A Cast of Stones Read online

  © 2013 by Patrick Carr

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6102-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.

  Author represented by The Steve Laube Agency

  To the three women in my life who made this possible:

  Carolyn Carr,

  for loving me and raising me;

  Ramona Dabbs,

  who never failed in her encouragement

  and believed in me even when I didn’t;

  and ever and always,

  Mary Carr,

  who brings love and passion to my life

  and demonstrates every day

  that she really is God’s gift to me.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1. Errol

  2. Sacrament

  3. Crimsonweed

  4. Tidings

  5. The Road from Berea

  6. Divisions in the Watch

  7. Bound for Erinon

  8. Windridge

  9. The Cathedral of Windridge

  10. Dark Flight

  11. The Keralwash

  12. Compulsion

  13. The Road to Longhollow

  14. The Caravan Master

  15. Conger’s Tale

  16. The Shaping of Wood

  17. Naaman’s Tale

  18. Night Moves

  19. A Change of Plans

  20. Lotmaker

  21. Climbing the Ladder

  22. The Intersection of Probabilities

  23. Challenges

  24. Familiar Faces

  25. The Conclave

  26. Adora

  27. What Tidings Come

  28. Riddles From the Past

  29. Tracks

  30. Secrets

  31. Flight

  32. The Need of the Kingdom

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  ERROL

  SMELLS OF EARTH and dung drifted slowly past the fog in Errol’s brain. His skin prickled with cold. Water and ooze soaked his threadbare garments and he shivered. Cruk had thrown him out of the tavern. Again. Hanks of brown hair dripping muck hung across his vision. The ringing of Liam’s hammer just across the street paused, then started again with light tapping blows, as if in laughter.

  Cruk smiled down at him without malice. “Next time I’ll carry you out back and throw you in the midden.”

  Dizzy from his flight and a little wobbly from drink, Errol picked himself up in stages. He closed his eyes against the glare of the morning sun, sluiced the worst of the mud from his clothes, and rubbed an aching hip. His tongue wandered the crevices of his mouth as he struggled to make it obey his commands. The effort made him reel.

  “You didn’t have to kick me so hard.”

  Tall, broad-shouldered, and ridiculously strong from long days working in the quarry, Cruk towered over him from his vantage point on the porch. As always, his face put Errol in mind of a sack of potatoes.

  Cruk barked once in amusement. “I didn’t, you little runt. If you don’t believe me, then come back here and I’ll have another go at it. If Pater Antil catches you drunk at this hour, you’ll end up back in the stocks.”

  Errol darted a glance over his shoulder at the rectory where Callowford’s priest lived, but the curtains still covered the windows and no one stirred. Still, Cruk’s warning made his shoulders twitch with remembered pain. “Do you have any work I can do?” He backed away from the look on the big man’s face. “Away from Cilla and the inn, I mean. I’m hungry.”

  “Then stop spending what you earn on ale.” He pointed to Liam, who watched the exchange with a smile on his face. “Why can’t you be more like him?” A heartbeat later, the harsh planes of Cruk’s face softened and his shoulders dropped a fraction as he exhaled in resignation or pity. “Wait here.”

  He disappeared into Cilla’s tavern, returned with half a loaf of bread, and tossed it into Errol’s waiting hands. “Come ’round this evening. You can help clean up after dinner. Mind, you stay away from Cilla and her ale.”

  Errol bobbed his head in gratitude as he stuffed the bread inside his shirt. He cleared his throat to ask for a small advance on his wages, but the thunder of hooves forestalled him. A man clothed in black robes and riding a dappled horse down the street of their village made for the tavern as though his salvation depended on it. A red armband emblazoned with a scroll and pen marked him as a nuntius, a church messenger—crows, they were called. Errol’s hand flexed, and he made the sign to ward off evil without thinking.

  “Stop being superstitious, boy,” Cruk said. “They bear messages. Sometimes they take confessions of the dying.” He paused. “That’s not our usual messenger.” His voice ground the words, and his shoulders tensed as if he were about to throw someone else into the mud. “Anders rides a bay.” The horseman neared. “And this rider”—his voice caught—“is of the first order.”

  The horse skidded to a stop, threw its head in protest against the bit, and gave a little hop with its front hooves, splashing fresh mud on Errol in the process.

  “Forgive my hindrance, my lord.” Errol’s mouth twisted around the words, and he wrung excess water from the front of his shirt for the second time that day. “I was just leaving.” He straightened and put out one dripping hand to lean against the horse’s shoulder to restore his balance. When he could focus again, he paused to survey the messenger’s face. The blunt nose and lack of cheekbones—so different from his own sharper features—proclaimed the nuntius’s ancestry as Lugarian, perhaps. Errol stifled a long-familiar stab of disappointment.

  The nuntius peered down at him, his face wreathed with disgust. He twitched the reins, and the horse backed away, leaving Errol without his support. He teetered and struggled not to fall. Twisting, he spotted Liam, all eight perfect spans of him, standing a few feet away, his face the picture of innocent expectation. A ray of sunlight reflected off his hair.

