Rodran, his legs trembling with the effort, lowered himself onto his throne. Six watchmen circled him, blades drawn. The primus and the archbenefice stood just outside the protective ring. Off to the left, Martin and Luis conferred, heads close and speaking in tones that didn’t carry.
A palace guard poured water over the unconscious figure of the abbot, and two men of the watch hauled him to his feet. He hung in their grip, shaking his head.
Cruk knotted a fist in the abbot’s hair and lifted his head. “Who ordered the attack?”
Morin spluttered, and at first Errol thought he must be coughing. Then the abbot’s voice firmed and Errol stepped back in disbelief. The abbot of Windridge was laughing.
Rodran pushed himself up out of his chair and gave a curt nod to Cruk. “Bring him to my private audience chamber.” The grand leonine head of the king surveyed his throne room. “And alert my chamberlain. Tell him to have the staff clean this mess.”
Errol turned to make his way toward his quarters. If he slept for a week, it might be enough to wash away a fatigue so deep it made his bones ache.
Before he’d taken two steps, Luis touched him on the elbow. “I think you should be there, Errol. The king may need to know your part with the abbot.”
He let his shoulders slump in surrender. With a sigh he turned and followed the group from the hall.
Compared to the throne room, the king’s private audience chamber seemed cramped. The dais that held a more comfortable version of the throne rose three steps from the floor and the low-backed benches that lined the walls only accommodated scores, not thousands. Other than that, the two rooms were decorated in similar styles—rugs lined the floors, marble busts filled small alcoves along the wall, and the deep purple banners that signified royalty hung behind Rodran’s seat.
In addition to the king and his six guards, the primus, the archbenefice of Erinon, Cruk, Captain Reynald, and Luis stood in attendance near the throne. At least a score of other people crowded toward the front, where a pair of watchmen kept a tight grip on the abbot.
Rodran settled himself in his chair, then pointed at the abbot of Windridge, his hand shaking with rage or age or both. “I will have the information I want, Abbot. Whether you give it to me willingly or unwillingly is of little concern. The conclave will test your words to see if they are true and if they are complete.” He leaned forward, his rheumy old man’s eyes boring into the despised churchman. “You will not be allowed to die until I am certain you have told us everything.” His lips curled in an imitation of a smile. “It takes a lot to make me certain.”
Errol sagged onto one of the benches, sweat soaking his tunic to leave patches of darkened cloth that clung to his skin. He hardly cared. Blood from a shallow ferral bite flowed down his leg, warm and ticklish. He’d have to see one of the healers. The wound would foul if he didn’t.
In front of the king, the abbot continued to laugh, and he looked around the room with an imperious gaze, as though the audience had been assembled for his amusement. A crimson rivulet stained his chin. The light in the disgraced churchman’s eyes danced as his deliberate gaze took in each face. More than one of those in attendance broke away from his insane stare. Morin only cackled in response.
When the abbot’s dark, dark eyes came to rest on Errol, the light danced and the smile changed into a rictus of insatiable hate. With a howl of rage, Morin smashed his elbow into one guard’s nose and kneed the other in the groin, but before he could leap to attack, a half dozen watchmen weighed in and forced him to the floor through sheer numbers. Ropes were brought and one was tied to each arm and leg with a guardsman to hold it. The abbot returned to his scan as if nothing had happened, quietly searching each face in the room until he spied Liam standing to one side. He threw himself against the ropes, fighting to reach Liam until the guards pulled his feet out to send him sprawling across the floor.
Rodran leaned toward the archbenefice, his face troubled. “Mayhap, Bertrand, this is something you should deal with before we ask any questions.”
With a nod the archbenefice descended the steps, his crosier held in front like a weapon, and approached the frothing abbot. “I adjure you by the three, speak your name.”
The light of insanity faded from the abbot’s eyes. For a moment they looked normal, dark brown and lucid. Morin threw himself to his knees attempting to kiss the ring of the archbenefice, who stepped back out of reach. “I’m Morin, Your Excellency. Don’t you know me?” He looked around at the audience, scared and afraid. “How did I get here?”
