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

by Patrick W. Carr

  Her dark brows met over the ridge of her nose. “No. That’s beyond me, but it’s strange. It doesn’t look like the compulsions I’ve seen before. It’s strong, very strong.”

  He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice and failed. “What does that mean? Aren’t they all?”

  She shrugged. His irritation had no effect on her. “Yes, but I think this one has something to do with you. From the moment he saw you he’s looked like a man in pain.” She shrugged as if her revelations weren’t making his insides dance. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  He didn’t want to think about it. Rokha was wrong. He didn’t want to know. A nod came as close to thanks as he could muster. Then he spun on his heel to help port their goods to Tek’s ship. There seemed little point in worrying over things beyond his control—and Martin, with his multitude of secrets, had always been one of those.

  Two hours later, they cast off the mooring lines and unfurled enough sail to drift into the harbor. Errol stood in the prow, hoping to lessen the pull in his chest by the scant advantage his position offered. Why was the wind so still?

  “Once we clear the harbor, you should go belowdecks,” Rale said. The erstwhile farmer had a way of appearing out of thin air. “Valon knows what you look like. He may be confident in his circle’s ability to find you, but if he’s smart, he’ll have men using their eyes as well.”

  It only made sense, but he loathed the thought of being unable to see their progress. With a nod, because words seemed burdensome, he made his way aft to the stairs that led down to the sleeping quarters and the hold. He found Luis, Martin, and Karele in the galley seated around a long trestle table nailed to the floor. They smiled at his approach, but Martin’s eyes flinched as if at a sudden discomfort.

  Even so, the priest waved to a seat. “It’s good to see you, boy. I think we have some catching up to do.”

  Errol nodded his reply but left the indicated spot on the bench empty. The abstraction from the compulsion and the flare of pain in Martin’s eyes made him too uncomfortable to sit. “I need to find Cruk.” He didn’t really, but in the absence of Rale, who remained topside, he craved Cruk’s plain speech.

  Martin nodded, his eyes strained and relieved at the same time.

  Errol moved aft, seeking not so much company as a way to escape his own thoughts. Each time someone desired speech he begged off and continued his search for Cruk, hoping all the while that he wouldn’t find him.

  He wandered topside, then ascended to the elevated deck at the rear of the ship. Tek’s first mate manned the rudder. To one side, his face toward the sea, Luis stood alone. A yearning for the reader’s peaceful company came over Errol, and he moved to stand beside him at the rail.

  “Hello, Errol.” Luis’s eyes still held their accustomed serenity, but the calm assurance had been replaced by something closer to doubt. His gaze refused to settle anywhere for long.

  Perhaps some of the reader’s diffidence communicated itself to Errol. He didn’t know how to respond. “It will take us a few hours to make it to Merakhi waters. The four times we tried we were met by longships.”

  Luis faced him. “They turned you back?”

  Errol chuckled softly. “No. They tried to chase us down and board us. We used four different ships, and they spotted every one. No other kingdom ships were threatened. Only us.”

  Luis nodded. “Valon has readers aboard those ships. Even without a circle, it would be a simple matter to cast for your presence.”

  Errol watched the water. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. This had never been his strength, ferreting out information. Plain speech suited him better. “Rokha says Martin is under a compulsion.”

  “She’s right,” Luis said.

  Errol fought to hide his surprise. No slippery speech. No half answers. Just open acknowledgment. “Does it have anything to do with me?”

  Luis sighed as if trying to rid himself of a burden. “It seems everything has something to do with you, Errol.”

  He smiled at the reply. Except for the mournful tone, this was closer to the reader’s usual manner of speech. Luis put a hand on his shoulder as if trying to comfort him.

  “I’m sorry, Errol. I would have stopped him if I could have. Martin is passionate. His sense of justice could no longer tolerate your circumstances. He placed a compulsion upon himself.” Luis shrugged. His shoulders twitched during the motion.

  Emptiness opened in the pit of Errol’s stomach, spreading outward with the dawning comprehension of Luis’s words. Why was he sorry?