  Errol tottered away. He didn’t like standing near Liam. They were the same age, and proximity invited comparison.

  The church messenger’s face registered his shock and disapproval. “By Deas in heaven, man, are you drunk? It’s not even noon.”

  Cruk laughed. “It’s not even ten, my lord. Errol is a man of some talent.”

  The messenger’s lips pursed, giving his face a fish-like cast. Urging his horse around the puddle until it stood at the hitching rail, he dismounted and retrieved a thick leather purse from his saddle.

  “I’m told there’s a man who lives near here, a priest named Martin Arwitten. I have letters for him that must be delivered today.”

>   Cruk’s face paled at the mention of the hermit. He took a step toward the messenger with a hand raised, as if trying to ward off a blow. “The king . . . ?”

  The stranger shook his head in denial. “Rodran lives.”

  Errol slogged out of the mud puddle to tug the churchman’s sleeve. “I can deliver your letters, my lord. I know exactly where Pater Martin’s cabin is.”

  The nuntius backed away, inspecting his clothes. “Deliver? Hardly. I only need a guide.” He turned his attention back to Cruk. “A sober guide.” He pointed to Liam. “He can take me.”

  Liam smiled, his teeth flashing under his blue eyes, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord, I owe Knorl another six hours today.” He bowed and returned to his forge.

  The nuntius huffed.

  Errol drew himself up, brought his eyes up to the level of the churchman’s chin. “I may have had a drink or two this morning, my lord.” He did his best to ignore Cruk’s snort. “But no one knows the gorge as well as I. You can’t take a horse through there.” He gave the dappled mare a pointed glance and let his gaze linger on the legs. “Not if you want to ride her again.”

  Cruk gave a grudging nod over the churchman’s shoulder. “He’s got the right of that. If the letters have to be delivered today, the gorge is the only way. Horses don’t go through there, and no one knows the area better than Errol.”

  The nuntius drew up, squared his thin shoulders. “Very well, he can guide me on foot.”

  “If you wish,” Errol said. “It’s a four-hour hike.” He looked at the churchman, noted the man’s delicate boots, and revised his estimate. “Possibly six. If we hurry, we can be there and back by dark.”

  “Dark?” The messenger’s eyes goggled. “I have to be at Benefice Gustin’s by nightfall.”

  Cruk shook his head. “Not going to happen. Pater Martin lives on the ridge. It’s surrounded by the roughest terrain, and any man fool enough to rush through it gets a broken leg for his efforts, or worse.”

  Warmth blossomed in Errol’s chest as Cruk pointed his direction. “You’ll have to give your letters to him.”

  The nuntius barked a laugh. “A drunkard? You want me to give the most important messages in half a century to a drunkard? Look at him; he’s barely a man. Only Deas knows what’s keeping him on his feet.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “How would I know he delivered them?”

  Cruk shifted his massive shoulders. “You’re willing to pay, aren’t you?”

  The nuntius drew up. “This is a matter of great urgency on behalf of the church. A loyal subject should—”

  “Even a loyal subject needs to eat.” Errol kept his expression respectful, barely.

  The messenger rounded on him and stopped, staring, his mouth working. Errol watched the man’s gaze start at his head and slide down his frame until it ended at his worn shoes. The man’s eyes narrowed in calculation.

  “How will I know you’ve delivered the message?”

  Cruk’s amusement resonated from the tavern porch. Liam echoed it from the forge. “You’ll have no need to worry on that account,” Cruk said. “Pater Martin doesn’t stock ale. If you’re willing to pay to have your message delivered, then you can count on Errol to be back here before dark to spend his hard-earned wages.”

  Errol tried to sketch a reassuring bow and nearly fell back into the mud puddle for his efforts. He straightened, arms out, swaying from side to side until he achieved a more or less vertical posture. “Will you return to Callowford, my lord?”

  The nuntius nodded. “Yes, tomorrow morning.” He drew himself up. “I am needed back at Erinon.”

  Errol ducked his head in a show of deference to flatter the man’s ego. Who knew what a desperate church messenger might be willing to pay? A silver crown? Two? “If you like, I can bring receipt of your message in Martin’s own hand.”

  The messenger’s countenance lifted. “You seem possessed of wits, sodden though they are. Yes, I think that would do well.” He proffered the thick leather packet.

  Errol accepted the burden and waited, regarding the nuntius with a pronounced lift of his eyebrows.

  The man flushed and threw back the right side of his coat. “Oh yes, your pay.” With practiced skill he dug into the purse at his belt with one hand. “Far be it from me to question your veracity, but I offer half your pay now . . .” He extended a coin, holding it at the edge between his thumb and forefinger.

  Errol reached for the coin, but the nuntius dropped it before their hands could touch. A gold half crown came to rest on the leather packet. Errol struggled to keep his eyes from bugging.

  “And a receipt in Pater Martin’s own hand will earn you another half crown,” the nuntius added.

