Benefice Kell gave a perfunctory nod. “Judica me, Deas,” he said. Whispers of hair framed his head like the remnants of a halo as he approached the dais. When he gestured his accusation at Errol, the sleeve of his robe slid up to reveal a desiccated arm. His flesh hung slack on his body and parched face, yet his eyes burned in his skull. They burned.
“From his own mouth,” the benefice said, “Errol Stone has admitted traffic with herbwomen, those foul beings who consort with evil spirits.”
Mutters ran through the Judica. Some sounded reproving while others verged on exasperated. Confusion rocked him. Hadn’t this been discussed and resolved already?
“I would speak.” A younger benefice popped up from his seat.
The archbenefice held up a hand, forestalling the new speaker. “Patience, Benefice Kerran.” He regarded Benefice Kell with a sigh. “Have you any other accusation to bring?”
Kell’s face mottled with indignation. Red blotches marred his waxy complexion and he lifted a finger that quivered with rage to point at Errol. “Any other? What else could be required? That fiend among us has defied the law of this body and must be punished.”
The archbenefice looked like a man trying not to roll his eyes. “Benefice Kell, the Judica will weigh your charge, so please restrain your zeal and answer the question. Do you have any other charges to bring against Errol Stone?”
Benefice Kell looked on the verge of launching another tirade but instead shook his head and reseated himself with a growl.
Bertrand Canon addressed the body. “Who would speak?” he inquired again.
A benefice with red hair and white soft-looking hands rose with a delicate clearing of his throat. “Hmmm, yes, well, I would speak.” He ducked his head as if the sudden attention of the Judica embarrassed him, and he gave a coy smile to the benefices seated to his right.
“Approach, Benefice Dane. Speak no word before the Judica that is untrue. Make no statement that is incomplete. You are adjured by Deas.”
The benefice minced toward the stand. “Oh, yes, yes, of course. Judica me, Deas.” The benefice stood in the accuser’s box without speaking until the archbenefice sighed and prompted him.
“Your charge, Benefice Dane?”
“Hmmm? Oh my. Well, it’s not a charge so much as a concern.”
The archbenefice rubbed his temples. “The Judica is met, my dear benefice, to hear charges of a clerical nature against one of the nobility. So far, Earl Stone is accused of trafficking with herbwomen.”
“And evil spirits,” Benefice Kell yelled from his seat.
“Yes, yes, and evil spirits,” the archbenefice said in a resigned tone. “Now, Benefice Dane, do you have a charge to bring?”
The benefice looked on the verge of returning to his seat, but at the last minute some inner resolve seemed to embolden him. He straightened and his voice strengthened. “I accuse Errol Stone of conspiring with Benefice Martin Arwitten and Secondus Luis Montari to cast lots for the next king without authorization from the Judica.”
Stunned silence covered the assembled. Men too dismayed to gasp stared at Errol as if he’d committed regicide while they slept. Errol tried to catch the eye of the primus, but Enoch Sten, pale and motionless, refused to look his way. Benefice Dane threw back his shoulders and preened at the effect of his words.
Then the hall erupted. Men old enough to be Errol’s father or grandfather started out of their seats to voice their shock and disapproval. Whether the target of their ire was him or Benefice Dane, Errol couldn’t tell—the cacophony of voices defied order. Many of those assembled turned to face Martin, their looks horrified, supportive, or dumbstruck. The archbenefice rose from his seat, yanked the metal-shod staff of office from its holder, and struck the floor, calling for order, but the din drowned his efforts. He signaled the guards, who drew swords and crossed blades.
The sound of steel did what the staff could not. By twos and threes, the benefices quieted, and the archbenefice’s voice rose above the din. “Sit down! Is this college nothing more than a collection of excitable boys that we should react so? My benefices, where is your self-control? Where is your sense of decorum?”
The head of the church gestured to the guards. “Seal the chamber.” The archbenefice’s order silenced throngs of benefices who moments before had threatened to riot within the dome. The muffled boom of the giant doors being barred echoed from the stone walls like a knell of Errol’s doom. His fingers made seeking motions, twitching at the ends of his hands as they sought the comfort of a staff they no longer held. Dane’s charge brought spots of darkness to his vision. Errol was innocent, but somehow the benefice had learned of Martin and Luis’s cast.
