Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  Martin nodded.

  “We’re still here,” Luis said.

  Then it dawned on him, and his blood dropped to his stomach so fast he probably resembled Cruk. “Heaven help us. They should have found us by now. How much time do we have?”

  “As much as you need, actually,” Karele said. “Although, I’ll need any coin you might have. I’ve only enough food to last a day or two.” He said this without turning around, and it took Martin a moment to realize the healer was serious.

  Luis had already pulled a set of blanks and his carving knife from his bag in preparation to cast. Karele eyed the cubes with a smirk and a slight shake of his head.

  “Luis, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Martin said.

  Doubt creased the reader’s brows, and he cut his eyes back and forth between Martin and Karele. “Martin, they have readers. There’s no other explanation for the way they tracked us last night.”

  He nodded. Luis’s logic defied refutation, but it didn’t go far enough. “So they should have been on us minutes after we stopped, Luis.”

  The reader paused. “Fortune is with us, it seems.”

  This elicited a snort from Karele. He finished his ministrations and then, like a teacher calling students forth for a lesson, beckoned to Martin and Luis to join him at a small table. When they’d seated themselves, with one forefinger Karele tapped the blanks Luis still held. “This is why Aurae sent me to you, part of it anyway.”

  “The spirit of Deas is interested in the cast?” Martin asked.

  Karele smiled and gave a small shake of his head. “No, Aurae is interested in your instruction. The lots are the beginning point.”

  Luis stiffened. “I don’t think there’s much an herbman can teach me about lots.”

  “Ha, a name given to us by peasants and people who didn’t know any better,” Karele said. “We are the solis.”

  Martin struggled with the word, tried to pull the meaning from his lessons as a postulate and later as an acolyte in the church. “Protector?”

  Karele nodded. “Close. Actually, it means being alone and having no protector. For those who obey Aurae it describes us and our call. We have no companion or protector save Deas, and we minister to those whose circumstances have placed them in the same position.” He favored Martin with a half smile at this. “The solis are chosen from every people to help the least of our world. Most of us become healers, thus the label herbman or herbwoman.”

  “But you look so much like the others I have seen,” Luis said.

  “Aurae leaves its mark upon us, but we come from every province—Basquon, Soeden, Bellia, Einland, all of them.” He spread his arms and gestured at himself. “Don’t be fooled by my appearance or that of the herbwomen you’ve met. Some of us are quite large.”

  Martin’s impatience impelled him forward in his chair. “Why didn’t Aurae instruct us before now? We lived in Callowford near two of your kind for five years.”

  Karele raised one hand palm up. “I don’t know. We do not command Aurae. If anything, it’s the other way around, though that’s not exactly accurate either.”

  Martin’s gut refused his order to relax. Despite his attempts to save the herbwoman from Abbot Morin, he couldn’t shake the feeling he now dabbled in heresy. Imagined heat from a heretic’s flames made him sweat.

  Karele’s face took on a look of blank distraction, as if he were listening to a conversation across the room. “Aurae tells me war is coming.”

  Martin snorted. “We’ve known that since we found Rodran couldn’t father an heir.”

  “No. You’ve suspected. When Aurae speaks, you know.”

  Martin shrugged.

  Karele edged forward. “You will need the solis. The conclave will not be sufficient for this task.”

  Luis made a noise of protest in his throat.

  The healer sighed. “Your pardon. I mean no offence. I have not dealt with kingdom men for many years.” He pointed at the softwood cubes on the table in front of the reader. “Cast for a question to which you already know the answer.”

  Luis turned to Martin, his eyes inviting.

  Martin smiled. “There’s no sense getting exotic with the question. Ask if I am a priest or something similar.”

  Luis gave a curt nod and picked up his knife, yet he sat with the stiff posture of one offended. The short, quick strokes of his knife spoke of his insulted pride.

  “While the reader prepares his cast, I will instruct,” Karele said to Martin. “You know of Magis’s war?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the loss of the book?”