  Greed tightened Errol’s throat. “Yes, my lord, and a receipt. You are most generous, my lord, for a message across the gorge.”

  “Generous?” Cruk’s laugh cut the air. “Indeed. You have my thanks as well. You’ve just guaranteed this tavern a most enthusiastic customer for the next week. It’s doubtful whether the lad will know up from down this time tomorrow.” He looked at Errol. “Wait a few moments before you depart. Pater Martin asked after bread and wine last week, and Anders should be here soon.”

  The messenger’s head snapped up. “No need. I ran into your messenger at Berea. He asked me to deliver this to you.” He reached into his pack and brought forth a skin of wine and a thick packet of flat bread. “Your hermit priest still celebrates the sacrament, yes?”

  Errol nodded. “Every day, from what I am told, and why would he not?”

  The messenger’s face closed, keeping its secrets. “Why not indeed?” He forced a laugh and mounted his horse, favoring Errol with a last look. “I’ll see you tomorrow upon my return.”

  Two hours later and a league and a half from Callowford, Errol paused at the edge of the gorge that marked the beginning of the Sprata Mountains. Water flowed through the cut that lay like a wound on the land. A hint of red against the deep green of a fern’s pinnules caught his attention, and he left the path. On hands and knees he burrowed through the thick undergrowth toward the shrub. There. A stalk of crimsonweed grew from the node of the fern, meshing with the plant it would eventually kill. He smiled. Adele or Radere would pay him a silver mark for the herb, enough for two tankards of ale. Errol broke the stalk, careful not to damage the fern, and stowed the plant in the sack containing the letters and the bread and wine that hung from his back.

  With two leagues to go, he stopped under a shelf of limestone and adjusted his load. Beneath the outcropping, the ponderous weight of the rock rose over him like a primitive sanctuary carved by the elements. He smiled. Only bandits worshipped there. Few enjoyed their liturgy of violence. His feet slipped in the dusty earth as he trudged the path that sloped toward the chasm on his right, threatening to pitch him over the edge.

  He grabbed a walking stick as long as he was tall from beneath a nearby oak. Years of experience with the gorge and the Cripples had taught him to balance his passage with a stout length of heavy wood. Now no one could navigate the way as quickly.

  The air, cooled and calmed by the towers of rock on either side, doused the last of the morning’s indisposition from his body. Head clear, he eyed the river running below, impatient with runoff from the melting snows of the Sprata Mountains. He passed the Hollows and quickened his pace, thumping his stick into the ground. That collection of shallow caves blackened by unnumbered campfires had long been a favorite hiding place for outlaws in the winter. He doubted any of them still lingered this late into spring, and Errol would present little enticement as a target for robbery. But the unfamiliar weight of the half crown in his pocket troubled him, and he rushed for the heat and light of the sun up ahead.

  When he looked back to gauge his progress, a laurel branch bent and waved next to the trail some hundred paces behind. His heart lurched. No wind penetrated so deep into the gorge. He fought to keep his pace steady, weighing his options. If he ran now he’d alert his pursuer, but h
e could gain some time by shortcutting across the Cripples. The network of scars lacing his back itched, reminding him of past carelessness on those jagged stones. Crossing would take time, time he might not have, and he would have to ford the river that lay beyond. Keeping the sack dry would slow him down.

  If the bandits came after him in numbers, they could catch him in the water. At the very least, the letters for Pater Martin would be lost along with his half crown. If the bandits knew how to swim.

  If they just didn’t shoot him outright.

  Nothing moved on the trail behind, but he found little comfort in the fact. Prickles ran up and down his arms like ants. Unseen eyes swept across him, watching, tracking.

  His head pounded, and the sour taste of bile and fear spilled across his tongue. Think. He needed to think. Maybe he could throw them off by taking the high trail. It might gain him the precious minutes he needed to cross the water; once in the trackless woods beyond the gorge, they’d never find him.

  Errol quickened his steps, made for an outcropping to his left. Rocks scraped his hands as he hauled himself up the pocked face to the other trail. He grabbed his stick and ran in a low crouch along the dusty path. A prayer, half remembered from childhood, sprang to his lips, but the image of Pater Antil holding his whipping rod rose with it, and the plea died away.

  Bent almost double, he bolted along the upper trail, darting from bush to tree. If the bandits spied him, they’d shoot arrows at his exposed position until they killed him or he surrendered.

  And if he surrendered, they’d probably kill him anyway.

  Fifty paces behind him, a heron broke cover with a glottal cry and flew out over the water.

  Errol forced his legs into a run, rushing for the point ahead where the two paths rejoined, where the Cripples began. Twigs snapped in an accelerating rhythm behind him. A quick glance still showed nothing. He quickened his pace as the path turned downhill and widened.

  The Cripples stretched before him—a hundred paces of slick, pitted rock glistened in the sun, eager to catch the reckless or unwary. He paused, searching for the best route. Even with care, the treacherous footing could turn or break an ankle. His stomach flipped at the thought of rushing through that maze. Behind him, a shadow ghosted among the trees.