Bertrand Cannon, archbenefice of Erinon, scowled at this and stepped closer, resting his staff of office on the abbot’s forehead. “I adjure you by the three, speak your name!”
Tears poured down Morin’s face in a constant stream, even as his mouth twisted and ragged laughter poured from his throat like a curse.
“Diabous.”
The archbenefice’s face hardened in determination and his voice rose and crackled with the power of command. “Come out of him, Diabous.”
Morin bared his teeth like a ferral and spat. “You have not that power. I am here at his invitation.”
Affronted, the archbenefice stepped forward and gripped the abbot’s face in one hand. “Then, by the power given me, I command you to be silent.”
The abbot flailed his arms, forcing the archbenefice back. Then he raised his head and howled. The hair on Errol’s neck stood on end, called him a fool for being there. Morin, or whatever was left of him, fell to the floor panting.
Bertrand Cannon regarded him a moment, his head cocked in consideration, before turning to ascend the steps to stand by the king once more. “I think you can ask your questions now, Your Majesty.”
Instead of speaking, the king nodded once toward the primus, and the first of the conclave approached Morin. He stopped short of the man’s reach and cleared his throat. “Morin, can you hear me?”
Whimpers came from the floor. The abbot sat up, hugged his knees to his chest. “I want to go home,” he said in a small voice.
“Mayhap in a while, Morin,” the primus said. “First, I want you to tell me where Sarin Valon is.”
Morin rocked back and forth like a child trying to shield himself from punishment. “When he found out you were coming, he fled to Port City.”
Silence filled the chamber as the primus signaled Luis, who began whittling a pair of pine lots with furious strokes. After ten minutes of carving and sanding, the lots were deposited into a makeshift bag and Errol was commanded to come forward to draw.
He stood before the primus, his legs shaking like a newborn colt’s.
Enoch looked at him, sympathy written in his eyes. “Just a little longer, Errol. I know you’re tired.”
He reached into the bag and drew. “It says Yes. Does that mean he’s telling the truth?” Luis nodded, and Errol put the lot carefully back in the bag and waited for the secondus to shake before he drew again.
“No.” He had enough experience now to know what would come next. After a series of draws during which Morin gurgled and sobbed from his position on the floor, no clear answer to the primus’s question could be determined.
Luis turned to the primus and gave a small shake of his head. Enoch Sten sighed and came forward once more. “Morin, can you hear me?”
“Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yesssssssssssssss.”
“Do you know where Sarin is?”
Morin buried his head between his knees, still rocking to some unheard rhythm. “No-no-noooooooooooo.” The word died in a soft wail.
Luis went aside and began work on another pair of lots. His motions were less urgent this time and a look of frustrated disgust wreathed his features as he carved. Minutes later, during which Errol could only listen to the mad raving of the abbot, he came forward with another pair of lots.
After a score of draws which failed to yield an answer, the primus sighed and approached Rodran. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, our art is confounded.”
Th
e king’s jaw worked back and forth before speaking. “How, Primus?”
“I know not, sire. It may be that the abbot’s mind is broken by his possession so that he no longer knows truth from falsehood. Or it may be the malus that possesses him, though silent, works against us still.”
“So we are left blind to our attackers?” the king asked, his voice laced with accusation. “Can none here suggest a way to force the truth from this wretch?”
Perhaps it was because he was so tired. Possibly he just wanted an excuse to leave the hall. Errol spoke out loud before he was fully conscious of it. “An herbwoman might be able to get the abbot to speak.”
“What?” The king leaned forward. “Speak up, boy.”
Martin gave his head a shake and the archbenefice of Erinon looked as though someone had substituted vinegar for his communal wine.
Errol didn’t care. “An herbwoman, sire. The ones I ran into all had veritmoss. It makes people tell the truth.”
Bertrand Cannon’s face darkened, but a raised hand from the king cut off any protest the clergyman or any other spectator might have voiced.
Rodran surveyed the crowd in the small chamber once more. “I want an herbwoman found.” He looked on Morin with disgust. “And I want to know the depth of this man’s treachery.”
