A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  Garrigus jerked his head to the left. “This way.”

  Errol turned to the four men accompanying them. “Which two of you are the fastest runners?”

  The four exchanged glances and then two hands went up. “Soldiers Kernan and Torani,” Garrigus said.

  Errol pointed to the first man. “I want you to lead us back to the barracks. Stay fifty paces in front. If you see anyone in a cowl, yell a warning and run back to us. Don’t fight; just run. Understand?”

  The man’s face went stiff at the mention of running, but he nodded.

  Errol turned to the second man. “You’ll trail us by the same amount. If anything comes up behind us, yell and join us. Six swords are better than four.”

  The two men moved out, and Errol tasted sweat as he waited for Kernan to take his position. A moment and a wave from the lead man later, they started. He knew it was crazy, but he couldn’t seem to keep from smelling the air. Torani watched him, his face impassive as they opened up the distance behind.

  Kernan rounded a distant corner, and Errol strained his ears listening for echoes of flight or conflict.

  Nothing.

  He found himself walking on the balls of his feet and wondering how long he would be able to run before he collapsed from exhaustion. They turned the corner to see Kernan ahead of them, walking with the calm assurance of one of the watch, checking each cross corridor as he came to the intersection, before moving on.

  Errol exhaled and rolled his shoulders to ease the cramp between them. Perhaps he’d been worried about nothing.

  “FLY!”

  Torani’s scream filled his ears. Footsteps pounding stone sounded behind him.

  And the snarls of ferrals.

  Errol forced his legs into motion. Fresh sweat burst from him, stinging his eyes. Abruptly, the sounds behind him grew louder and he turned to see Torani flying, his cloak billowing behind.

  And then, twenty paces behind, came a wave of ferrals, low and running on all fours.

  “How . . . far to the . . . exit?” Errol panted. He could barely breathe.

  “Two more hallways,” the lieutenant said.

  A scream of defiance sounded from behind.

  Errol stumbled as he looked over his shoulder. Torani had turned, swinging wildly with his sword, trying to slow the tide of ferrals, attempting to hold them at bay.

  Selling his life dear.

  The ferrals bayed and howled as they swarmed Torani under, but yips of pain mixed with the snarls, and the wave slowed.

  The lieutenant tapped a man as they ran, and he slowed to take up a rearguard.

  “No,” Errol said. “We fight together. Do you hear me, Garrigus?”

  The man paused, looked at Garrigus. The lieutenant jerked his thumb back behind them and with a curt nod, the soldier dropped back.

  “Our orders come from Captain Reynald. Keep you safe at all cost,” Garrigus said.

  They ran on. Tears blurred his vision as the sound of whistling steel and snapping jaws came to him. Garrigus tapped another guard, and again, one of the watch drifted back to slow the attack.

  They rounded a corner. There at the far end of the hall, a broad set of stairs led to the exit. Errol stumbled. Hands on either side of him held him up, propelled him forward.

  Another watchman’s defiant screams filled the hall until they cut off in a bubbling gasp.

  He half fell, half ran down the stairs, making for the courtyard. Kernan waited for them at the bottom. As they passed through the door, Garrigus signaled the last two soldiers. They exited, then turned to hold the door closed, bracing it with their shoulders.

  “Guards!” Garrigus screamed. “Guards!”

  They ran on, the lieutenant screaming for the rest of the watch the whole way.

  By ones and twos, black-garbed watchmen and red-liveried palace guards joined them, drawn by the alarm. With curt gestures, Garrigus dispatched the men to assist Kernan and posted a ring of steel a dozen strong around Errol.

  Errol drew breath against the spots swimming in his vision. “Sarin’s rooms,” he said to the lieutenant. “We must have them.” Then he passed out.

  30

  SECRETS

  HE WOKE not in the infirmary but in Luis’s rooms. A whiff of acrid smoke drifted through the window. Questions filled him. He swung out of bed and stumbled into the sitting room to find Martin, Luis, and Cruk looking at him.

