A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  But he wouldn’t leave. Absurdly, an image of sun-kissed hair filled his mind—an image of Adora, the king’s niece. He shook his head at his folly. Blind, stupid fool.

  The king must have misread his train of thought. “No? You mean to deny your kingdom this chance to unmask its enemies?”

  Startled, Errol shook himself. “No, Your Majesty, I do not. What is your command?”

  Footsteps sounded behind him on the path he walked from the barracks courtyard to the conclave, the same path he’d trod at the same hour of the morning for the past five days. High in the barracks and the conclave and the palace, men of the watch observed him, waiting for the enemy to make their move. The plan was simple—observe and wait for the enemy to attack, and then respond with enough force to drive them off without killing them.

  Then follow.

  Simple, they said. Somehow Errol didn’t think so.

  The steps came closer. He breathed through his nose, trying to catch a whiff of corruption, but the breeze, soft as it was, caressed his face and then blew past him. If someone snuck up on him, it wouldn’t be smell that gave them away. He twitched his shoulders and clenched his staff. One hand slid up to check the knobblock fastened to the end. Plan or not, he would do his best to kill any of those things if they came near.

  Two monks, their faces hidden, bumped him as they passed by. His heart stopped in his chest, but his nose registered only the usual smell of unwashed men, nothing more. He slumped in relief.

  Late that afternoon, he would retrace his steps, ostensibly to continue his duties as staff master for the watch, but in reality to entice an attack. He straightened and quickened his pace.

  Moments later, in the comfort of crowded hallways in the conclave, he made his way to the main workroom. An acolyte in a plain gray smock greeted him at the door and took him to a corner of the room filled with square blanks of wood and stone. Master Quinn gave him a welcoming smile and waved him to a seat in front of a table laid with a variety of tools.

  “Now, Errol, we will continue where we left off yesterday,” Quinn said. “Your aptitude with wood is considerable, but your knowledge of the properties of each variety needs work. Now, you are most familiar with pine.” He paused.

  Errol dutifully picked up the pine blank.

  “Now”—he tapped another piece of wood—“this?”

  “Poplar,” Errol said. “Slightly denser than pine and of a finer grain, it allows the reader to make more casts with greater accuracy than pine.” He completed the recitation and reflected he’d never been more bored in his life. For the next thirty minutes he parroted the previous day’s lectures about each type of wood on the table. And every time he questioned the master on why he needed to know all the minutiae behind casting wood lots, Quinn gave the same answer.

  “Tradition provides the bedrock of our craft.”

  Which sounded like an excuse not to answer.

  Still, he persisted in asking even the most basic questions. “Why are lots round? Why not make it a different shape, or even put multiple answers on a single lot, like a cube?”

  Master Quinn’s beard quivered with affront at his queries, and his head trembled at the end of his long neck, as if Errol had uttered some sort of blasphemy.

  “That’s enough about wood,” Quinn said. His voice took on the clipped tones of someone who wanted to change the subject. “Let us begin your education in stone.” And the lessons in wood were repeated almost verbatim—except they talked about rocks instead.

  After the second hour of hearing about the different properties of marble, granite, limestone, and a dozen other varieties of rock, Errol worked up the courage to ask a question that had nagged him since his time with the caravan.

  “Why do we have to make different lots every time we want to cast?”

  Quinn’s eyebrow rose, and he looked on the verge of repeating his previous admonition on tradition, but at last he nodded. “You’ve stumbled on a question that has vexed the conclave since its founding. Many have sought the answer, both philosophically and practically. Their efforts are recorded in the scroll room, and they failed on both accounts.

  “Fifteen hundred years ago, Finn Maccol theorized that if a reader could hold more than one image in his mind simultaneously, it would be possible to create a lot that held multiple answers.” He shrugged his thin shoulders and turned to take in the entirety of the conclave with a wave. “A hundred years later, Dieter Klose postulated the existence of what he called the versis. It was a simple extrapolation, really, and utterly impossible, of course. But then . . .”

  “Your pardon, Master,” Errol interrupted. “What exactly is a versis?”

  Quinn looked at Errol as if he’d forgotten he was there. “Hmmm? Oh yes, well, it’s a universal lot, a single lot that can be used to cast the answer to any question. It’s a ridiculous idea, of course. A reader would have to be able to hold an infinite number of images in his head at once. Sarin Valon—brilliant man—was a bit obsessed with the idea of making one. He had an incredible mind.”

  “Had?” Errol asked. “Who was Sarin Valon?”

  Quinn looked surprised for a moment. “Ah, yes, you’ve only recently come to the isle. Sarin was secondus of the conclave and the most brilliant mind to come to us in generations. He died in an attack a few months ago.”

  After their first meeting with the primus, Luis explained he’d been elevated after the recent death of the former secondus, but he had refused to explain further. Errol leaned forward, eager for details Quinn might provide—both of Sarin and the versis.

  The man shuddered. “Gruesome. His body was mauled beyond recognition. We had to identify him by the rings on his torn hands. He made the versis his life’s pursuit. As I said, it’s beyond human ability, and that’s to say nothing of the impossibility of creating the physical lot itself.”

