The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  “I have come at the behest of my friend, Martin,” Luis answered.

  Martin hoped for elaboration, but none came.

  Adele joined Radere at the front of the cabin, and the pair of herbwomen beckoned them in. “Come inside, all of you,” Radere said. “Adele and I have completed our task, and I’m ready to go home. I’m sure you’ll want to pester two old ladies with your questions.”

  Shafts of sunlight highlighted the austerity of Radere’s cabin. Stoneware containers of herbs and powders lined rough planks along the walls. There were only two chairs within. Adele and Radere perched themselves upon them like nobles passing judgment. Martin caught himself at the thought, but it was probably true. He shouldn’t have agreed to share Karele’s amends. With a shake of his head, he berated himself. How many times would his emotions make his decisions for him?

  “Speak, priest,” Radere commanded, her voice and manner formal. “The keeping is in our hands. Tell us of the boys. How do they fare?”

  What? Martin struggled to control the look of surprise he knew must be written across his features. Weren’t they supposed to answer his questions? “Liam is well.”

  The herbwomen settled into their chairs as if a threat or burden had been removed. “And what of Errol?”

  Martin swallowed. “The Judica has sent the boy to Merakh.”

  The herbwomen jolted forward in their chairs, eyes wide and blazing, and in unison demanded, “How did this happen?”

  A smothered moan came from Karele, and the healer dropped to his knees. Adele snapped her fingers at him. “Ignore him, priest. Speak.”

  Martin ripped his gaze from Karele with an effort. “Certain benefices brought accusations against him.” He coughed. “Accusations the church could not afford to answer. To keep Errol from the executioner, it was decided to impose penance for consorting with spirits.”

  Martin licked his lips. How could two shriveled old women make him feel like a boy caught stealing? “Errol was commanded to find Sarin Valon and kill him.”

  Adele waved a veined hand in dismissal. “Ridiculous. Valon is tied to a circle. No reader will be able to catch him unawares. Tell me, priest—are they all fools in this Judica?”

  “Peace, sister,” Radere said. “The enemy worms in wherever he can.” She skewered Martin with her rheumy old eyes. “But I would have the truth of this matter. Errol was sacrificed to avoid what charge?”

  A touch on Martin’s arm kept him from answering. “This is my burden, friend.” Luis stepped forward to answer, but his gaze never left the dirt floor of Radere’s hut. “Errol was convicted on the lesser charge of consorting with spirits to avoid a more damaging charge. Benefice Dane accused Errol of helping Martin and me cast lots for the next king. Usurpation of the Judica’s authority would have meant death for him . . . and us as well.”

  Radere hung her head, shook it slowly. “Did I not tell you years ago your art was unnecessary? Aurae would have told you who was to be king if Deas wanted you to know. But you were unwilling to believe Aurae was knowable.”

  The room spun in Martin’s vision. They had told Luis?

  “Yes, mother,” Luis whispered.

  Adele spat. “Worse and worse. Sister, we are surrounded by idiots. The reader endangers the boy by casting what is forbidden, and the master of horses arrives late.”

  Martin’s curiosity wedged his mouth open. “Late for what?”

  The women turned their gazes upon Karele. Martin shivered. Those gazes held understanding, even pity, but over those, ruling, blazed a look of unyielding, remorseless necessity. The herbwomen, wrinkled and stooped, might as well have been cast from iron.

  “Tell them,” Adele said.

  Karele lifted his head, his eyes sunken and haunted. “I was to accompany you to Erinon. Errol’s safety should have been in my charge, but I tarried on the steppes. If I had been with you, the malus would not have known him or Liam for what they are.”

  Martin dropped to the floor. What had they done? What had they all done?

  18

  Struck

  GET UP, PRIEST,” Adele said. “You have knowledge we need, and there are amends to be paid.”

  “Why don’t you ask Aurae?” Martin said. His voice cracked. Errol was lost. How many times could a man be betrayed by circumstance before he surrendered his capacity to believe?

