Errol’s mouth dried. Some instinct that thrummed in time with his heartbeat screamed at him not to mention Merodach’s role in winning his freedom. “I was helped by a friend. I can’t say any more. I promised.”
The primus’s face clouded, even as the abbot’s became savage with glee.
Morin bowed again, but not as low this time. “The boy is less than forthcoming. I’m sure you are aware, Primus, that his activity is against the laws of the kingdom. If it became general knowledge that readers of the conclave were influencing commerce for personal profit, the outcry against your order would be deafening.”
“I am well-versed in the history of my order, good abbot,” the primus said.
Errol was unused to the politics of the church, but he recognized the threat behind Morin’s words. If the primus made him a reader, Caska would spread the tale of Errol’s actions and stoke public anger against all readers.
His hands itched for his staff.
The primus’s face clouded. “A serious matter,” he said, his jaws working. “What would you suggest, good abbot?”
Surprise wreathed the abbot’s features for the briefest of moments. Hunger flashed in the depths of his eyes before his deep bow hid it.
“The affairs of the order are your domain, Primus.” He straightened. “But as the boy says, he cast lots under threat. I suggest you simply send him back to his village. I am returning to Windridge fairly soon. He can travel with my retinue.”
As he said this last, the abbot’s eyes grew wide with hunger until the whites shone all around.
The primus bowed. “You are wise, good abbot. And your suggestion has merit.”
Luis made a strangled noise deep in his throat.
“But,” the primus went on, “the boy’s indiscretion is a threat to our order. As such it calls for something a bit, ah, more punitive than simple banishment.” He turned toward the blue-robed men assembled before him, men whose attention had fled as the conversation they had no part in had proceeded. “Quinn, would you come forth?”
A stork-like man with a short, iron-gray beard separated himself from the crowd and came forward. “How may I assist you, Primus?” His eyes had a tendency to wander in and out of focus, as if he had trouble concentrating.
“I’m afraid my memory for the minutiae of conclave law isn’t what it used to be, Master Quinn. What is the proscribed penalty for a reader of the conclave who casts lots for profit? Is it not true that penance of some sort is called for?”
Quinn didn’t hesitate. “The proscription against casting for profit was first enacted during the reign of Belron, eight hundred years ago. Offenders were beheaded. A hundred years later, two readers were condemned and were drawn and quartered. Nasty business that. Then, five hundred years ago, five readers were caught casting for gain. They were thrown from the highest tower. Perhaps the most inventive manner of execution came about—”
The primus held up a hand. “Thank you, Quinn. I think we know the essentials.”
They meant to kill him? Errol ached for the feel of ash wood in his hands. He took a step back in preparation to flee.
“Be still,” Luis whispered in his ear. “The primus could tell you what he had for breakfast on this day twenty years ago. He tests the abbot.”
Indeed, the abbot’s face shone with naked desire as they waited for Errol’s death sentence.
The leader of the conclave cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it would seem the way is clear. However, there is one small problem. The boy is not and never has been a reader of the conclave. Humph, not sure how we missed him. Everyone is supposed to be tested at the age of fourteen. If I remember correctly, cases where unattached readers are caught casting for profit are under the purview of the conclave.” The primus smiled. “That would mean me, good abbot. Death seems a bit harsh, but certainly there is some penance called for.”
Thwarted desire twisted the abbot’s face. Then a smile split his visage like a cut of violence. “I would be happy to oversee the boy’s penance, Primus. As an abbot, I have some experience in these matters.”
The primus nodded.
Errol knew without doubt that, should the primus place him under the abbot’s dominion, he would die.
He would fight first.
And live the rest of his life in hiding.
“You are generous,” the primus said, “but I want to ensure we make an example of the boy for those who think to test the seriousness of our order’s charge.”
The abbot opened his mouth to speak again, but the rap of the staff on the stone floor forbade any further discussion.
