A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  “No, why do they keep attacking me, in spite of my fighting them off ?” He watched Luis’s face as the secondus pondered the question, searching for any sign of untruth or dissembling.

  The reader leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is as the archbenefice said, they sense some threat in you.”

  Errol laughed, his mirth sounding like a sigh of wind. “You give me thoughtful answers that don’t tell me anything, Luis. Tell me, how many attacks have come against Liam since Windridge?”

  Luis leaned back, his face impassive.

  “If you don’t answer, Luis, I will simply ask Liam the next time I see him. He’ll tell me. He’s incapable of lying.”

  The sound of a sigh ghosted to him. “You’re right, of course. The truth is he has not been attacked—none of us has been. Only you and certain readers of the conclave have been targeted, and only you have survived. Yet, Liam has been surrounded by men, offering little opportunity for the enemy to strike.”

  The long familiar stab of jealousy struck Errol again at the mention of Liam’s name, but time and circumstances had served to lessen its impact. Memory came to him then. “What did the Merakhi mean when she called him soteregia?”

  Luis grew still. “It’s an old word, so old that most people would no longer know its meaning, though the tongue is ours. It means savior and king. Since the time of Magis, every king of Illustra has borne the title of Soteregia. The word is engraved across the royal seal.”

  It made sense. Liam would be the savior and king of Illustra. He searched the ward. A healer’s assistant, tall and clothed in white, stood by the entrance, too far away to hear their conversation.

  “Is that the question you spent the last five years casting?”

  Luis nodded. “It’s practically all I’ve thought of for that time.” He laughed, and a network of wrinkles made crow’s-feet around his brown eyes. Light from candles danced from the smooth dome of his bald head. “I’m looking forward to the day when I can concentrate on something else.”

  “But if Liam is so important, why do they keep attacking me?”

  “It is impossible to know what is behind their actions.” The reader’s face stretched in a rueful grimace. “We don’t even know who our enemies are. More, we can’t be certain how much knowledge of you and Liam they possess. They know you can defend yourself—else they would not have risked sending five ferrals to attack you. They know your village of birth, and by now they must know that you are attached to the conclave. I pray they do not know you are an omne, but the possibility cannot be discounted.

  “Yet I think our enemy knows something about you that we do not, something beyond even your ability as an omne.” He pulled at his jaw, and his eyes focused somewhere above Errol’s head. “It may be that they cast against their greatest threat and determined it was you. If that is so, then they may not know exactly what makes you dangerous to them and they simply seek to kill you. In truth, their inability to see Liam as a threat is just as troubling. Either our craft has betrayed us or there is a power at work we do not understand.

  “I must ask your pardon, Errol, and I think Martin seeks your forgiveness as well. We underestimated the determination of the enemy and so thought you would be safe with a pair of the watch to guard you. In that, we were wrong.”

  The mention of the watchmen who had trailed him for days waiting for just such an attack prompted him. “What of the guards? They were not with me when I was attacked.”

  Luis shook his head. “Once you were moved to the infirmary, Cruk went in search of them. I have never seen him so angry. I think he meant to convey his displeasure at their failure with some physical demonstration.

  “What he found shook him.” He lowered his gaze until he looked Errol in the eyes. “Your guards are dead, taken by surprise. They raised no alarm. Their throats were torn out.”

  Errol’s vision swam and he slept.

  A bar of slowly moving sunlight moving across his face woke him. He thought of food first. His next thought was an awareness of Adora seated in a chair by his bed. As before, her presence fuddled him, and he felt an odd comfort in the knowledge that he couldn’t trip over his own feet there in the infirmary.

  “How . . .” he started and then thought better of it. “What’s the hour?”

  Her hair caught a shaft of sunlight and held it. “It’s midmorning.” She smiled, and her green eyes shone. “My uncle has forbidden disclosure of your attack. He doesn’t want to alarm the people, but I overheard two of the watch talking and thought you might want something better to eat than the food the healers offer.”

