Myrrha’s laughter, deep and throaty for a girl whose age did not exceed his own, took him by surprise. His head snapped to the left to see her carrying a basket of eggs across the yard and eyeing him broadly. She darted glances left and right before she spoke. “You could do with a few more weeks of food and work with the staff before strutting in your smallclothes, but you’re not half bad to look upon.” She finished with an exaggerated wink and a slow head-to-toe gaze that made Errol’s face flame into crimson. Her laughter followed his hasty retreat into the cottage.
During breakfast, he told Anomar about his experience, careful to omit her daughter’s comments. To his surprise, she nodded as though she’d expected no less.
“You’ve been here more than four weeks. If the reader did lay the compulsion on you, then you can expect something to happen.” Her eyes turned serious, almost sad. “I’ve only heard of the compulsion twice in my life, but it’s never been denied. It will grow stronger with each passing day, moving from your dreams into your waking hours.” She laid bread and cheese on his plate. “You’ll be leaving soon, I think. Best to build up your strength before you go.”
Errol spent the next few days working with Rale on the farm and trying to eat the mountain of food Anomar piled in front of him. His hips and legs complained with a persistent ache that no amount of exercise with the staff could relieve.
One afternoon, when a warm southerly wind ruffled his hair and carried the scent of honeysuckle, Rale stepped back to consider him. He wore a thoughtful frown and then walked to where Errol stood. “You’re growing.”
Errol felt a flush of warmth as though the other man had just paid him a sought-after compliment. After Warrel died, the other boys in the village and almost all those that passed through with the caravans had been taller than he. “Really?” The smile stretched across his face.
Rale nodded, without smiling. “Aye. You’ll have to be careful. Your strike distance will be different, and if you’re like most lads, you’ll be awkward until you get used to the change.” He tapped Errol’s chest with a thick forefinger. “Be careful. Clumsy fighters don’t win very often.”
Errol’s grin subsided, but Rale’s tone couldn’t erase it completely. “I will be, but I’m still glad to be growing.”
Rale smirked in response. “Aye. No one can blame you for that.”
At noon the next day, Errol let the axe slip from his fingers in the middle of splitting wood and walked west. He made it nearly half a mile before unseen hands shook him and brought him back to self-awareness.
Errol blinked against sweat he only just noticed, jerked in surprise to find Rale in front of him. “Where am I going?”
Rale looked back in the direction of the farmhouse. “West. You’ll have to leave tomorrow. The church’s call is getting too strong. Better you leave at a time of your own choosing than to have the compulsion take you unawares.” His face became as hard as stone. “Churchmen. You could put blisters on your feet or walk until you dropped dead from lack of food and never know what killed you. Come. I’ll take you back to the cabin. Anomar and Myrrha will want to fuss over you one last night before you leave. I’ll go into the village and get some supplies you’ll need for your journey.”
Errol accepted the man’s decision without argument. Rale was much like Cruk in this respect as well—if he said something was so, then it was a very good chance it was so.
The sun’s last rays streamed through the kitchen window, casting long shadows that striped the light in the cabin as Rale came through the door. He slammed it closed behind him in haste and checked the window, holding one hand up for silence.
He faced Errol, his eyes hard, angry. “You’re leaving, boy.”
Errol nodded. “I know.”
Rale shook his head. “No. I mean you’re leaving tonight, as soon as it gets full dark.”
Myrrha stood. “Why, Da?”
“There are men in the village, looking for a lad that fits Errol’s description.”
Errol’s heart skipped a beat, and he stood. “My friends. Can you take me to them?”
Rale’s growl warned him. “I think I know the difference between friends and enemies, boy. These are guards from the cathedral at Windridge. They have a writ from the abbot accusing you of the death of their captain. I listened for a bit. They’re not giving any details on your crime.”
Errol’s insides tried to escape in any number of directions without him, and he sat in stunned amazement. “But, but surely I can wait ’til morning, can’t I?”