How?
Splotches of emotion colored the archbenefice’s face as he raised a finger to address Errol’s accuser. “Benefice Dane, conspiring to usurp the authority of the Judica is a serious charge. Understand that you will be asked to provide corroboration to this charge. Perhaps your recent elevation to the orders of benefice has given you an undue enthusiasm for these proceedings?”
The archbenefice regarded Benefice Dane, and silence settled like a blanket over the hall as the Judica waited for its newest member to respond.
“Hmm? Oh my. Perhaps I’ve erred, Archbenefice. Does the Judica not have the right to examine any noble, including the king?”
It seemed some hint of danger or intent warned the archbenefice. Errol watched the man’s eyes narrow as his hands dropped to cradle his staff of office. He nodded assent before answering. “As much is written in our law. However—”
“And does not each member,” Benefice Dane interrupted, “have the Deas-given right to pose a question, any question, to the accused?”
Bertrand Canon took a moment to resume his seat before answering. With fastidious care he arranged the fold of his robe and replaced his staff of office in its holder with a soft clank. Whispers filled the hall with expectancy in the silence of the archbenefice’s consideration.
“My compliments, Benefice Dane. Seldom do new benefices come to us with such . . . confidence in their ability to navigate the intricacies of church law. Yes, you do have the right to question the accused.”
Benefice Dane leaned forward, his eyes sparkling and his manner sharp. “Thank you, Archbenefice Canon. I would like to begin by—”
“However,” the archbenefice interrupted, “I am sure you are aware that we must take the charges in order. Benefice Kell’s charge of consorting with spirits must be heard first. And we have yet to hear from other esteemed members of the Judica who may wish to speak.”
A glimmer of hatred flashed in the look Dane directed at the archbenefice, but a moment later he fumbled with his stole of office, looking distracted and subservient once more. “Hmm? Of course, of course. Your pardon, Archbenefice.” He retreated up the stairs to resume his seat.
The archbenefice surveyed the hall before again offering the now-familiar intonation. “Who would speak?” Every line of his posture seemed to warn the remainder of the benefices against speaking. A moment passed that Errol measured in the still-panicked beat of his heart before the archbenefice spoke again. “The Judica has spoken. The charges have been set before this body. Let none seek to swerve the arm of Deas from its quest for the truth.”
Three raps of the archbenefice’s staff upon the floor interrupted Benefice Kell’s approach toward the questioner’s box. Disappointment wreathed his features, and he chewed his lips in obvious frustration. The assembly rose as one. “The Judica will resume at the third hour after dawn tomorrow. The accused, Earl Errol Stone, is remanded to the watch until such time as the charges are disproven or penance prescribed.”
The archbenefice scribbled a note before beckoning a pair of guards from the back of the chamber and passing the scrap of parchment to them. Two members of the watch, men whose names and handclasps were known to Errol, came forward to lead him away. Vladic, tall and dark-haired, made a gesture for him to follow without lifting his gaze above
Errol’s chest. Itara, short and bluff faced, fell in behind.
The crowd of benefices and their assistants thinned as the watchmen made their way toward the exit that would take them away from the church’s compound and back toward the squat rectangular building that served as the quarters for the watch.
Behind Errol, Lieutenant Itara snorted. “Right waste of time this is. Takin’ an honorary captain of the watch into custody on the say-so of some pampered little church toadie.”
Vladic’s and Itara’s unrelieved black clothing comforted Errol. For too many years the red and purple of the church meant the stocks or another beating at Antil’s hands, punishment for trying to drink away the memory of the death of his adoptive father, Warrel. Though his situation remained unchanged from that of an accused prisoner, his removal from the benefices and their signature colors served to calm him. Now, if only he could devise some way to get his staff back, he would feel almost normal.