“Hearken,” the primus called. “It has been found that the supplicant, Errol Stone, has used his talent for earthly profit.”
The crowd of blue-robed readers gave a collective gasp. Gone were the half-bored looks and postures. They now regarded the men on the dais with pointed intensity.
“Further,” the primus continued, “he is denied entry to our order and remanded to serve penance for his transgression until such time as the primus, the archbenefice, or the king shall determine. Such penance shall begin immediately and be carried out within the boundaries of the royal compound.”
So they meant to hold him prisoner.
The abbot gnawed his lower lip, flecks of blood showing on his tongue. With a bow, he turned and strode from the chamber, almost running, bodyguard in lockstep two paces behind.
Two more raps from the staff signaled the end of the conclave’s meeting.
The primus stood on the dais until the last of the readers exited the hall before turning his attention to Luis. “The boy brings powerful and desperate enemies, Secondus. I think we should retire to my quarters. There is much you have to tell me, yes?”
With that, he turned and exited through a narrow door hidden at the back of the dais. Errol and Luis followed him down a dimly lit hallway. Guttering torches threw ghastly shadows against the walls as they walked. The primus caught Errol’s look and smiled.
“This hallway is rarely used anymore, and few know of it. In times past, the primus kept his quarters next to the hall of the conclave. I use them now for audiences instead of living space.” He chuckled. “They’re too dank for my old bones. I prefer the light of . . .”
His voice faded from Errol’s consciousness as they rounded a corner.
The smell of filth drifted to him.
Three hooded monks approached, heads bent and feet shuffling.
At ten paces, clawed hands emerged from their sleeves to throw off their robes. Errol looked on faces from a nightmare. Ferrals. Pointed teeth gleamed wetly in the dim light. Red eyes shone with insane hunger. Dagger-like nails flexed in anticipation, eager for blood.
The spoor of corruption filled the cramped space. Luis and the primus gaped as the things charged, too stunned to fight or even flee. Errol darted in front of the primus, grabbed his staff of office, and swung.
The iron-shod end cracked across the head of the lead attacker. Blood gushed, spattering the gray stone with crimson.
Errol backed away, trying to find room to fight. Unable to move, the primus and Luis blocked him. “Get behind me!”
Teeth ripped into his arm even as he thrust the end of the staff into the face of another attacker.
With a howl, the thing sprang at him with its claws outstretched.
He ducked, tearing his arm from the mouth of its fellow. With a wild swing, he smashed the staff end against the ferral, but the blow missed its head and landed instead against the shoulder.
They closed on him.
He didn’t have enough room. One or the other would take him. With a scream, Errol chose and aimed a crushing blow at the head of the ferral before him. The iron crunched through the creature’s skull and the ferral dropped. Errol spun, even as a keening howl filled the hall. The creature behind him lay on the floor.
A long dagger protruded from its chest. Luis worked to push it deeper still.
The primus shook himself. His eyes blinked
several times in rapid succession. “Quickly, we must get to my chambers. My guards are there. I’m a fool of an old man. This hallway is a death trap.”
The head of the conclave hiked up his robes and ran, leading them onward. Errol gripped the heavy staff, darting glances behind every few seconds.
Their hallway merged with a larger one, where the primus slowed and strode toward a door flanked by two men in black. “We’ve been attacked.” He pointed back the way they’d come. “The bodies are back there. Get them and place them in the old firing room.” His face grew stern. “Let no one see them. No one.”
The guards bowed in acknowledgment and the shorter one spoke. “Primus, let one of us run to the barracks to bring our relief.”
The old man shook his head. “No. The boy here can defend me at need. Get those bodies now.”
His tone brooked no disagreement. The guards left at a run.
“Inside,” the primus ordered.
His quarters were richly appointed. Heavy tapestries in shades of blue hung on the walls, and thick carpets silenced the sound of their steps.