  “What . . .” He couldn’t seem to push enough air through his voice. “What does he have to do?” He might as well have been an eddy in the wind.

  Sorrow and tears filled Luis’s eyes, but he held Errol in an unwavering glance. “He has to tell you the truth—all of it.”

  Of all his desires, visible or locked away in his heart, knowing the truths Martin had kept hidden ranked as the third most important. Only Adora’s hand and the identity of his parents ranked higher. Yet now he feared the resolution of Martin’s compulsion. Luis had not flinched at compelling Errol to the conclave, had barely blinked at telling him he was expendable, yet now the secondus stood with tears in his eyes.

  Enough. Whatever secrets Martin might bring into the light, Errol didn’t want to know. “Tell him to remove the compulsion. I have enough burdens.”

  Luis’s face tightened. “I’m sorry, Errol. He can’t. In this Martin is now as powerless as you are. The compulsion can only be removed if Martin fulfills its demand.” He shifted to gaze out across the sea. “He acted in haste, before he learned the full truth. Every moment he tarries is painful for him, but he loathes adding to the weight you carry.”

  Luis gave a rueful laugh. “Martin thought to give you what you wanted, not realizing what might happen. There’s a lesson there.” He sighed. “I think he means to defy the compulsion for as long as he can. He’s strong, Errol, so who knows how long that may be?”

  “We’re headed into Merakh,” Errol said. For months, even years, all he’d wanted was the truth, but now the truth had turned out to be as ugly and misshapen as everything else in his life. Why? “It’s supposed to be my death sentence.” Bitterness laced his voice. “Perhaps Martin will be able to keep his secrets after all.”

  He wanted no more of this conversation with Luis. It was obvious the reader would not divulge the secrets Martin carried, and his empathy for the priest rankled in a way difficult to define.

  He couldn’t decide which he wanted more: to let Martin suffer with the pain of his own stupidity and compulsion, or to force the priest to tell him the truth and know that he’d placed another wound in his soul. A part of him savored the fact that someone else suffered as much as he.

  Then, with a suddenness that surprised him, he ached for Adora’s company. The princess loved him. She would know what to do. He thrust himself away from the railing and Luis’s sympathy and went in search of her.

  As he stalked through the ship, some intuition seated deep within his chest told him Adora would be able to see a solution he could not, that the wisdom she’d garnered by her years in the palace would be equal to the task.

  When he found her with Rokha in the small cabin Tek had set aside for the women on board, Adora stood to greet him with a polite nod, but the tension at the corner of her eyes said plainly she had not forgotten his behavior. He rushed across the room to enfold her in his arms and kiss her.

  It was the first time he’d ever kissed a woman. True, women had kissed him, but until this moment he’d never initiated that sign of affection. He half expected Adora to push him away, but after a muffled exclamation of surprise, the princess melted into his embrace and her hands rose to lock in his hair. The kiss lasted longer than he’d intended. When their lips parted, the ship seemed to be rocking with the waves more than usual—and from across the room, Rokha grinned at him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Adora broke from his emb
race and took a step back, the picture of cool serenity once more, with the exception of a flush in her cheeks. “You make apologies where none are needed, Errol. No man alive carries a burden such as yours.”

  “Actually, someone does.” He couldn’t stop a sardonic chuckle from escaping his lips.

  “What do you mean?”

  Errol recited his conversation with Luis, watched as Adora’s eyes grew wider until the whites showed around the emerald green of her irises.

  “Unheard of,” she said. “I never suspected a priest could lay a compulsion on himself.”

  “What should I do?”

  She wheeled away from him to pace the confines of her cabin. “My heart tells me you should go to Martin and demand he tell you the truth, but I mistrust myself in this.” She pivoted on one foot and came toward him again, head bent in concentration. Rokha was uncharacteristically silent as she feigned interest in something outside the porthole she stood near.

  Adora stopped to look at him, her eyes locked with his. “I think you have three choices available to you, Errol.”