  Martin’s heart must have stopped. There was no other way to explain the weight on his chest or his inability to draw breath. He stared at the small man before him. “You cannot know about that.”

  Karele smiled. “Yet I do. The book was lost to the kingdom. Magis’s mistake.”

  Luis’s knife stopped. “What is he talking about, Martin?”

  Martin shook his head. Only the benefices knew of the first king’s tragic, colossal error. “I am forbidden to speak of it. I will not break that vow.”

  Karele laughed softly as he faced Luis. “Had it not been shrouded in secrecy, things might have been easier to fix. Oh well, if the benefice is forbidden to speak of it, I am not.

  “Magis took the book, the holy history of the church, the communicated stories of Deas and Eleison, with him to fight the evil that came at Illustra from across the straight. He thought it would protect him. At the last he learned that his survival was not what Deas intended, and he bought the barrier.

  “But the book was lost. The men who guarded him, the forerunners of the watch, couldn’t find it. Ever since Magis died, the church has had to rely on the passed-down memory of its priests to relate the words of Deas.” Karele shrugged. “They’ve done well, but an oral tradition is bound to lose things over the course of hundreds of years.”

  Martin’s empty stomach twisted. “They did the best they could. As soon as they realized the book was lost, the benefices wrote every piece of the sacred writ they could recall. They compared notes, used each other’s quotations to check for accuracy.”

  “Yes.” Karele’s nod might have been sympathetic. “Reader, if you will continue your craft?”

  Luis resumed carving the first lot.

  “Magis’s loss birthed the conclave,” Karele said. “The church collected the readers throughout Illustra to help the new kingdom survive. Now something new is coming.” His gaze bored into Martin’s eyes. “Deas has chosen you, Martin, to take the knowledge of Aurae to the church.”

  “No.” He would not. “I have protected the herbwomen, have risked my position within the church to keep them from harm, but I will not consort with any spirit save Deas.”

  Karele’s answering smile unnerved him. “No one is asking you to.”

  Martin straightened in his chair. “I will ignore your implied blasphemy and simply restate my position. I will not agree to contact with your spirit—no matter what name you give it.”

  The healer shrugged. “We shall see.” He pointed to the pair of rounded wooden lots that lay among a pile of slivers and sawdust in front of Luis. “Are you prepared to cast, reader?”

  Luis nodded.

  “And the question?” Karele asked.

  “As Martin said, something simple—whether or not he is a priest.”

  Their strange host nodded. “Very well. Proceed while I tend to your friend.”

  Luis put the lots into a makeshift bag and drew. “Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Yes.” He dropped the lot back into the bag and shrugged at Karele, perhaps with satisfaction. “My craft is intact.”

  The healer nodded as he inspected Cruk’s bandage. The watchman slept, his chest rising and falling with comforting regularity.

  “Again, please,” Karele said. His eyes twinkled as if at some private joke.

  Luis drew. A small crease of a frown etched the area between his brows. He replace
d the lot, shook the bag and drew again. And again, continuing. He never spoke a word, but the look he directed at Martin might have been the look of a child whose father has died.

  “They say No, Martin.” Luis’s plaintive voice cracked. “They all say No. Not most of them. All.”

  Martin didn’t want to speak, didn’t wish to acknowledge the thought that lay hidden at the bottom of his heart where he’d locked it away. Shame would never let him reveal it: They should have run—they should have let Cruk die.

  9

  A BREAKING

  RALE GAVE ERROL A NOD and a smile of pleasure. This was as much as a bear hug from other men. He eyed Errol’s staff critically. His gaze paused at the worn spots where Errol’s hands found the balance, swept to the ends of the staff where the wood had become frayed from the knobblocks. Rale stepped forward and tapped Errol on the head and shoulders with one hand. “You’ve eaten well.”

  Errol laughed. How long had it been since he’d done that? “I didn’t have much choice.” And with a great sense of release, he related all that had taken place on the way to Erinon.

  Rale’s face lit with pleasure under twinkling eyes. “That last part I hadn’t heard.”

  That caught Errol off guard. “What?”