The archbenefice of Erinon cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, the church’s proscription against consorting with evil spirits precludes us from using such a woman.”
Errol had had enough—enough fighting, enough talking, and enough of churchmen who prattled on in their ignorance.
“The herbwomen I know never consorted with evil spirits,” he said. Martin and Luis stood to one side, giving small but frantic signals to keep quiet. He didn’t care.
“And you know this to be a fact, boy?” Archbenefice Cannon asked.
Errol shrugged. “No.”
“As I expected. Your Majesty, these herb—”
“But I don’t have to,” Errol continued.
Rodran leaned forward, resting an elbow on one knee as he skewered Errol with his gaze. “Explain this, lad. I would have the truth.”
Errol turned from the archbenefice and sketched a ragged, tired bow toward the throne. “Your Majesty, in my village there was an herbwoman. She was kind to me. She fed me when I was hungry and took care of me when I’d fallen in the ale barrel.” To one side the archbenefice snorted in dismissal. “And,” Errol continued, “when Luis discovered I had the gift to be a reader, she told me to come to Erinon, said that I was a good man, and that the kingdom had need of good men. That doesn’t sound like someone evil to me.
“But if you want to make sure the herbwomen aren’t evil, test them. Cast lots to see.”
The archbenefice’s face clouded, threatened to break into storm any moment, but the king looked thoughtful. He turned, addressed the primus. “Can this be done?”
Primus Enoch Sten licked his lips, eyeing the archbenefice. Then he nodded. “Yes, sire. The cast is a simple yes or no question.”
Rodran leaned back, his breath coming in short gasps. “Then get an herbwoman in here, test her, and pry the information out of this wretch.” He waved a tremulous hand at the crowd. “Now all of you go away. You make me tired.”
With a grateful sigh, Errol sought his bed.
32
THE NEED OF THE KINGDOM
A WEEK LATER, Errol stood outside Rodran’s throne room, scratching at the blue doublet that tickled his throat. His second encounter with Oliver Turing, the king’s chamberlain, had gone even worse than the first. The chamberlain, given several days in which to make Errol acceptable for his presentation to the king, had embarked—in his own words—on a daring reclamation project.
Errol wasn’t even sure what reclamation meant, but it didn’t sound complimentary. However, there’d been little choice in the matter. The chamberlain, along with his minions, Charlotte and Will, had poked, prodded, plucked, and primped until they’d deemed him fit for viewing.
As they waited outside the throne room, Turing grabbed Errol’s hand and pulled it away from his throat. “Good heavens, boy. Are you trying to undo three days’ worth of work in a few minutes? Red scratch marks on your neck will distract everyone from your perfection. Now, be still.”
Martin’s chuckles drifted to him from across the antechamber. The priest sat at the end of a line that held Luis, Liam, and Cruk.
Errol caught Liam’s gaze with a tentative wave. “What’s it going to be like?” Liam’s ceremony had occurred two days ago, and Errol had been honored to be a part of it. For the first time Errol could remember, Liam’s perfection failed to rouse jealousy in him; he could only feel awe.
“You were there,” Liam said. His blue eyes twinkled, and he gave a shrug of his beefy shoulders. “Hasn’t the chamberlain told you what to do?” He gave a mock shudder. “Even I would be afraid to fight that man.”
Errol snorted at the joke and shook his head. “Told me? He had me down here for hours last night, rehearsing the whole thing.” Errol jabbed a finger in the air. “Stand here, boy. Walk this way, boy. Bow like this, boy.” He rolled his eyes and pivoted to address the chamberlain. “You’re in the wrong profession, sir. You need to sign up with the watch.”
Turing smirked. “I am sure it would be easier than making rough young men presentable, but the king needs me where I am.”
Out of a need to calm his nerves, Errol walked to the large double doors that opened to the entrance hall leading to the king’s throne room. “What’s taking them so long?”
Martin’s face turned grave. “They’re probably waiting for Rodran to arrive.”
A stab of ice pierced him. If—no, when—Rodran died . . . “Is he okay? What’s going to happen when he dies, Martin?”