Rale’s expression said plainly he could not. “They’ve got a reader with them. I only caught a glimpse because he was surrounded by guards, but he was carving pine lots like he had demons chasing him.”
Anomar gave a sharp intake of breath. “A reader so far away from the capital? How can that be?”
Her husband shrugged off the question. “Strange times. And two of the guards wore the black of the watch.” His face twisted and he shook his head. “As I recall, they’re not supposed to leave the king. The abbot is using them like hounds with the reader to guide them. They know Errol’s near the village.”
Errol shook his head in mute denial. No. It couldn’t be. How could they even know he was alive, much less somewhere near the village? “That’s impossible.”
Rale snorted without humor. “Boy, they’ve got a reader with them, and something about him has his guards more than a little scared. I haven’t seen men snap to orders like that since the war.” He gave him a look of exasperation. “How much did Luis tell you about what readers can do?”
“He didn’t talk about how much—mostly it was just him telling me how.” At Rale’s look, his voice strengthened. “We didn’t have much time. We were too busy running from Merodach and whoever else we thought was trying to kill us. That put a damper on our conversation. He carved a pair of lots out of wood to choose which way to run.” He still felt a sense of wonderment. “It kept coming up Windridge.” He lifted his shoulders. “You know what happened after that.”
Anomar stepped behind him, laid her hands on his shoulders. Her touch felt warm through Errol’s shirt, but he sensed worry in the tightness in her fingers.
Rale sighed. “Think, boy. Think. If all you had to do to know anything, anything at all, was to carve a few round balls out of wood or stone, do you know how much power that would give you?”
Errol’s mind reeled. It couldn’t be true. “Luis never said anything about that.”
Rale squinted as if he had a headache. “Readers are dangerous, boy—not because they’re evil, but because there’s so little that can be hidden from them.”
“But they’re churchmen,” Errol said. “Don’t they help people?”
Rale pulled in a breath, let it out slowly. “Boy, a man is either born with the ability to be a reader or not. It’s like having blue eyes or a natural ability with the sword. Readers work for the church because King Magnus wanted to cement the provinces under the crown. He instituted the test and gave the church permission to compel anyone with the ability to Erinon.”
Errol’s heart seemed to be trying to break free of his chest. “But how could they know I’m alive, or that I’m here?”
A string of curses, the sounds of Rale’s frustration, battered his ears. “All they have to do is find someone that knows you. It’s not perfect, but with enough throws it’ll do the trick. Try to understand this. They find someone who can describe you; what you look like, how you act, the fact that you like to drink—or used to. Then they carve two lots. One lot says Alive and the other, Dead. A couple dozen draws later, they have their answer.”
“Why a couple dozen?” Errol asked. “When Luis had me draw to choose cities, I did it less than ten times, and only that much because he wanted to prove that casting lots really worked.”
Rale nodded impatiently. “Yes, because he knew the cities himself. You wouldn’t have drawn the other city more than two times out of ten. But if a reader doesn’t know someone directly, he can still use
the knowledge from someone else. After that, it’s just a matter of drawing the lots often enough to get a clear answer.” He lifted a hand, pulled at his jaw muscles. “After they determined you were alive, finding you was easy. They wouldn’t need to know you then, just the villages in the area.”
This pronouncement hit Errol’s thoughts like a whirlwind. That something so simple could hold so much power, that he held so much power, astonished him. A thought struck him like a blow to the stomach. “But they’re already in your village. They’ll be drawing lots to see which family I’m with.”
Anomar’s hands tightened on his shoulders.
At the same time, Rale nodded. “That’s right, boy. And darkness won’t slow them down. These people want you, and they’re not of a mind to wait.”
His stomach seemed to be trying to drop through his legs onto the floor. He stood, but Rale waved him down at the same time he lifted his gaze to Anomar. “Pack him as much food as he can carry. I’ll saddle Midnight.” He turned back to Errol, untied a pouch at his belt, and shook loose a pair of heavy iron tubes on the table.
Errol lifted one. It was closed on one end. “What are these?”