  The farmer laughed. “Didn’t you know, boy? They entered you in the record. Your exploits are common knowledge. On the way here, I heard a bard declaim your exploits. You’re seven feet tall and muscled enough to make your friend Liam look underfed, by the way.”

  A somber cast crossed Rale’s face, like a wisp of cloud dimming the sun. “Myrrha wanted to come. I think you’ve grown in her memory like some mythic figure out of the tales. Anomar forbade it.”

  The realization of what he’d done washed Errol’s joy away. On his orders, soldiers had brought Rale to the isle, tearing him away from his family. “I’m sorry, Rale. Cruk and Martin and Luis are all gone. I didn’t know who else to trust.”

  The man everyone else knew as Elar Indomiel gave a brief chuckle and shrugged Errol’s concerns away. “Don’t apologize, boy. I’ve had to order men into battle. Now someone is ordering me.” He shrugged his cloak to the ground and slid his hands along his oak staff until they each came to rest a foot away from the midpoint. He smiled. “Let’s see if the minstrel’s tales are true.”

  Errol stepped back, stashed the knobblocks into his pocket, and lost himself in the movements that Rale had taught him months before. They sparred lightly at first, moving in the point and counterpoint of the staff, like partners in a dance after a long estrangement, but in mere moments the pace quickened. Rale no longer flowed like a lazy stream. Now he rushed, his attacks coming quick, the buzzing of his staff loud in Errol’s

  ears.

  Yet he turned each of Rale’s attacks aside. His memory played tricks on him. Rale was faster than this. Then Errol realized Rale hadn’t changed—he had. An opening presented itself, but Errol ignored it.

  Rale growled a curse. “Boy, if you don’t stop holding back, you’re going to annoy me. Try this.”

  The farmer launched an all-out attack that would have overwhelmed Errol months ago. Now he slipped to the side, let Rale’s momentum carry him past, and struck. He pulled the blows, reduced them to no more than a hard slap, then dropped low to the ground to sweep Rale’s legs with a kick.

  The farmer ended on his back, defenseless. And laughing. “Where did you learn that?”

  Errol extended a hand and helped the man to his feet. “There was a guard in Ru’s caravan. I think she’s part Morgol. The first few times we sparred with the staff I never knew what she would hit me with next.”

  “By the three, boy, what do you need me for? You could have left me on the farm. I had my doubts, but that swatch of black cloth on your arm isn’t just a decoration. You really could be a captain.”

  Errol shook his head. “No one’s told me your story, but the primus says you’re one of the best tacticians in the kingdom.” He lifted his shoulders. “I have no idea how to wage a battle, how to lead.”

  The man who’d been more of a father to him than anyone else regarded him with his dark blue eyes, appraising him with the same frank gaze he’d give a horse. “You’ve learned more than I thought.”

  Errol ducked his head to hide the blush and smile.

  “Stop!” The yell erupted from the far end of the yard where a figure in purple-and-black merchant clothes stomped across the grounds. He held a bared sword in one hand. With almost casual parries he slipped past the watchmen who tried to bar his way. He paused to scan the grounds.

  Then he headed straight for Errol.

  Naaman Ru.

  “He moves well,” Rale said, as calmly as if the man bearing down on him didn’t have violence written in every line of his face. “Who is he?”

  Errol’s palms grew moist, lending the wood in his hands a slippery, untrustworthy feel. “Naaman Ru. The caravan master.”

  Rale nodded. “Boy, you’re wearing a captain’s band. I think you should exercise some of that authority and make sure he doesn’t get to you. I’d love to see him fight, but I’d hate for you to be the opponent.”

  Errol chewed his lower lip in thought. “I don’t think he wants to kill me. If he attacks, I can always call the guard then.”

  “Aye,” Rale nodded, “assuming you have time. A man like Ru doesn’t require much of it.”

  Errol stepped back, signaled the guards to make way for the caravan master, and waited. Ru’s eyes burned, and he swiped his blade back and forth, cutting the air as he came. The blade moved absurdly fast in his hands.