He slowed. “Lieutenant, would it be possible for us to retrieve my staff? The church guards stripped it from me on the way to the Judica. It’s nothing special, but I’ve had it a long time now and I’d hate to lose it.”
Vladic’s eyes clouded at the request, but Itara merely shrugged and changed direction at the next corridor. “Can’t see as that should be a problem, milord. This is all foolishness, anyways, far as I can see. I can’t let you hold it, of course. The fellows in the Judica would have a frothing fit, they would.”
Errol clenched his jaw and nodded. It had been a slim hope that Itara would let him have his staff—and slimmer still that it would have done him any good—but now any chance of escape was denied him.
Moments later, removed from the Judica and back in the familiar environs of the watch, Errol followed the lieutenant, who walked two paces in front of him with his staff tucked under one arm. He sighed. The church needed a scapegoat, and they would vent their collective wrath on whomever they wanted.
They wanted him, it seemed.
He tensed as they rounded a corner, recognition bringing him up short. “Itara, where are you taking me?”
“Eh? Oh, that. Right strange, that is. The archbenefice wanted me to deliver you to Cap’n Reynald’s quarters. Told us to hold you inside.”
Vladic rapped at the door and moved aside when the captain, the head of the watch, answered.
Reynald took in the presence of the three men, noted Errol’s position between the other two. His face hardened until it took on the aspect of weathered rock. With a sharp nod, he gestured them in.
Errol refused to take the bait. “Why am I here, Captain?”
Captain Reynald shrugged as if the question were trivial. “The archbenefice ordered you brought here. Too many eyes might witness you being escorted to his quarters.”
The answer only raised more questions, questions he doubted the captain would answer. “What do we do now?”
“We wait.”
3
DIVIDE AND . . .
SWEAT COVERED MARTIN as if he were some wastrel seeking absolution. Perhaps in a sense he was. When dispatching Martin and Luis to find Illustra’s heir more than five years ago, the archbenefice’s imperative had been simple: Find the king; let no one find out.
Yet someone had found out, and though the accusation had come primarily against Errol, Dane had hit close enough to the mark to endanger not only Martin and Luis but the archbenefice and the primus as well.
Luis, newly elevated to secondus of the conclave, stood at his side. The reader’s manner betrayed no hint of nerves. Then again, Luis had less to lose. Martin reflected on that for a moment and then amended the thought. No, if the wrong people discovered their purpose, they would all die, killed by the very people they sought to protect.
He wiped his hands on his cassock and lifted a blunt fist to announce himself on the thick oak planks of Enoch Sten’s door. The entrance to the primus’s private quarters bore mute testimony to the longevity of the office. Untold fists and knuckles had worn the finish where he pounded his presence to a deep honey color that contrasted with the age-darkened hue of the rest of the wood.
The door opened to reveal the primus’s secretary, a short waddle-throated man. Martin forced his mouth open in imitation of a smile. “Good evening, Willet. Is the primus in?”
Like any secretary, Willet guarded his employer’s prestige. “A moment,” he said with a half bow. “I will see if he is up to receiving guests.”
A moment later, Sten appeared at the door, shooing the guardian of his image out as he beckoned Martin and Luis into his apartments. “I will see you tomorrow, Willet.”
Martin inclined his head, respectful as Sten closed and bolted the door. “Will the archbenefice be joining us, Primus?”
Sten shook his head. “No. Bertrand considers the risk too great—as do I. You will both have to leave the island, of course.” He sighed. “We can’t risk Dane calling you to testify. I’m sorry, Martin. It means you’ll no longer be entitled to the red of the Judica.”
Martin waved a hand to indicate it was unimportant, but a stab of loss struck him even so. “It’s not unexpected, Primus. You’ll watch after them, won’t you?”
Sten nodded. “Liam and Errol are too valuable to lose. Bertrand will think of something. And Errol is innocent, is he not? He didn’t help with the cast, did he?”
Luis shook his head. “No, but it hardly matters. The boy is clever—he figured out what Martin and I were doing weeks ago. If Dane examines him, the truth will come out.”
Sten blew air through the white wisps of his mustache. “Worse and worse. Will you cast for your destination?”