“Knobblocks.” Rale’s tone was grim. “I picked them up after I saw the abbot’s men in the village. I’ve never cared much for them myself, but I fear you’re going to find them useful. Look inside.”
He turned the tube so the light from the lamp shone down into it. Twin barbs stuck out from either side. “What are they for?”
“They go over the end of your staff. The barbs keep the weights from slipping off.” He sighed. “With those on, you can kill or cripple a man with a single blow. But be careful of them—until you get used to their weight, they’ll slow you down. Work with them each day until you’re as fast with them as without.”
“But I’m not ready! I can’t fight!” Errol shook his head in denial. “I can barely touch you one time in ten.”
Anomar turned from the bag she was loading with cheese, bread, and dried meat. “He touched you? More than once?”
Rale nodded, and a rueful grin pulled his mouth to one side. “Maybe I’m slowing down a bit.” He gave Errol a wink.
His wife shook her head. “Not likely. I’ve watched you every day for the last ten years.” She favored Errol with a gaze made all of respect. “You must have a talent for the staff, Errol. No one touches Rale unless he lets them.”
The thought struck him again how much Rale reminded him of Cruk. He knew fighting at least as well as Cruk, and he knew other things as well. “Who are you, Rale? You’re not really just a farmer.”
Those somber eyes measured him, nodding. “If you can stay out of the ale barrel, I think you just might live. You’re learning to think.” He rose. “But we don’t have time for the tale.” Rale crossed the cottage, took the bag of food from Anomar, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and turned toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave, Errol. I’ll guide you to the river. Follow it southwest until you hit Longhollow. Travel at night. Rest during the day and work the staff as much as you can. When you get to Longhollow, sign with one of the merchant trains as a guard. They don’t pay much, but you’ll be almost invisible, and it’ll get you to Erinon.” He shrugged. “After that, get to the conclave. Try to find your friends.”
Errol saw Rale’s eyes squint as he said this last and knew what the warrior-farmer purposely had not said.
If they still lived.
He cupped the heavy knobblocks in one hand, his imagination conjuring images of blood and pain. Those two pieces of iron communicated Rale’s concern. The man didn’t expect him to survive. He followed Rale to the door of the cottage, where Myrrha stood with tears brimming that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Her lower lip trembled before she took it between her teeth. She put her arms around his neck and managed a quivering smile that looked ready to flee at any moment. “I would have liked to see you in your smallclothes once you’d spent time with the knobblocks.” She tried to laugh, but the sound broke into splinters. Myrrha leaned forward so quickly Errol had no time to dodge. She caught him in a fierce embrace and kissed him on the lips.
Errol stood dumbfounded, tasting salt as she turned and ran to her room. Anomar studied him with a mix of emotions on her face he couldn’t hope to untangle, but there didn’t seem to be any anger present.
Rale opened the door, and Errol followed him into the night. A crescent moon glowed softly above the eastern horizon, casting tenuous shadows limned in silver. The farmer’s voice came as a murmur from his left. “You’ll have about two and a half weeks of moon to travel by before you lose her light altogether. Stick to the riverbanks, so you can see. Hide among the trees during the day. Midnight will graze along the way.”
A hand, hard and callused, gripped his arm. “Trust no one you meet along the river. Someone powerful wants you dead, boy.”
The pressure on his arm eased and they proceeded to the barn, where Rale saddled the black gelding and tied the bag of food onto its back.
“I’ll lead you to the river. I know the path even in the dark. After that, ride and keep your ears open.”
Errol nodded, then blushed at his foolishness for doing so when Rale couldn’t see. They left the barn, Midnight’s hooves making a soft padding sound on the dirt that changed to a swish as they circled around and entered the tall grass. The river lay a mile to the north, though the distance stretched in the dark and quiet.
The moon had just started to rise off the horizon when Rale led him through a copse of cedar trees, fragrant in the stillness, and the river came into view. Scant moonlight blocked by clouds sparkled off the water, dancing, uncaring of dangers or fears.