  “The lots?” he asked.

  “Safe,” Luis said, “so far as the ones you took.” The planes of his face hardened until they could have been stone. “Someone or something fired Sarin’s rooms during the attack.”

  A string of curses spilled from Errol. All that effort wasted. And three of the watch sacrificed so that he could escape. He filled a goblet with water and drained it. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to get enough to drink these days. He regarded the men he set out with a few months ago, time in which he’d learned to be suspicious. Why were all three of them there? And where was Liam? Illustra’s future king needed to be kept under lock and key until Rodran died. Martin should be with the Judica, and Cruk should be hunting the ferrals, finding their hiding place and their master.

  Errol said nothing. He’d learned to hold his tongue as well. If he asked why they all happened to be together, he would doubtless receive a very long answer that would be totally unhelpful. They wanted something from him, something more than to simply serve as bait. They must.

  He refilled the goblet, stalling, thinking. “They attacked us barely an hour after I left the infirmary for Sarin’s rooms.”

  The three nodded but didn’t speak. Oh, yes, they wanted something from him. He’d be lucky if he survived. He faced Luis. “Is it possible to cast someone’s thoughts or ideas if they haven’t had them yet?”

  The secondus shook his head. “No. And it is forbidden to try. The church does not allow divination.”

  “That wouldn’t trouble him. Sarin is somewhere close by,” Errol said.

  Luis shook his head. “Sarin is dead.”

  “No. I read his lots. Sarin is the one who tracked me, and I think he found a way to create a versis.” He waved Luis’s objection away. They could argue about it later. “I decided to search Sarin’s room on impulse. If they can’t cast my thoughts before I have them, then they’re close, very close.” He turned to Martin. “Where’s Liam? He’s in danger.”

  Martin adjusted his bulk in the large, high-backed chair. “Liam returned from the chase a few hours ago. He’s safe, but he lost the trail of the ferrals.”

  “Where are the lots I took from Sarin’s room?”

  At a nod from Luis, Cruk went to a large oak cabinet and retrieved a thin-walled crate filled with the lots from Sarin’s cabinets. He placed it on the table with a clunk in front of Errol.

  Cruk, Martin, and Luis all looked at him with interest, but did they trust him? “What oath can I take to convince you that what I’m about to tell you of these lots is the simple truth?”

  Luis hung his head, trying to hide a shamefaced look. Cruk pursed his lips, but whatever emotions lurked behind the expression, Errol couldn’t tell. He sat with his arms folded, a weapon to be used or directed at its target.

  Martin smiled; his mouth quirked to one side in a rueful grin. “You surpass us, Errol. I believe you will give us the truth, though we cannot reciprocate if you ask.”

  So, it was as he suspected. “What oath can you give me that I can trust?”

  The priest-now-benefice nodded. “I swear that what we do is in the best interest of the kingdom and its people.”

  Errol snorted. “Am I included in those people, Martin? Are you doing what is in my best interest?”

  Tension spiked in the room. Cruk’s hand lay closer to his hilt now.

  Martin sighed. “We all must make sacrifices, Errol.”

  Errol laughed, but the sound became harsh in an instant as something welled up from deep within him and hot, angry tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “I thought you
were my friends. Was I ever anything more than an expendable pawn for you to use to put Liam on the throne?”

  Luis and Martin turned away. Only Cruk held his gaze. “No, boy, you weren’t.”

  For some reason this honest blow sobered Errol’s emotions.

  Cruk stood. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Do you think you’re the only one who’s expendable?” He moved his hand in a circle taking them all in. “We are all expendable, all of us pawns against the enemy. If Martin tells me Liam must take the throne when Rodran dies or else the kingdom is lost, then everyone else becomes secondary.” He moved forward, put his hand on his shoulder. “And I am your friend.”

  Errol turned away, found Luis gazing at him. “He’s right,” the secondus said. “We are your friends. You are like an unexpected jewel, Errol, an omne of the conclave and an honorary captain of the watch. Do not think less of yourself because the kingdom’s interests must take priority over yours and ours. Brave men have sacrificed themselves so that you could live. You are a great weapon against the enemy.”