Errol found his way to a chair. The rush of battle drained out of him, and his arm began to throb. He ripped back his sleeve. Deep gashes and punctures filled the area between elbow and wrist. Blood dripped a steady beat on the carpet.
“Here, boy.” The primus grabbed the hand of his wounded arm. In the other hand he held a decanter of a thin amber liquid. “This is likely to sting.” With a flick of his thumb he uncorked it and doused Errol’s wounds.
Fire raced up and down his arm. His arm felt as if it was being skinned. He ground his teeth. “What is that?”
“Skote,” the primus said. “Boy, you’ve just had the kingdom’s most expensive drink used on you to fight infection.”
Errol sniffed. The scent of alcohol hit his nose with the force of a blow from a practice sword. A sudden craving for ale passed over him, but the pang of the wound seemed to be dying.
The primus rounded on Luis. “All right, Secondus, let’s have it. What makes this boy so confounded important?”
Luis smiled. “Do you have a lot?”
The primus snorted. “Of course I do.” He angled his steps to one of the cabinets that lined one wall and opened the doors. Inside, resting on stands lined with dark velvet, lay dozens of stone spheres.
To Errol, they looked identical to the ones he’d first seen back in Martin’s cabin in Callowford, except the stone held a yellowish cast, as though the lots had aged. The primus reached out and picked one from the back row.
He brought it to Luis, his eyes wistful. “I haven’t looked at these in a while. They were my first cast as a master.” He regarded Errol. “That would have been about thirty years before you were born, boy.”
Luis nodded. “Give it to Errol.”
With an indulgent shrug, the primus put it in his hand.
“Read it, Errol,” Luis commanded.
“Come, Luis,” the primus said. “You know this is a waste of time.”
Errol turned the stone against the light. “It says Gallia.”
The blood drained from Enoch Sten’s face, etching his wrinkles in shock. He snatched the lot from Errol’s hands. “He’s an omne.” The primus backed toward a chair, felt behind him with one trembling arm for it as he sat. “By the three,” he whispered. “The boy’s an omne. And I just forbade him from the order and put him under penance.” The old man’s eyes glittered. “Why didn’t you tell me, Luis? Am I that undeserving of trust?”
Luis bowed his head. “There was no time, Primus. Immediately upon his arrival, I brought Errol to the conclave.”
The primus waved an imperious hand. “I think we can dispense with the titles, Luis. We’re not in the hall anymore. But did you not think to mention his existence in all these months since your return?”
“The truth is I thought he was dead, Enoch. We became separated when we were attacked by the abbot’s men in Windridge.”
Lips pressed together in disapproval. “Didn’t you cast lots to make sure?”
“Of course I did.” Luis shrugged. “Nine times out of ten, they showed him dead.”
Errol cleared his throat. “Anomar, the wife of the man who saved me, said I was more dead than alive for two weeks.” The conversation disturbed him. The primus had called him an omne. He’d never heard anyone, not even Conger, mention the term.
Enoch grew thoughtful. “That would do it. The histories record a few such cases. By the three, Luis, you should have made sure.”
“It was nine out of ten, Enoch.” Luis spread his arms in defense. “And we had reason for haste.” The primus nodded. “Aye. Does Martin know about the boy’s talent?”
Luis nodded. “He witnessed the boy’s testing.”
Errol had had enough. “What’s an omne?”
Enoch looked surprised by the question. “You didn’t tell him, Luis?”
Luis shrugged. “There were some compelling reasons not to.” He gave Errol a brief apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Errol.” He turned back to the primus. “Errol was in the ale barrel when we discovered his talent. At the time I didn’t want to burden him with more than the weight of his being a reader.” He grimaced. “You may want to put me in penance with the lad as well. I put a compulsion on him.”
The primus’s eyes grew wide and his lips paled in anger. “You did what?”
Luis shrugged. “It ended as soon as he presented himself to the conclave. I thought it would help guarantee his arrival. He was less than willing to accompany me at first.”
