's the only fun part about
this. I can use church law to defer action on his charge until your penance is complete.”

The realization of what the archbenefice intended swept through him. Errol experienced the sensation of waking from a dream to find the bad men and dire situations were mere phantoms. “Nothing's going to be any different, is it.”

“Hopefully not, Errol,” the primus said.

“Hopefully,” the archbenefice echoed. “But the Judica is unpredictable. I guide; I don't control. That uncertainty brings us to our task, Errol.”

Primus Sten stepped forward with a pair of hardwood blanks and his carving knife. “We need you to use your talent to verify a cast, Errol.”

This made no sense to him. They didn't need him. “Why?”

The archbenefice's eyes darted to the primus and the captain. “Because we dare not trust each other until you do, boy. The Judica and the conclave are made up of men who have known each other for decades, and I'd call most of them friend.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “But we know there are traitors within the Judica and the conclave. I won't risk putting a viper to my chest just because I might hurt someone's feelings. We're going to begin by testing Dane and Kell. The primus will cast to see if they're an enemy or ally of Illustra, and you will verify. I wish we had time for more, but after the Judica has decided your fate, you'll cast for the rest of the benefices. We're going to sweep the house clean, boy.”

The edge of Enoch Sten's knife had just touched the golden brown grain of the wood when a thought occurred to Errol. “It won't work.”

The knife stopped.

“Why not?” the archbenefice demanded. “He casts, you verify.”

Errol's hands anticipated his apology. They fluttered in the air before he spoke. “Because that's all I can do. I can read the primus's lot, but I can't read his question. For this to work, we need to question all—even the primus. What if he asks whether Dane is an enemy or an ally of Merakh?”

Color drained from the archbenefice's face until it resembled the white of his robe.

Enoch Sten chuckled. “What was that you were saying about the boy being dense, Archbenefice?”

The archbenefice's face tensed. “I've no choice but to trust you or the boy to cast, Enoch,” the archbenefice said. He looked like a man who'd been given a choice of losing an arm or a leg.

“Perhaps not,” the primus said. “Have us cast the same question, but in silence. We can write down the answer. If they agree, then you have the information you need. If they don't agree, then you will know at least one of us is a traitor to the kingdom.” He chuckled. “Given that the boy's survived this long by merest chance, it's not likely to be him.”

Canon shook his head. “And what if you're both traitors? Your answers would still agree.”

“Trust the boy, Bertrand. He has no reason to love the church or the conclave, but I think he's perceptive enough to know who his real enemies are.”

The archbenefice nodded but looked unconvinced. “Then I want the two of you to cast for Dane first.”

“I don't have a knife or blanks,” Errol said.

“You may use mine, once I'm done.” Enoch Sten nodded, his fingers resting on the handle of his knife the way a musician would his instrument. Errol watched him turn the hardwood blanks into lots with deft strokes of his knife. The scent of walnut rose from his hands until it permeated the room. The primus's economy of motion amazed Errol. The blanks rounded with amazing speed, even though his hands appeared to turn each lot in deliberate increments, never slowing or stopping.

“I've always loved walnut,” the primus said. “Hard, but if your knife is sharp, it shapes like butter.” Before twenty minutes had passed, the sound of wood clacking against wood came from the bag Captain Reynald held.

Canon directed Errol to the other side of the room. “You can work over there, lad, if you're willing.”

For a moment he was tempted to say no. Why should he help
these men who seemed intent on putting him into danger over and again until he was inevitably killed? Inwardly he raged. He didn't want to be an omne; he held no desire to be a person of importance.

What
did
he want? To dance with the staff, to knock lightning from the sky.

And Adora.

But to win the princess, he had to be a person of importance.

Oh, they had him. The archbenefice, the primus, Martin, Luis—they all had him more than they knew. They'd never need to lay a compulsion on him again. As long as the faintest whisper of hope remained of winning Adora's heart, he would do anything they asked.

Curse it.

“I'm willing.”

The archbenefice nodded as if he had followed the winding track of Errol's thoughts. The primus pressed his lips together, and his eyes narrowed the way people looked when they're trying not to cry.

He didn't have time or use for their pity. If casting lots for them kept him in the city, then he would carve until his hands bled. “So, I cast for Dane—whether he is friend or foe of Illustra—and then for Kell?”

The Archbenefice nodded and Errol set to work.

Two hours later, sunlight streamed through the window, giving the men in the room a yellowish cast that accentuated the lines of sleeplessness and age they shared. Errol stared at the lots he had cast for Benefice Kell. Strange, he thought, how men who were supposed to be allies could do so much harm.

“So, Kell is an ally.” His breath gusted from his lungs in what would have been laughter if he'd smiled.

Archbenefice Canon harrumphed. “More or less. As much as I'm loath to admit it, Benefice Kell's charge against you has afforded us the opportunity to delay Dane's charge indefinitely.”

The primus smirked, and his eyes twinkled. “Divine providence.”

“Perhaps,” the archbenefice said. “Benefice Dane is not a surprise, really, but most certainly a disappointment.”

“What will you do?” Errol asked.

The archbenefice exchanged glances with the primus and Captain Reynald. “Whatever is best for the kingdom, my boy.” He rose from his chair with the creaks and groans of an old man. “For now we need to leave. I don't want to be seen departing your quarters, if I can help it. The Judica convenes in an hour. You should eat.” He stopped at the door. “As accused, you'll be assigned an interpreter of sorts.”

Errol let his surprise show on his face. “Interpreter?”

Canon retraced his steps, closed the distance between them until he stood over Errol where he sat. “A priest assigned to translate the traditions of the Judica so that laymen can understand them. Primus Sten and I have agreed on the man for the job. We are certain you can trust him.”

The archbenefice patted his shoulder in a gesture Errol had seen fathers give their sons when they were proud or tried to be comforting. The touch felt alien to him—not unwelcome, but strange.