  Errol shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would that be impossible?”

  Quinn sighed in irritation. “Haven’t you been listening? The act of casting lots produces imperfections, nicks or dents, in the wood or stone. The broader the question, the longer it takes to cast a definitive answer, and the less reliable the results become.”

  “But, Master Quinn, if someone created a versis, the lot wouldn’t degrade. There would be no other lots in the drawing for it to hit.”

  Quinn’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “I never thought of that.” He looked around, his birdlike head darting this way and that. He snatched up a block of limestone, the softest rock the conclave used for lots of any kind, and thrust it at Errol. “Here, sculpt a lot from this. It doesn’t matter to what. I’ve got to get to the library. You’ve given me an idea.” And the master flew from Errol’s presence, leaving him holding the grayish lump.

  Quinn had said the versis could answer any question. Could that be how his enemies were able to track him with such precision? He placed the limestone cube back on the table and sought out Luis.

  He found him in one of the small private workrooms designated for use by the secondus, perched at a table by the window and sanding a piece of pure white durastone that shone with reflected light. Luis’s hands hovered over the stone, and he paused at odd moments, whereupon he would take up a piece of emery cloth and brush the surface. Luis seemed unaware of his presence, and for a moment he was tempted to read the cast Luis had placed within the stone. He even leaned forward to search the gleam for the choice written there, but at the last instant, he backed off, clearing his throat.

  Luis started and turned. Seeing him, he gave a nervous laugh, wrapped the unfinished lot in dark cloth, and placed it in a cabinet, which he locked. The set of his shoulders relaxed, and he regarded Errol with a friendly smile. “How go your lessons with Master Quinn?”

  Errol gave a wry grin, not wanting to give offense. “Master Quinn sets a lot of store by conclave tradition. He doesn’t always appreciate questions.”

  Luis chuckled. “He hasn’t changed much since he was my teacher, then.”
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  “I did manage to get him to answer a few,” Errol said. “He told me about Sarin and the versis.”

  Luis betrayed no surprise but grew still, very still. “Really?”

  Errol nodded. “Yes. You know what I think? I think Sarin was able to create a versis, someone killed him for it, and they’ve been using it to track me.”

  Luis darted a glance over his shoulder, but the doorway remained empty. “It’s true the secondus pursued the versis. Ever since it became obvious the king wouldn’t be able to sire an heir, Sarin sought the universal lot. For years he pursued its creation until it became an obsession. In a way, Sarin’s death was a release for him. He’d become . . . unstable.” Luis shook his head. “The versis remains, and will always remain, a myth. It’s better that way.”

  “Why?”

  “The power to know everything is too much temptation for any man. In spite of what the people of the kingdom think, there are limitations to what is possible for the conclave—and that’s a good thing. I disliked the ambition that drove Sarin to seek the versis. The primus suspected Sarin of seeking forbidden means to his ambition. He disappeared for months at a time, refusing to answer any questions about his whereabouts upon his return.”

  Luis turned away, ending the conversation, but the idea of the versis nagged at Errol. Somewhere in the jumble of everything that had occurred in the past few months, something nagged at him. Someone, or something, had tracked him across the entire kingdom no matter how fast he’d traveled.

  What could do such a thing, if not a versis?

  Errol returned to the arched workroom of the conclave. At the table set aside for his use, he considered the piece of limestone. Questions bounced around his mind like minnows darting through the depths of a pool. Something hunted him, but in the hunting, they’d left a clue to their power.

  If only he could reason it out.

  An hour later, the rock, uncarved and uncut, remained in his hand as his ignorance mocked him. His instincts told him he was on the right track. He knew it. Yet he lacked the background knowledge to make sense of what was happening. The gaps in his understanding frustrated him. With reluctance, he slid from his stool to remove the heavy blue canvas smock and exit the workroom. Errol took his staff and went in search of the conclave library and Master Quinn. He found the stork-like man submerged in a rack of scrolls, mumbling over a yellowed parchment. Errol sighed. The master was unlikely to appreciate an interruption.

  “Master Quinn?”

  No response.

  “Master Quinn, I have a question.”

  The white-haired man raised his hand in a request for quiet. After a moment, he lifted his head. “Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. I can’t remember why I came in here, but I found the most amazing treatise on the implications of varying wood grain on lot accuracy.”

  Errol managed not to roll his eyes. Just.

  “Can you show me where I can find all the scrolls on the versis, Master Quinn?”

  The old man’s attention had already returned to his study. He waved his hand toward a high bookcase on his right. “The scrolls and codex are arranged by date and name. Look for Dieter Klose. Year 1557, I think.”

  A half hour later, his eyes watery from the disturbed dust, Errol’s fist closed in triumph around a large codex bound in brass and leather. With a soft clatter he deposited the book on an empty table as close to Master Quinn as he dared. He still lacked confidence in his reading and wanted to be near the master in case he needed to ask for help.

  His fears were well-founded. From the very first page, it became obvious that Klose had enjoyed the finest education in the kingdom. His command of language and the technical terms he used to describe the minutiae of the casting process befuddled Errol. After he sought Quinn for the fifth time, his finger pressed on the codex under yet another indecipherable word, the master huffed his displeasure and led him to a large set of curved bookcases that formed the center of the library.