The priest shrugged. “Rodran is old, Errol. All the power of the kingdom can’t change the immutable reality that, soon or late, a man dies. We don’t know what will come. There has always been an heir in the past.”
Errol wiped a hand across his face, remembering the ferrals. “But if the barrier comes down . . .”
“Don’t borrow trouble, boy,” Cruk said.
A knock at the doors preceded the appearance of a king’s guard, his red-and-gold uniform spotless and his brass buttons burnished to brilliance. “It’s time,” he announced.
Errol, his nerves stretched to breaking by the interminable wait, darted to the entrance. Martin, Liam, Cruk, and Luis formed a line behind him. Oliver Turing poked his head into the room. “Are we ready?”
A different guard opened the other door, and the little company proceeded into the entrance hall. In slow, measured steps, under Turing’s guidance, they approached the throne room. At the broad opening they halted as the herald rapped his steel-shod staff upon the floor seven times.
“Hearken and hear! Hearken and hear!”
The buzz of thousands of voices faded to nothing in an instant. The herald rapped his staff upon the floor another seven times and repeated the call to attention, “Hearken and hear! Hearken and hear!” The bellow rebounded from the floor, embrasures, and ceiling until the throne room filled with the herald’s exhortation.
Thousands of faces turned to regard Errol where he stood, flanked by king’s guards, with his friends drawn up in a row behind. At the far end of the hall, Rodran sat his throne, his back bent by time and responsibility. Next to him, a second herald rapped his staff and called back.
“Who comes? Who approaches the throne?”
“Errol Stone, so summoned by His Majesty, Lord of the Watch, Keeper of the Faith, Master of the Lot, and Soteregia of Illustra, Rodran. Let all observe his unquestioning obedience and seek to do likewise.”
The second herald stabbed the floor seven times. “Let him approach.”
Oliver gave him a frantic wave, signaling him forward. Errol counted his steps. After twenty he stopped.
“Let the first witness of deeds step forward,” the herald next to Errol said. “And let him recount the suppli
cant’s exploits before the throne.”
Liam moved around the group and knelt toward the dais at the end of the hall. After he rose, he described Errol’s heroic deeds, his commanding voice daring any in the hall to question him. In the audience, Liselle, Kyra, and a dozen more ladies hung on Liam’s every word and movement. Their eyes fierce, intent. Somehow, Errol didn’t think it was because of the subject of his speech.
In truth, Errol didn’t recognize the man Liam spoke of. His face reddened after the third or fourth minute. As time dragged by, the crimson flush above his neckline deepened, and he wondered absurdly if Turing would be mad at him for spoiling the look of the outfit with his embarrassment.
Finally, mercifully, Liam finished, but as he moved to take his place behind Errol, he gave him a clap on the shoulder that almost knocked him over.
At a signal from the herald by the throne, they measured another twenty paces, stopped, and repeated the process with Cruk.
Errol noticed the watchman’s report was considerably less glowing than Liam’s. Rodran smiled as Cruk recounted Errol’s episode with Dirk outside the village of Berea. When the big man shared Errol’s struggle to learn the sword, chuckles and chortles from those assembled filled the hall with whispers, and his face reddened again.
But when Cruk described Errol’s deeds during the attack on the king in his plain soldier’s language, not a soul stirred. The story held the hall in its spell. Errol looked at the floor, too self-conscious to meet anyone’s gaze. Cruk finished, slapped him on the back, and retook his place.
Another twenty paces and Luis came forward. The secondus took his place in front of Errol and told of Errol’s captivity in the caravan. A mutter of shock and disapproval rippled through the hall as the reader recounted Errol’s imprisonment and how he cast for Naaman Ru’s profit. Luis paused and turned, stilling the crowd with his quiet dignity.
Then he extolled Errol’s resourcefulness and imagination in discovering Sarin’s hand in the plot to kill the king, told how he’d crawled from his bed, weak with blood loss to uncover the foul plan by the former secondus. Then, in ringing tones that filled the hall, Luis announced Errol’s status as an omne and proclaimed it as a sign of Deas’s favor.
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