Rale’s voice sounded close. “Mount up. One last piece of advice on the staff—don’t hesitate to kill if you have to. Deas knows your enemies won’t.”
Errol’s throat closed on his words. Rale and Anomar’s cottage was the closest thing to home he’d had since Warrel died. And though he wouldn’t have said so aloud, especially where Anomar could hear him, Myrrha intrigued him, and the idea of her wanting to see him in his smallclothes, even as a jest, flattered him. Leaving them all behind felt like having pricklehog quills pulled out of his flesh.
He thrust out his hand, waved it from side to side until it bumped into Rale. The big man took Errol’s hand in his own, gripped it hard.
“Boy, if you live, I’d enjoy hearing the story of how you managed it.” His voice, rough as always, held a note of warmth, and Errol laughed in spite of himself.
“I don’t know how good I am at fighting, but I’m really good at running away. I don’t want to die.”
A chuckle rumbled in response. “You’re an honest lad, Errol Stone. Mind, you don’t tell anyone you’re a reader. The church isn’t universally loved, and there’s more than a few that put the blame on the readers misusing their power. Best if you just pretend to be an orphan out to see the world as a caravan guard.”
Errol laughed. “That shouldn’t be too hard. That’s pretty much what I am.”
He waited for a moment for Rale to say something more, but the air stilled, and he sensed his teacher had already begun his journey back to the cottage. He twitched the reins to direct Midnight’s head west and resolved to ride until the sky brightened.
13
THE ROAD TO LONGHOLLOW
THE WEIGHT of solitude descended upon Errol as he rode. The noise of tree frogs and the occasional animal cry served only to accentuate his isolation. Each step of Midnight’s hooves took him farther away from the warmth and security of Rale and Anomar’s hospitality. He would have stayed with them if he could have—if the church’s compulsion and the abbot’s search hadn’t driven him from cover like a hunted animal.
Hours slipped by, marked by the steady plodding of Midnight’s steps and the moon’s glint on the river that flowed on his left. In the dark, he imagined that he didn’t really move at all, merely pretended to in a scene that never changed. Only the moon betr
ayed the passage of time, rising higher from her unveiling in the east until it reached its zenith and began its descent to the west. When it stood a handsbreadth above the horizon, the sky in the east began to change from black to gray and then, finally, to a ruddy crimson.
A large stand of cedar and pine presented itself to his right, and Errol made for it. He dismounted and unsaddled Midnight, using thick handfuls of grass to rub the big gelding down before he staked the leads so his mount could graze in the clearing. The horse confirmed his suspicions about Rale. Though Midnight was past his prime, it was clear what he had once been—no farmer needed a destrier like that.
He ate from the provisions Anomar had packed for him. She kept a well-stocked larder and, it seemed, possessed a strong maternal instinct. The food she’d provided was the best she had to offer, but as he sat alone, without Rale, Anomar, or Myrrha to share it with him, his meal tasted like dirt.
His body craved sleep, and the sun’s rising only accentuated his fatigue, but he brushed the crumbs from his trousers and hefted his staff. Rolling his head to loosen the muscles in his neck, he stifled a yawn, pulled the knobblocks from his pocket, and fit them over the ends, tapping the butt of the staff against a nearby tree until he felt the ash bottom against the iron. Curious, he hefted the newly weighted staff in one hand. The iron pieces weren’t that heavy, really. How much difference could they make?
When he took the first swing, he got his answer. The knobblocks’ weight, multiplied by the distance along the staff from his hands, made the ash feel as heavy as iron. Errol went through the forms against a small sapling. Every move he made crept at half speed. Before five minutes passed, sweat poured down his back. The more he tried to move the wood at its accustomed pace, the slower it seemed to go.
Twenty minutes in, he stopped, gasping, his shoulders refusing even to lift the weighted staff, much less swing it with any threat or authority. He plopped on the ground, hung his head, panting like a dog. “Rale wasn’t kidding. At this rate it’ll take me forever to muscle up enough to use the staff with these things on it.”
A Cast of Stones Page 17