  He sighed. What he really wanted at that moment was for Adora to tell him what to do, but she would not. No one would, not even Rale. Though the watch captain commanded the mission, Errol’s circumstances placed him beyond Rale’s authority. “What are they?”

  She held up a finger. “First, you can have Martin tell you what he knows at a time of your choosing.”

  “Isn’t that up to him?” Errol asked.

  Adora shook her head even as she gave him a fond smile. “You know, one of the reasons I love you is that such things as I’m about to suggest never occur to you. If you want to force the information from Martin, simply stay in his presence until the pain of his compulsion forces him to speak.”

  His eyes widened at the cold calculation of that suggestion and what it said of the intrigues that had surrounded Adora during her upbringing. He kept any trace of accusation from his face and voice. “I don’t think I’d like that. It seems cruel, but I thank you for making me aware of the option. I hope I don’t have to use it.”

  She nodded. The set of her shoulders relaxed. “Second, you can wait until he chooses or the compulsion forces him to tell you. I would advise against this. It puts you at the mercy of circumstance.” She touched the scar in his side. “You don’t seem to have much luck with circumstance.”

  His hand probed the flesh around the wound. Scar tissue covered the area, and he seemed to have suffered no permanent physical damage from Sahra and Rader’s attack, but memories of screaming convulsions plagued his dreams. He couldn’t jest about it yet. “No. I don’t. What’s the last option?”

  Adora’s shoulders, beautiful with new strength from her sword work, rose and descended. “Avoid him. Don’t give him a chance to confess. Confine him to the ship once we reach Merakh and order him back to the kingdom.”

  For a moment, he latched on to that idea, until the somber look in Adora’s eyes opened his own. “But that would be worse than forcing him to tell me, wouldn’t it? Sooner or later the compulsion would take him, and if I’m not there . . .” Errol left the statement unfinished. He didn’t know how to finish it.

  To her credit, she didn’t try to talk him into the obvious option, the one he hated and feared. She simply waited. He turned an idea over in his mind. Could he persuade Martin to satisfy the compulsion without telling Errol directly?

  He stepped closer to Adora, taking her hands in his. They fluttered, birdlike, before gripping his own. “I would request something of you, Your Highness.”

  Her eyes narrowed at the use of her title, but her mouth pulled a little to one side in a smile. “Speak, Earl Stone. Fear not to reveal your mind to us, as all the world knows you bear the utmost regard of the crown.”

  Her voice dipped as she finished, and he felt his mouth go dry. “Would you approach Martin on my behalf? Have him tell you these truths that pain him so much. Then advise me on how to proceed.”

  She stared at him. “You would trust me with this? Not knowing what he might reveal?”

  He held up his scarred palm. “Better you than any other.”

  Tears splashed against the wood of the cabin floor as she curtsied to him.

  36

  BROKEN

  SHE DID NOT COME BACK to him for the rest of the day. Or the next. The princess dropped from sight as surely as if she’d been swept overboard. One time Errol saw her, but she scurried away, her face stricken, before he could approach.

  Thus engaged, the ship passed through the Merakhi blockade almost without his notice. Karele stood on the deck as Tek guided the ship between a pair of sleek longboats.

  As the ships to their stern vanished over the horizon, Errol questioned the small man.

  “It’s not me but the power of Aurae,” Karele explained. “The power of the lot is written in the fabric of our world. Think of it like water running its course along a stream. The spirit of Deas, Aurae, has the ability to alter that course.”

  The idea didn’t make sense to him. Either something worked or it didn’t. “But how?”

  Karele smiled. “Do you have any blanks with you?” At his nod, the little man continued. “Why don’t you go get them and I’ll show you?”

  Errol went to the quarters he shared with the rest of the men on board and pulled a pair of pine blanks, some rubbing cloth, and his carving knife from his pack. He hurried back to Karele, grateful for the opportunity to do something that would take his mind off Adora’s protracted absence.

  “Cast for something easy,” Karele said.