  He turned to Martin. The old priest’s brown eyes were like chips of dark slate under his sable eyebrows. He possessed steel enough in his backbone for a dozen of the watch. The hermit who had once lived along the Sprata had been left behind. “I can’t give you what you most want, Errol. I wish to Deas I could.”

  “And what is it you think I most want?”

  Martin pulled at the muscles of his jaw. “You are looking for family, Errol. I’ve seen the way you look at people, boy, the way you catalog their faces, recording the details of their countenance just before you lift a hand to touch your nose or your lips or any of the other features you possess.” He turned his head slowly to look at Cruk. “Luis, Cruk, and I came too late to your village. You were already an orphan by the time we arrived. We never knew what Warrel said to you as he lay dying.

  “We don’t know who your father is, who your parents are.”

  The priest’s observation struck too deep for response. Errol grabbed a lot from the box and thrust it against the light, knowing what he would see as he did so. He’d read this lot in Sarin’s apartments. “This one has two names on it, Liam’s and mine.”

  He put the wooden sphere to one side, grabbed another. In his peripheral vision he saw Luis and Martin go pale.

  “That’s not supposed to be possible,” Luis said.

  “This one says the same.” He grabbed another. “And this.” A dark stone, nearly black, came to his hand next and he rotated it slowly against the light. Luis had recovered enough self-possession to fetch pen and paper to record what Errol saw.

  “This one says Yes,” Errol said. “And this one, No.”

  A dozen more lots composed of different stone and wood reflected the same, either Yes or No.

  Martin touched Luis on the shoulder. “What does it mean?”

  Luis shook his head in doubt. “I don’t know. Sarin was brilliant but erratic.” He pulled a frown. “Enoch says Sarin changed. He became secretive, staying in his rooms constantly toward the end, coming out only once or twice a week for more blanks before going back in.”

  Errol saw a pair of lots he recognized toward the bottom of the pile and pulled them out. “This one says Callowford.” He rolled it across the table toward Luis with a negligent flip of his wrist. “And this one, Windridge.” A push and it joined the other one.

  Luis looked at him, stricken. “Sarin,” he whispered.

  They went through the lots one at a time. Errol read the words written there and Luis wrote them down. By the time they’d finished, every city and village Errol and Liam had traveled through filled the list. Luis no longer doubted.

  Sarin lived.

  “How did you know, Errol?” Martin asked.

  Errol shrugged. “I didn’t. I thought Sarin had created a versis and been killed for it. Then we went inside his apartments and I saw the bloodstains on the floor, and I began to suspect.”

  “What did that have to do with anything?” Cruk asked.

  “Lieutenant Garrigus told me Sarin was the only reader killed in his room. All the rest after him were taken unawares in the hallway. Even Sarin would have enough sense to lock his door. And his face was missing. They identified his body by the rings on his fingers. I think Sarin lured someone to his apartments where the ferrals were waiting. Then he slipped out of the city.”

  “But he has to be close. It makes sense now. Morin knew where to send the ferrals because Sarin knew about the primus’s secret hallway.”

  Cruk breathed an oath. “They mean to attack the palace. Most of the guards are still in the infirmary.”

  Luis bolted from his chair. The legs rattled on the floor. “Come, Errol. We must get to the primus. We will marshal the resources of the conclave and track Sarin down, sector by sector, and building by building.” He chewed his words, biting them off in staccato bursts. “We will find that traitor and his

  ferrals.”

  “He’ll know we’re coming,” Errol said.

  Luis stopped at the door. “The conclave is still two hundred strong. We will know where he is inside the hour. It’s time to show your power, Errol.”

  Martin and Cruk turned to follow.

  The conclave assembled in the expansive workroom. Primus Sten stood leaning on his staff before the blue-robed mass of readers, snapping out commands in crisp tones. A large map of the city covered one wall, showing each section and even each building in detail. Next to it an equally impressive drawing depicted the entire island. The primus took a stick of chalk and divided the city map into quarters and with whiplike precision assigned buildings to each of the readers.