Luis gave a shy smile, the skin around his brown eyes crinkling. “I already have. It didn’t take any great wit to see we would be forced to leave. There was no time to cast in stone, of course, but for this, wood suffices. We’re going back to Callowford. Errol and Liam’s village came up seventeen times out of twenty.”
Enoch Sten grunted. “I can’t say I’m surprised. It makes sense.” He paced the room. His old-man’s feet shuffled across the carpet in slippers. “We need to determine what makes Errol so blasted important. Have you cast for the person who holds the answer?”
Luis gave a brief shake. “Not yet. I’m taking blanks with me. We’ll have weeks on the road. I’ll fashion the lots as we go.”
The primus stalked the carpet like a caged animal, his frustration evident. Martin could hardly blame him. Years of planning and work had failed to provide the answer the kingdom desperately needed. The best readers in the conclave had failed. “Are you sure you didn’t misread the cast, Luis?”
Luis’s dark brown eyes clouded, and he rubbed the naked dome of his head with one hand before answering. “Those lots were as perfect as I could make them, Primus. I’ve never seen the like on a cast before—first Liam, then Errol, over and over again, as if the drum and the lots were spelled.”
“And your question?” the primus asked. “You cast for the soteregia—our savior and king? The question frames the answer.”
Luis nodded. “For five years I thought of little else.”
The primus uttered an uncharacteristic oath under his breath. Martin wanted to join in.
“I’m sorry, Primus,” Luis said. “In some fashion that escapes me, I’ve failed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sten said with a snort. “You’re the conclave’s most skillful reader now that we’ve lost Sarin.” He spat the renegade’s name like an epithet.
“Other than yourself,” Luis amended.
“I’m old, Luis. I can’t hold the question and its possible answers the way I used to. My concentration slips.”
Martin leaned forward in his chair to catch their attention. Blame and confession would not answer their questions. “I should have realized Errol’s importance. Every attack on the way to Erinon came against the boy.”
Sten shrugged his shoulders under the blue robe of his office. “What kind of king would Errol make?”
; Martin snorted. “The boy? He’s not going to be king, Primus.” The idea was ridiculous. “Luis cast in wood first—Liam is our soteregia. But there is something about Errol we do not know, and I fear the enemy knows what that is.”
Luis demurred. “I think your preconceptions have blinded you, my friend. According to the lots, Errol may very well be our next king. He may not be Liam, but he has courage, and Erinon’s past is littered with sovereigns who lacked even Errol’s nominal statecraft.”
Martin grunted to concede the point, then waved his hand to brush it aside. “The boy would be a disaster, Luis, and you know it. He has a deep-seated mistrust of the church.”
“Can you blame him, Martin?” Luis asked.
A weight of regret settled onto his shoulders. Too many times he’d been too slow to act. “No, but speculation gets us nowhere.”
The primus nodded his agreement. “Quite. If the Judica determines that we have already cast for the king, they will make an example of us that will make readers and priests shiver for a hundred years.”
Sten turned his attention to Luis. “The boy is an omne. I shudder to think what will happen if he comes across your lots and finds he may be the next king. He’d run. I know I would.”
“He can’t,” Luis said. His eyes pinched and his voice dipped. “After the cast, I destroyed the lots. They are only so much dust now.”
An empathetic pang like an empty longing opened in Martin’s chest at Luis’s declaration. For five years, his dear friend had worked the stones to perfection, threescore lots as identical as craft and Deas’s gift could make them—his greatest work. Countless days and nights had been spent sculpting, shaping, and polishing the stones to ensure the cast would be unassailable.
And the cast had failed.
He rested his hand for a moment on Luis’s shoulder.
“When will you leave?” Sten asked.
Martin sighed. Going back to Callowford would be a step back in more ways than one. Church law prohibited any benefice from leaving the Judica until its stated purpose concluded. When his fellow benefices discovered his absence from the city, they would likely demote him to priest. His shoulders twitched with a mental shrug. “Before dawn. Cruk will come with us.”
Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2) Page 2