  The watchmen gathered into a broad circle as Ru approached. If he attacked, Errol would have to parry a half dozen times before sheer numbers rescued him. Could he survive that long?

  Ru’s steps quickened, and his blade steadied, coming up to the ready position. The late-afternoon sun gleamed along that length of steel. Errol bent his legs and held his staff. At ten paces Ru charged, his sword high for a slashing attack.

  Then he stopped—not as if he’d hit a wall, but as though the air had thickened around him until forward motion was no longer possible. The cords on his neck stood while he strained to reach Errol, and he leaned forward as if struggling against a headwind.

  Errol straightened, grounded his staff. “You’re not the only one who’s been placed under compulsion, Naaman Ru.”

  Ru fought for a moment more, then dropped to one knee, spent, but his eyes burned and his voice carried savage promises of reprisal. “They’ll kill her, boy. You know that.”

  Rokha. “I didn’t ask for your daughter—just you. Rokha will be safe here in Erinon. She won’t be going with us, Ru.”

  A contralto’s throaty laughter greeted his declaration. The guards parted, and Rokha, fierce and gleeful, swaggered forward and placed herself between him and her father. “Hello, Errol.”

  Nobles and watchmen eyed the caravan master’s daughter in appreciation. Dressed in a man’s shirt and breeches, Rokha’s movements were decidedly not manlike. The timbre of her speech turned Errol’s name into an aural indulgence.

  His ears heated from the caress of her voice. With an effort, he forced his thoughts back to the track they’d left at her appearance. “You’re not going with us, Rokha.”

  Her light brown eyes flashed a challenge, but she kept her smile. “You’re not the head guard of the caravan here, Errol, and I’m not the sixth. I don’t take orders from you.”

  His face flushed. What made women so stubborn? “The church has compelled me to find Sarin Valon and kill him. I’ve been given the authority to choose those companions who will give me the best chance of succeeding and surviving.” He edged closer to Rokha and dropped his voice. “That puts me in charge. You’re not going.”

  Her smile turned frosty, and the glint in her eyes became hard, like flint. “I wish you luck in leaving me behind.”

  Errol kept himself from shouting, just. “I don’t need luck. Take a look around you, Rokha. You’re at
Erinon. At a word, I’ll simply have one of the priests compel you to stay here until we return—if we return.”

  Rokha’s smile returned. “That might be difficult, seeing as they’ve already compelled me along with my father to guide you into Merakh.”

  Errol’s retort fell from his throat into his stomach, where it lay like a stone. “You’re lying.”

  Ru growled a curse. “No, boy, she’s not. Your churchmen wouldn’t listen to me. They reasoned two guides could succeed where one might fail.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Errol said. “She doesn’t know anything about Merakh.”

  Ru’s right hand twitched as it held his sword, the blade jumping, hungry for blood. “Don’t you think I know that? I watched as they laid the compulsion on her.” His tone softened, taking on the bargaining note Errol knew well from his days as one of Ru’s caravan guards. “But you can change that. If you’re really in charge, you could have them remove the compulsion.”

  “No,” Rokha said. “If you must go back to Merakh, so must I.”

  “Why?” A plaintive note crept into Ru’s voice.

  “Because you’re my father.” She eyed Errol. “And he owes me for my humiliation when he challenged me for the sixth.”

  Laughter interrupted Errol’s reply. Rale stood to one side, obviously enjoying Errol’s consternation. “You should have stayed in your village, boy.”

  He shook his head. “I think I should have stayed in the ale barrel. Life was a lot less dangerous when I was a drunk.”

  Naaman Ru eyed Rale the way a dog might eye a potential rival. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Elar Indomiel,” Errol said. “He’ll be going with us.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Ru said, his tone dismissive.

  Indomiel’s eyes hardened. “I go by Rale now.” He held out a hand. “The boy seems to have amassed some notable acquaintances.”

  Ru ignored the proffered hand. “Including yourself. They’ve put me under a compulsion, so why send a tactician?”

  Rale lowered his hand and shrugged. “I’m just a farmer now.”