  “I share your pain,” Radere said. “But we cannot aid the boy if you will not share your council.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  Adele’s birdlike little head peered at him. “Everything that happened to the lad since he left our protection.”

  Martin slumped. “That will take some time.”

  Adele’s face sharpened. “Best you get to it, then.”

  Radere laid a hand on her sister’s arm but didn’t speak.

  Martin raised his chin from his chest and began. He laid the tale before the herbwomen, pausing to collect his thoughts when they interrupted him to prod or jostle him for details or impressions. The herbwomen’s appetite for knowledge seemed insatiable. They would make him explain in different words or have Luis or Cruk relate the same tale from their point of view. Toward the end, icicles of fear stabbed him as realization threaded its way through his despondency. None of their questions concerned Liam.

  The herbwomen were so sure in their knowledge of Liam that they needed nothing further, but hours of questioning were not enough to satisfy them about Errol. Martin could feel the blood dropping from his head, as if someone had opened the veins in his legs.

  “You don’t know,” he accused. “Errol is as much a mystery to you as he is to us.”

  Adele snorted. “About time, priest. If the boy was known to us, we wouldn’t have you in here.”

  Martin shook his head in dismay. “I thought Aurae told you everything you needed to know.”

  Radere nodded, her lips curved in the bow of a smile. “Understandable, but Aurae tells us what he wants us to know, not what we want to know. If Aurae does not speak, then we must obtain information much as you would.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes,” Adele said, waving one hand. “The boy poses a problem.”

  “How do you mean?” Martin asked.

  “Go easy, sister,” Radere said.

  Adele drew breath and shook her head. “No, sister. Not this time.” She leaned forward, thrusting her head toward Martin on the thin stalk of her neck. “You want to know what Aurae has told us? Very well. The fate of the kingdom rests on two men, Errol and Liam, and one of them will be king. Liam is unassailable. From the first, Radere and I were sent by Aurae to Callowford to watch over him and instruct him.”

  Martin’s mind exploded. “Instruct? You . . . you taught him?”

  Adele’s eyes sparkled. “From birth, priest.”

  “They never attacked him,” Luis said. “The malus, the ferrals, Abbot Morin. It was always Errol they went after.”

  Martin couldn’t breathe. The air in the cabin turned to jelly, thick and unyielding. “He’s one of you. Liam’s a solis.”

  “Yes,” Adele nodded. “The protection of Aurae is on him.”

  “But what about Errol?” Martin asked, but guilty relief flooded his mind. Even if Errol died, Erinon would still have Liam, would still have a king.

  Adele settled back in her chair. “We didn’t know Errol was important until you were poisoned. You all should have died. The boy should have gasped out his last breath on my floor, but Aurae came—not simply his voice, but the wind of Aurae himself—and told me how to save him.”

  She stabbed a finger at Martin. “That boy may be the savior of the kingdom.”

  “What does that mean?” Martin asked.

  “We don’t know,” Radere said. “Aurae has not . . . fully explained.”

  “We do know this, priest,” Adele snapped. “Without both of them, the kingdom is doomed. If that boy is lost in Merakh, the kingdom is lost.”

  “Sister.” Radere’s voice cut Adele off, sharp, warning.
r />   “We’ve demanded everything they know,” Adele said. “Should we do any less for them?”

  Radere closed her eyes and nodded. “As you say, but go gently.”

  Martin’s neck prickled at Radere’s words, but when Adele’s face softened into something of pity, he wanted to bolt from the cabin and ride back to Erinon as fast as his horse could carry him. No, Deas, please no; he begged, not knowing what he pleaded for or against.

  “War is coming,” Adele said, “and both Errol and Liam must be here to meet the enemy. You know of Magis?” She waved her hand. “Yes, of course you do. It is the same for Errol and Liam. One of them must die.”

  “Oh, Deas,” Martin breathed. “Why?”

  “Because salvation is bought by blood, priest. You know this.”

  “Which one?” Cruk asked.

  So like him, Martin thought. Focus on what had to be done. Accept and move on. Why couldn’t he be more like the watchman?

  “We don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?” Martin cried.