  She lifted a cloth from the tray. The aroma of food flooded over him, and his stomach growled. Adora laughed. “I think I came just in time.” Placing the tray on his lap, she handed him a fork and knife.

  Errol looked at the utensils, his face burning. “Your Highness . . .”

  “Adora,” she corrected.

  He nodded. “A-dora.” His lips stumbled over her name as if he had never heard or thought it before. “I’m unfamiliar with the manners of court. I would ask your pardon if my ways seem offensive.”

  She straightened, and her posture and tone became formal. “Errol Stone, you will not offend me unless you continue to think that I would place so high a value on such things.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness . . . uh, Adora.” Grabbing his fork and knife, he proceeded to attack the mountain of food on the tray.

  “I thought that since you needed time to eat without the burden of questions, I could teach you the basics of the fan language.” She smiled. “Would you like that?”

  He nodded.

  She pulled a blue-and-green fan out of her sleeve and, with a well-practiced flick of her wrist, snapped it open and began fanning herself. “If a woman fans herself slowly, it means she is at peace with herself and those around her.” The fan moved more quickly. “This means she is agitated with her present company and desires them to leave.”

  Errol swallowed. “What about the signal you gave me at the courtyard.”

  Adora’s cheeks pinked, but she gave no other sign that his question bothered her. “This . . .” She tapped the fan against her ear and ran it along her jaw. “I was telling you that I would like to talk with you sometime.” She dropped her gaze. “It was an improper thing to say to someone I’d never met before. My mother always told me I spoke my mind too quickly.” She moved to make another motion with the fan.

  “I saw you in the city the day I arrived,” Errol said.

  Her fan stopped, obscuring half her face. “I often visit the shops.” Adora’s tone created distance between them.

  Errol pressed on anyway. “Is a healer’s shop among them? I passed one on the way in. I have heard that lemongrass makes soulsease tea a little easier to drink.”

  The princess dropped her fan, scanned the infirmary before speaking. “Please don’t tell anyone, Errol. Uncle would be furious.”

  “I won’t. Why do you do it?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes I do it to pick up information that I think Uncle needs to know. Most courtiers never leave the palace. The only reports we get from the city are from the guard. Mostly I do it because the people of Erinon need help. Nobody in the palace really needs me, but they do.”

  A weight in his gut forced the next question from his lips. “Did you come to see me for the same reason you go to Healer Norv’s?”

  She gave a small shake of her head, her hair flaring in the light. “No.”

  “Then why are you here?” he asked.

  “To bring you food and teach you the fan language.”

  He shook his head. “The infirmary would feed me, though not half so well, and though I appreciate your company, it is unlikely that I will ever need to know the fan language.” At the risk of driving her away, he repeated his question. “Why are you here?”

  Her eyes darkened from the shade of spring to that of storm-tossed seas. “I told you before that not all women seek perfect
ion. I saw the mercy you gave Weir at our first meeting—mercy he didn’t deserve—and recognized something rare in you. As for the fan language . . .” She snapped hers shut and rose to leave. “You may be surprised by what you may need to know in the future.”

  Errol passed the next two days in the infirmary, eating and drinking as much food and water as he could cram down. On the third day he woke to the sound of panic—clipped voices shouted instructions. Healers and guards swarmed into the infirmary.

  One of the healers waved his arms. “Cots! And clear out the next ward. Get these men down and get as much water into them as you can.” A flood of pale-faced guards, some being carried, others shambling, came into the ward.

  Errol levered himself out of bed, did his best to ignore the way the room swam when he moved. Leaning on his staff, he tugged the sleeve of the nearest healer. “Put one of them here.”

  The man gave him a considering look, then called instructions. Two orderlies deposited a guard still wearing the red livery of his station into the bed. The man’s eyes fluttered against flushed cheeks and he shook as if chilled.