  One fellow, short and thick-bodied with dark hair and a beard, called for Enoch’s attention from the second row. “Primus, it will take hours to cast Sarin’s hiding place.”

  A smile wreathed Enoch’s face and he nodded assent to the reader’s concern. “Then we best be about it. Quickly, gentlemen, quickly.”

  The men attacked a small mountain of pine cubes with their knives, and the whispers of steel against wood filled the room.

  In ten minutes, a blank for every building in the city had been carved and polished. The lots were deposited in a large barrel turned on its side and mounted on an axis. Slowly, so as not to damage the wooden spheres, a reader turned the barrel. The noise of hundreds of lots banging against the sides filled the hall with thunder.

  The primus turned and beckoned him with one hand. “Errol, come make the draw.”

  Every eye watched him as he stepped to the now-still drum and unbolted the small door built into its side. He reached in and pulled the first lot to come against his hand.

  In a clear voice that could be heard throughout the hall the primus commanded him, “Read it, Errol.”

  The bearded reader’s voice cut in. “He didn’t carve any of the lots; he can’t possibly read it.”

  The head of the conclave surveyed the waiting readers, obviously savoring the moment. “Ah, but he can.”

  Excited whispers filled the hall as Errol turned the lot, searching for the words he knew to be there. “Watch barracks,” he said.

  A short, red-haired man jumped from his seat at the back of the room and ran forward to snatch the lot from Errol’s hand. With a practiced twist he rotated the pine. He gasped, the intake of his breath audible in the silence.

  “It’s true.” He pointed at Errol, his hand trembling. “He’s an omne.”

  The hall erupted into bedlam, and Errol found himself mobbed by men who’d barely acknowledged his existence before. Only the pounding of the primus’s staff against the floor restored order.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. We have work to do.”

  At Enoch’s direction he replaced the lot and the barrel spun again. An absolute stillness enveloped the hall as two hundred readers held their collective breath when Errol moved to select again.

  “The Lot and Crown,” Errol said. The lot he’d drawn was linked to the largest inn the imp
erial city boasted, and it was not the barracks. Again one of the readers came forward to confirm his draw, but disappointment etched the pale man’s face. With a sigh, he nodded after taking a brief look at the surface of the lot.

  They spun the barrel eight more times at Master Quinn’s behest. The intricacies of conclave protocol were under his purview and he stood at the right hand of the primus, directing the number of turns of the barrel.

  Each draw produced a different lot.

  The primus nodded in resignation. “They are not in the city. We must cast our net wider.”

  The conclave reassembled at the map of the island, where Enoch wielded his piece of chalk like a weapon, dividing the island of Erinon first into circular sections akin to those on an archer’s target and then with radial lines to yield a number of arced sectors. Then he numbered each of the sections. There were fewer of these than before, so only the fastest readers crafted lots.

  Once again the primus directed Errol toward the casting barrel. The lots cascaded against the hollow steel, and the sound of drumming filled the hall.

  Errol reached into the darkened interior of the barrel and selected the cast. He turned it against the light, read the inscription, and held the sphere aloft. “Section seventeen.”

  A tall, bald man, almost gaunt, with a neatly trimmed beard stepped forward and with a slow, serious nod confirmed Errol’s draw. “Ayuh,” he said, drawing the word out. “That’s mine.”

  Errol replaced the lot, and Master Quinn stepped forward to spin the barrel himself.

  His fingers trembled as he loosened the access panel on the barrel and selected a lot. Errol closed his eyes and grabbed the first sphere that fell against his suddenly clammy hand. When he saw the lettering, he thrust his arm into the air, jubilation pounding in his voice. “Seventeen!”

  Two hundred blue-robed readers roared their approval until the hammering of the primus’s staff restored order.

  He addressed the tall reader with the beard. “Adept Gregoro, please confirm the draw.”