  He pointed. “This is the core section. Here you will find reference tomes that will provide you with the definitions of the terms we use in our work.” Quinn pulled out a well-worn volume and shoved it against Errol’s chest. “As well as a general-purpose dictionary that was used during Klose’s time.” He plopped a dusty volume onto the first.

  Errol sneezed.

  “Now, please let me read,” Quinn said.

  Errol retreated with his books to the table to try to puzzle meaning from Dieter Klose’s writings. For hours he slogged through it until his eyes blurred from the strain and his head hurt. Errol reached out and lifted the pages he’d read, pinching them together to see how far he’d come and how far he had to go.

  He sighed. Over three-fourths of the volume remained and he wasn’t even sure if Klose’s book held the information he needed. Outside, the sun dipped toward the western horizon. Errol left the books on the table, marking his spot and signing his name on the sheet to notify the keeper not to return them to their shelves.

  28

  RIDDLES FROM THE PAST

  FOR DAYS Errol followed the routine laid out for him by the king, the primus, and the archbenefice. He served in his capacity as staff instructor for the watch in the morning hours, walked as bait through the halls of the palace complex at the prescribed times, and spent the remainder of his time learning the craft of a reader.

  This morning, like the others before it, he searched the crowd around the barracks courtyard for the shine of sun-blond hair that belonged to Adora. After a moment in which only less-inspiring shades were visible, he found it. As always, it framed a face of delicate features and deep green eyes. A sprinkling of freckles dotted her nose. She sat with her cousin Lady Edara, Lord Weir, and two other girls, fanning herself and watching the young nobles in their instruction. His heart leapt and fell at the instant of her sighting, thrilled to see her but filled as well with hopelessness.

  Even had he not been a peasant, however temporarily elevated, he knew nothing about how to approach a young noblewoman. The rudiments of courtship remained unknown to him. Adora and her friends used their fans to communicate as often as they spoke, and their table had become an aviary of brightly colored visitors. For some reason he couldn’t discern, the women surrounding the courtyard seemed particularly attentive this morning, eager. Even Weir, whose dislike for him intensified daily, looked with anticipation toward the sparring ground.

  Captain Reynald strode from the depth of the barracks, his face wreathed in a smile of anticipation. “Errol, we have a treat this morning—a new sparring partner for you.”

  Errol turned to see Liam at Reynald’s side, holding a practice sword and dressed in black. Liam had joined the watch. His fellow villager came forward, smiled in welcome, and held out his hand. “Errol, it’s good to see you. They told me you’d survived Windridge, but seeing the news confirmed is a pleasure.”

  He shook hands. Over the expanse of Liam’s shoulder, he could see women on the edge of the courtyard leaning forward—their gazes riveted to Liam, and their fans moving now to dissipate a momentary heat instead of communicating. Of course. Liam always had that effect on women. With chagrin, Errol noted that even Adora gazed at him.

  “Liam bested me eight times out of ten yesterday,” Reynald said. “I promised him a more suitable opponent today.”

  Liam gave him a warm, sincere smile. “I understand I wasn’t the only one who bested the watch. Your exploits with the staff are on everyone’s lips, Errol.”

  With a twinge of disappointment, Errol realized Liam meant every word. Human foibles such as jealously and envy were beneath and beyond him. A small voice told Errol that was only as it should be. The king should be the best. Errol started at the realization he would be sparring with the future king. Mistakes happened during bouts. Swords splintered and staffs broke, exposing dangerous, even deadly, points.

  The kingdom couldn’t afford such an accident. Not with Liam.

  Captain Reynald’s hand dropped. From the first, it
became apparent to Errol that he would not be able to wear Liam down as he had Weir. The sword streaked toward him as if Liam had cast a lightning bolt. The future king’s strength meant even the slightest twitch of his wrist sent the staves leaping at him.

  The staff and the sword buzzed and hissed through the air as stroke met counterstroke. Errol’s concern for Liam vanished as he moved. Glimmers of thought flashed through his mind, but one stood out from the others. Liam was better than Skorik.

  Had they fought a month or even as recently as two weeks ago, Errol would have lost, but constant use with the staff had honed his abilities to a razor’s edge. Another thought came to him: his skill matched Liam’s. True, he could find no opening in the man’s defenses, but neither had Liam been able to land a blow.

  Back and forth they moved across the courtyard, blows moving faster than thought. Then, so slight that it might not have been there, Liam’s foot slipped, and for the merest fraction of an instant his balance suffered.

  An opening appeared. It would take a combination of blows to exploit, but it was there. Errol would win. For the first time in his life, he had the chance to be better at something than Liam.

  And that was enough.

  He stepped back, grounding his staff and sucking air into his burning lungs.

  Liam stopped, a grin splitting his face under thick blond hair. He bowed. “I think I need to practice my footwork.”

  “Magnificent!” Reynald crowed, slapping them each on the back in turn. He looked over at the assembled nobles and laughed. “And totally useless from an instructional standpoint. Yon nobles doubtless were unable to follow your bout. I could barely follow it myself.