  Radere exhaled into the silence, her breath loud in the cramped space of her cabin. “It is not for the solis to question. We are called to obey, not to command.”

  Spasms shook him, and his arms and legs twitched where he sat on Radere’s floor. “But why?”

  “You know this,” Adele said. “Even as Magis gave himself to buy the barrier with his blood, so will Liam or Errol step forward and renew it.”

  No. It wasn’t fair. “But why them?”

  “You know this as well, priest,” Adele said. Her voice and face had softened until she no longer resembled iron, just a kindly grandmother. “Is it not Deas’s way to sacrifice the innocent to save the guilty?”

  “None are truly innocent, save Deas’s son, Eleison,” Radere added, “but this is the means Deas has provided to pay for Rodrick’s pride.”

  Adele straightened in her chair, and that quickly the grandmother was gone, replaced by the wrinkled lump of iron that was the herbwoman. “Reader and watchman, take the priest and wait for Karele in the village. There are counsels we must share.” She caught Martin’s eye. “When we are done, Karele will let you know what amends are required.”

  There was nothing for Martin to do but obey. In silence, he left the cabin with Cruk and Luis.

  He untied his horse and led the animal along the path toward the center of Callowford. He didn’t bother to mount. Walking fatigued him, but his portion of guilt for Errol’s misuse and abandonment wouldn’t allow the comfort of horseback.

  “The Morgols might as well have attacked,” Cruk said from behind him.

  Out of courtesy or shared guilt the watchman walked his mount as well. No one else used the road. The crunch of gravel beneath their horses’ hooves sounded in a complex and lonely rhythm. Luis walked behind Cruk. There were too many questions for him to answer. The thought of the secondus reminded him of another one: Who was Luis Montari?

  Martin thought he knew the reader as well as he knew himself. They’d spent five years in a single-room cabin searching for the next king. Deas have mercy. They shouldn’t have cast for it. They’d handed a weapon to their enemy that had been twisted to strike at Errol. How would the boy ever find the strength to forgive them?

  The rasp of gravel and hooves became too much. He had to say it. “It’s like Rodrick, is it not?”

  Cruk grunted a questioning sound, but Luis quickened his pace until the reader walked next to him.

  “How so?” he asked.

  Martin shrugged. Perhaps it didn’t matter. “Rodran’s father refused to follow the will of the Judica and marry Lorelle. Then he sired poor sterile Rodran and the line of kings broke. We defied the will of the Judica because in our pride we thought we knew better, and now we’ve broken Errol.” Illustra was doomed. Rodran was fading, and with his death the barrier would fall and the kingdom would die. Truly, they were dead already. All that remained was for the corpse to stop twitching.

  To Martin’s surprise, it was Cruk who chose to take issue with him. “The boy is stronger than you think, Pater. If he was able to pull himself out of the ale barrel, he can find a way to live.”

  “He has to do more than live,” Luis said. His voice whispered his argument, barely louder than the sibilance of the wind through the trees. “Errol must forgive us.”

  “We held too much from him,” Martin said. “He earned our trust, and we denied it to him.”

  He straightened, held both hands up as a sudden impulse took him. “I, Benefice Martin Arwitten, in the presence of Deas and witnesses, declare that if I live to meet Errol Stone again I vow to tell him everything. No secret will remain in my heart or mind.” A wave of cold spread from his hands through his chest and settled in his heart as his vow, his compulsion, took hold.

  “What have you done, Martin?” Luis asked with astonishment on his face.

  “Strong words, Pater,” Cruk said. “What if he is the one destined to die?”

  “A dying man deserves to know the truth,” Martin said. His words throbbed and pulsed in his chest. He would make amends to Errol. He would!

  “And if he’s to be king?” Luis asked.

  “Even more so. A king needs knowledge to rule,” Martin said.

  Cruk sighed. “As you will, Pater, but I hope you don’t live to regret your vow.”

  Luis didn’t speak.