  “What happened?” Errol shouted to the healer who’d tended him, hunted for the man’s name. “Healer Ian, what happened?”

  Tall, with blond hair and a ruddy complexion, the healer snapped a quick instruction before answering. “Food poisoning. If we don’t get water into these men, we’re going to start losing them.”

  Errol shouted to be heard above the clamor. “Bad food or poison in the food?”

  Ian Thorsund shook his head.

  Alarm surged through him. The enemy’s noose around the island tightened inexorably. What could he do that they wouldn’t expect?

  Errol staggered his way through the press of incoming healers and sick and stepped out of the infirmary. At the entrance, six watchmen stepped away from the wall and formed a protective ring around him. The polished wood of his staff burdened him even without the weight of the knobblocks, and he used it as a walking stick. Its clack as he worked his way back to the conclave echoed hollowly. None of the king’s guard patrolled the halls.

  The sounds of strident voices, the sound of panic, splintered the air. What could he do? Lieutenant Garrigus, the officer he’d fought when he first arrived, headed the detail charged with keeping him safe in the hallways.

  The hallways.

  A flash of insight jolted him where he stood. He grabbed the shoulder of the nearest guard to steady himself and turned to Garrigus. “Lieutenant, I mean to search the rooms of Sarin Valon, and I won’t be asking permission. If you have any objection, you’re welcome to safeguard anything I remove from there until we can get it to the primus. Is this acceptable?”

  A moment passed as they walked together. The lieutenant’s lips pursed in thought. At last he nodded. “As far as the watch is concerned, you have the authority of a captain. How are you regarded in the conclave?”

  He laughed. “To Master Quinn, I am the newest and lowliest apprentice, an ignorant boy who asks too many questions. I have no authority in the conclave to commandeer the belongings of Sarin Valon.”

  The lieutenant smiled, showing even, white teeth. “If trouble comes of it, I will simply say I was afraid of another beating if I disobeyed you.”

  Errol smiled in surprise. “Thank you, though if it comes to it, I think you’ll be hard-pressed to convince anyone of that. Right now, I’m doing well to keep moving.” As if to prove his point, sweat beaded on his forehead and his breathing became labored.

  “Perhaps we should stop for a rest, Captain.”

  “No. I must look at Sarin’s room now, before the turmoil dies down.”

  The trip from the infirmary to the second level of the conclave left him pale and shaking. He stumbled at the landing and only the lieutenant’s quick grab of Errol’s elbow kept him upright. Sarin’s door was the third on the left, broad and carved of a deep red wood polished to almost mirror brightness. Errol’s reflection looked back at him in lurid detail, giving him a deathly cast.

  The door was locked.

  “Force it,” Errol said.

  The lieutenant nodded to one of his men, a thick-bodied Bellian that reminded Errol of Sven. The sharp retort of wood splintering sounded through the hallway, but no one came to investigate.

  Sarin’s rooms were large and spacious with a broad fireplace in the sitting room and a bedroom and library on one side. The other side held a private workroom.

  In the middle of the sitting room, a large, irregular black stain marred the floor. Errol pointed to it. “Is that where they found the body?”

  “Yes.”

  Errol stared at the irregular discoloration on the floor as if it held the answer to his questions. “How many of the readers were killed in their rooms?”

  The lieutenant squinted at him. “Only Sarin Valon.”

  Errol faced the watchmen and pointed. “I want four guards at the door, swords ready. The lieutenant will accompany me throughout Sarin’s quarters. If we find anything of import, we will leave and go directly to the primus.”

  He forced his steps into the library. Books and scrolls filled the shelves. A thin layer of dust covered each volume. Errol examined a sampling of Valon’s library, starting each at the beginning until he determined the subject matter. After half an hour he turned and led the way to the workroom.

  Implements of every conceivable shape and size filled the space. Stone and wood blanks formed a neat stack against one wall. Errol took time to sort through some of them, curious. Wood and stone of types he had never before seen were mixed among more common types. A line of cabinets lined the opposite wall.