“Luis, you could have killed him!” Sten rubbed his temples. “With Johan Blik and Aurio Centez being killed months ago . . .”
Luis stared at the floor, shaking his head. “I didn’t know they were dead until I came to the isle. I didn’t consider that possibility when I put the compulsion on him.”
Sten sighed. “You’re the secondus now, Luis. It’s your job to consider every possibility. The conclave can’t confirm a cast without an omne. We were blind, and you had the answer all along.” He pointed to Errol. “You found the only omne we know of in Illustra, and you put him under a compulsion to drive him here. What if the compulsion had taken him while you were separated?”
“It did,” Errol said.
The two men looked at him as if his presence in the room surprised them.
“I found myself walking away from the morning sun as if I were dreaming. Rale had to slap me awake. They sent me on my way shortly after. As long as I was headed mostly west, I was okay.” He gave a lift of his shoulders.
“What’s an omne?” he repeated.
The primus appeared to ignore his question. “Luis, I’m tempted to give you a penance to make the boy’s look easy. An omne is one who can read lots cast by anyone,” he said without looking in Errol’s direction.
“Can’t everybody do that?”
The question seemed to stoke the primus’s anger. “By the three, Luis, didn’t you teach the boy anything?”
Luis smiled, his dark eyebrows arching over his deep brown eyes as he spread his hands in apology. “I’m sorry, Enoch. When I discovered the boy was an omne, I began teaching him right away, but he didn’t even know how to read. And I’m afraid that the most basic calculae of the order are still beyond him.”
Enoch nodded, conceding the point. He paced the rug, each foot placed slowly in front of the other. “I’m too old for this, Luis. The kingdom is tearing itself apart. Benefices and dukes are jockeying for position in their attempts to be the next king, and half the conclave is dead or missing. The king’s guard is down by half trying to find them. Two-thirds of the watch is across the strait. The southern provinces are screaming for help against the Merakhi invasion they think is coming, and someone is trying to blind the eyes of the kingdom by killing off our order.” Enoch flopped in a chair. “The scope of the boy’s talent must be kept hidden at all costs.”
He looked exhausted, his skin paper-thin, stretched across his skull.
Luis admitted the guards.
Their usual stoic expressions seemed to be fraying at the edges. The shorter guard’s eyes darted about the room as though he expected his nightmares to come for him at any moment. The taller stood with his jaw clenched. “The bodies have been stored, Primus,” the tall one said. “But they seem to be decaying more quickly than a . . . um . . . human body. Already the smell is considerable.”
Enoch nodded. “Thank you, Aden. Please send a messenger to the king. I request an audience at his earliest convenience.”
The watchman nodded and closed the door.
That was it? Surprised by the brief conversation, Errol cleared his throat in an attempt to catch the primus’s attention.
“Yes?”
He pointed at the closed door, beyond which the shorter watchman stood guard. “Aren’t you going to have them go after the abbot?”
Enoch smiled as if indulging a child. “Why would I do that?”
Errol fought to keep himself from screaming. “Because he’s the one who set the ferrals on us. He’s been trying to kill me since Windridge.”
The primus nodded. “Yes. No doubt the good abbot has much to account for, but without proof we can do little. And your suspicions, correct though they probably are, would be insufficient to convince the archbenefice and the king.”
Errol waved his hands at his surroundings. “Then cast lots. I’ll help make them.”
Enoch shook his head. “That is not possible. You are new to our order, so there is much you have to learn. After Magis’s war the provinces nearly descended into anarchy. The kingdom, welded together by desperation, fractured apart as provincial leaders fought for supremacy.” His tone became almost mournful. “They were aided in this by readers who obeyed no law but their own desire for power. Magis’s only surviving son, Magnus, decreed that all readers would henceforth be under the authority of the church, by compulsion if necessary.” Enoch Sten sighed. “It was a dark time, but after twenty years it was done.
A Cast of Stones Page 33