  They rounded the last bend in the road, revealing the village, the thatched roofed and whitewashed cottages lining the road that led to Cilla’s inn and the church. All would have appeared well except the street was nearly deserted. Villagers who ventured from locked doors darted with furtive steps from building to building, their gaits and glances little more than a series of nervous jerks.

  “The look of people on the brink of war,” Cruk said.

  They led their horses down a deserted street while villagers whose names and handclasps were known to them huddled behind doors and windows. When they neared the inn across from the church, and the rectory where Antil lived, a fatigue settled into Martin, as if the curse that had leached the colors from the flora had drained the energy from him as well. Removed now from the energizing influence of the herbwomen, an emotional lassitude swept over him. All seemed pointless. Even in a war the kingdom won, thousands upon thousands would die—some by the mercy of the sword, but far more by plague and famine.

  His feet came to a stop. The inn lay directly ahead at the end of the street. He wanted nothing more than to renew his acquaintance with Cilla while he hefted a tankard of thick brown ale. He laughed at the irony. Perhaps Errol had been right all along. Why not just drown his sorrows?

  With a sigh he turned left toward Antil’s living quarters. Other men might be able to escape into ale, but a benefice could not. “I need to speak with Pater Antil. I’ll join you in the inn presently.”

  “I’ll go with you, if you’re willing,” Luis said. His eyes questioned Martin, as if unsure of his response.

  For a moment, Martin almost said no. Luis had kept his relationship with the herbwomen secret from him. From him! Had they not lived knee to knee for five years? Didn’t Luis trust him?

  Martin thrust his hurt away, kept it from coming out through his eyes, face, or posture. “I’d be honored, old friend. I don’t relish the meeting. Antil never liked Errol. Callowford’s priest seems to have a singular dislike for drunkards.”

  Luis nodded, but Martin noted something within his silence that struck him—an odd reticence to speak. Martin didn’t pursue it. Any additional revelations and he wouldn’t recognize his friend at all.

  As they approached the church, he saw the stocks out back, partially hidden by weeds. The evidence of their disuse made him angry. Had Errol been the only sinner for whom Antil exercised punishment? He knocked on the door to the small rectory attached to the church. The barest twitch of a curtain was the only evidence of life within.

  Martin knocked again. Antil finally opened the door, his eyes darting to the sides and down th
e street before he knelt. “Yes, Pater?” He bowed his head.

  “Pater Antil, I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion,” Martin said, his voice slipping into the practiced cadence and phrases he used when dealing with fellow clergy. “I need information that you may be able to provide.”

  Antil nodded, his face guarded. “Of course.” He rose and stepped aside to invite them in.

  Martin took a step into Antil’s quarters and stopped. The room was nearly bare. A rude wooden table, its surface frayed and splintered, occupied a space against the wall. A chair that appeared to have been designed to maximize its users’ discomfort sat to one side. Other than a few cupboards without paint or polish, that was it. The room was as stark and unwelcoming as human intent could make it. Martin’s curiosity robbed him of his manners. He stepped to the side door that led to Antil’s sleeping quarters.

  Even there the same philosophy ruled. Callowford’s shepherd slept upon a bed composed of a frame and a broad wooden board. No mattress lay there to relieve the nightly punishment imposed on the user, only a thin sheet. There was no pillow.

  Martin turned to find Antil’s face guarded and closed. “You live a simple life, Pater.”

  Antil refused to be drawn in. “How may I serve you?”

  Luis stepped to one side, removing himself from the conversation.

  “The church finds itself in dire need of information,” Martin said. He needed as much leverage here as he could summon. He showed Antil the symbol of his office as benefice. Antil’s preoccupation with mortification signaled a deep desire to be punished, but Martin had no time to indulge some village priest’s guilt.

  “Forgive me, Excellency. I was unaware of your station. I’m not sure how I could help. Callowford is a small village on the edge of the kingdom, hardly important.”

  Martin bored in. “It seems to be important enough for the Morgols to lay siege to it.”

  Antil spread his hands. “An unfortunate consequence of being too close to a gap in the mountains.”

  “No, Pater, only Berea and Callowford have been surrounded,” Martin said. “There is something here that brings the Morgols.”