  He tried one door after another. Without exception, they were all locked. “Lieutenant, would you open these cabinets? I doubt I have the strength for it at present.”

  The sounds of splintering wood filled the apartment as Lieutenant Garrigus systematically forced the paneled doors. Errol stepped forward, raising himself on tiptoes to peer into the first cabinet.

  His breath caught.

  Never in his life or dreams had he seen so many lots together in one place. Why, in the first cabinet alone there must have been hundreds, stacked to fill the space like so much cordwood. Polished wood of a dozen varieties gleamed, mixed with shining stone spheres that reflected the light in glittering hues. He moved to the next cabinet. It was the same, and the one after, and the one after that.

  Whatever Sarin’s killer had been after, it hadn’t been these lots. Errol moved back to the first cabinet and cautiously extended his hand to select a lot from the top. He gave a small chuckle, envisioning the chaos that would ensue if he took one from the bottom of the pile. Lots would cascade from the cabinet in a clatter that would last for several minutes and take an hour to clean up.

  He held the sphere, an orange-hued polished maple lot, up to the light. The perfection of it made the pine lots he’d carved for Naaman Ru seem coarse in comparison. Conscious of Garrigus watching him, he assayed an attempt at conversation. “Amazing, aren’t they?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “One looks much like another to me, a child’s toy.”

  Errol laughed at that. “I used to play stones in my village, but we never had anything as perfect as these.” He would have said more, but at that moment, the light caught on letters, and he stopped, his mouth open and his words dying on his tongue.

  Sarin had sought the versis. Quinn had said so; old, eccentric Quinn, who looked upon Errol as just another apprentice; Quinn, who had no reason to lie.

  Errol continued to turn the lot, looking for any other writing, testing his suspicions. There. He turned abruptly. “Lieutenant, find something we can use to transport lots. Something large. I have the feeling there will be others.”

  Garrigus’s presence receded from Errol’s awareness. Only the cabinets and their contents existed for him now. He took the next lot and held it to the light, his movements quick and precise. Two words gleamed, the same two words as before. He tossed the lot to the sur
prised lieutenant, who entered the room holding a large cloth square that looked to have been cut from Sarin’s sheets. Before the lot landed in Garrigus’s hand he’d already selected another, his heart racing and his mouth dry.

  Again.

  His hands shook as he pulled a fourth lot from the stack. The same two words gleamed on the polished surface as before.

  Liam’s name.

  And his own.

  His feet told him to run, find Martin, Luis, and Cruk and tell them of his find. Even now his unseen enemy might know Errol stood in Sarin’s apartment. He hoped four guards would be enough to discourage attack.

  He rushed to the second cabinet and grabbed a pair of lots. Turning them as fast as he dared, he searched for whatever words lay there.

  When he saw them, a fist closed about his heart. Callowford. Berea. He thrust the lots at the lieutenant. “Here. We must hurry.”

  Garrigus’s dark brows rose in surprise. “Why?”

  “We’re in danger. From the moment we entered this room.” Sweat stung his eyes, and he cudgeled his mind for a decision. He longed, oh, how he longed, to remain and plumb the depth of Sarin’s knowledge.

  But to stay meant death.

  They would have to leave, but should he take all the watchmen with him to keep safe or leave behind a guard to watch over the room and its contents? No, whoever he left behind would be dead in minutes.

  Errol threw himself at the cabinets, his mind made up. He grabbed handfuls of lots from each of them and thrust them at the lieutenant. His hair stood on end, and he found himself sniffing the air, testing for the smell of filth and corruption.

  He pointed toward the door. “Let’s go, quickly.”

  As they crossed the threshold back into the hallway, Garrigus tapped him on the shoulder and nodded back toward Sarin’s rooms. “Should I leave a man to guard the door?”

  Errol shook his head. “Only if you mean for him to die. We’re not safe here. What’s the most direct route back to the barracks?”