  Errol nodded. A yes or no question would be simplest. It would require little concentration to form the answers into the two blanks. “Is Martin a priest?” he said out loud in order to help him frame the question. Fifteen minutes later the lots lay carved and sanded in his palm, but only he could see the words reflected there.

  Karele gave him an encouraging nod. “Now cast as many times as you need to reassure yourself they work as intended.”

  Errol dropped them into the large pocket of his cloak and drew one at random, then repeated the process. Twelve draws later, he gestured toward Karele. “Ten out of twelve says he’s a priest.”

  Karele leaned forward with a smug expression. “How many times picking the opposite lot would it take to convince you that Aurae’s power supersedes that of the lot?”

  He shrugged. “Ten?”

  Karele laughed. “Then let’s make it twenty.”

  Errol snorted through his nose. “Impossible. Not with wood. I couldn’t cast the surest question and pull a draw twenty times in a row.”

  “You’re not Aurae.” Karele pointed north, to the empty horizon. “If you do not believe me, then believe our passage. No one is following us.”

  Errol jumbled the lots together and thrust his hand in. “No.” He put the lot back in, and for the next nineteen times—while Karele relaxed beside him on the weathered planks of the deck—he drew the same lot. His feel for the cast ceased to exist, as if he no longer held the power to read. “You can do this anytime you choose?” he asked.

  Karele nodded. “So long as Aurae guides me.”

  This troubled Errol. A small knot of distrust formed in his stomach. “What if Aurae decides not to guide you or suddenly chooses not to shield us from Valon’s readers?”

  Karele shrugged as if the question held no import. “Then we would be killed or captured.”

  “That’s small comfort. Why should I trust it?”

  This received a shake of the head. “Don’t you know Aurae is the spirit of Deas, Errol?”

  Errol shrugged. “No, not really. Some of what I know of Deas comes from the tales Conger has told me, or Martin’s liturgy, but mostly it comes from Antil.” Errol watched Karele’s face stiffen into a mask at the mention of Callowford’s priest.

  “Antil doesn’t speak for Deas, Errol.”

  He shrugged. “He says he does, just like you do. What’s the difference?”

  Kar
ele pointed south to the still-out-of-sight shoreline of Merakh that awaited two days hence. “With the help of Aurae, I can get you to Merakh.”

  Errol permitted himself a grudging nod. “Granted, but the way you hedge your speech and refuse to make guarantees reminds me too much of the churchmen I’ve known.”

  “Do you mean Martin?” Karele asked.

  “Among others. When you speak, I hear unspoken secrets running through your words.” Errol gestured at the ship, the sky, the water. “Churchmen and their secrets are the reason I’m in this mess. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I’ve been driven with a goad every step of the way—first to Erinon, now to Merakh.”

  As he spoke, he realized he wanted Martin’s confession, after all. What could a few words do to him that Antil’s whipping rod had not? “After I start getting the truth out of people, the whole truth, you might find me more willing to listen to your version of Deas.”

  If Karele took affront at his words, he showed no sign of it. His face softened before he spoke. “I hope you still feel that way once you get your secrets.” He moved away, his stride adapting to the pitch and roll of the ship as if adjusting to the gait of a horse.

  Errol, left alone with the consequences of their conversation, faced forward and closed his eyes to concentrate and enjoy the easing pressure in his mind where the compulsion lay. It hadn’t vanished completely. It wouldn’t leave unless and until Valon lay dead. He permitted himself a bitter snort. For all their talk of peace, the church had turned him into a glorified assassin.

  Hours later, a touch on his arm, light and tentative, broke his reverie. Adora stood behind him, her eyes pinched with worry, and something else. For a moment, he quailed and questioned his resolve, but he threw his shoulders back and gulped deep breaths of salty air. Martin, the whole church, owed him. He would never be able to extract a price for pain, but he could force them to tell him the truth. Gulls cried in the distance, harbingers of their destination, heralds of his appointment with death. By the three, they owed him.