A Cast of Stones (18 page)

Errol screamed with every attack.

Nothing landed.

He didn't know how long it went on, but when at last he found himself on the ground with his vision clear, his voice was raw from screams and blisters were forming on his hands.

Rale pried the wood from his grasp and sat by him in the dirt of the yard.

“How long have you been in the ale barrel, boy?”

Errol drew a racking breath into his lungs. “About five years, I think. I'm not sure exactly how old I was when Warrel died.”

A nod. “I've seen it before, though not in any so young. It's usually a man who's lost a wife or son. Men mostly—women seem to be stronger somehow. I saw a lot of it in the last war, with soldiers that lost their company. I think they felt guilty for living—all of them desperate to escape the pain of their loss. Most of them chose the ale barrel. A few opted for the healer's concoctions. Some chose the sharp end of the dagger.”

Rale fell silent but made no move to rise.

They stayed that way, sitting side by side in the dirt until dusk crept over them and the fields and trees beyond the cottage and barn blurred, becoming indistinct.

“Who was Warrel?” Rale asked.

Who indeed?

“Warrel Dymon, the man who raised me.” He sucked in air, squinted against that last bloody memory. In a voice like a child's he made one last plea. “Do I have to tell it?”

He sensed rather than saw Rale's nod. “If you ever want to be free of the ale, yes. I've known a few who could manage the drink and something of a normal life, but there was no mistaking how broken they were.”

“I think I was fourteen,” Errol said. “Warrel worked in the quarry at Callowford, my village. It's just a village, nothing like Windridge.” He stared into the deepening gloom, saw the village street in front of him. “I was playing. There weren't many chores for me, since it was just the two of us. I spent a lot of time in the smithy, watching Knorl make horseshoes. I liked the way the water boiled and steamed when he put the hot metal into it.

“Cantor came riding up the quarry road like he had demons chasing him, screaming my name the whole way. When he found me, he didn't say anything, just lifted me with one arm and put me on the saddle behind him. We pounded back up the road. He wouldn't answer any of my questions.” Errol shrugged at the memory. “Maybe he didn't hear.

“When we got to the quarry, a couple of men grabbed me and ran me down into the pit at the bottom. Warrel was there, lying under a block of . . . stone.”

He didn't think he could go on. The memories were—

Rale's hand found his shoulder. “I'm sorry, boy. It would have been better if he could have said good-bye.”

Errol barked a laugh that tore at his throat. “Better? No, I don't think it was.” He shook his head. “Warrel wasn't dead, not yet. The fool. He knew better than to walk under a piece of hanging stone, no matter how strong the ropes were. But he hurried, or maybe he just forgot. He never said. They tell me he heard the creak of tackle at the last second and dove away. It was almost enough. The stone came down on his legs, just below his hips.”

He drew a breath, forced himself to go on. “Durastone is heavy.” Now that the moment held him, he wanted to tell it all, every detail. “The slab crushed his legs, forcing the blood into his body. He lost consciousness. The men didn't dare move him. The moment they moved the stone, Warrel would bleed to death in
an instant. Instead, one of them opened a vein, let enough blood out for him to regain consciousness. He sent for me.

“By the time I got there, he was already fading from the shock and pain.” Errol's head bowed under the weight of the memory, and tears splashed on the dirt, making mud. “I ran to him, begging him not to die, calling him Da over and over again. ‘Don't go, Da. Don't go.' ” The recollection overwhelmed him. He started to laugh.

“My head was on his shoulder. I knew what was coming. Quarry men are careful, but even careful men make mistakes, and more than one man died before Warrel.” He fell silent. The image had him now.

“And then?” Rale's voice croaked in the darkness.

“Then he told me I wasn't his son. Not ‘I love you' or ‘I'm proud of you'—just that. Then the pain wrenched his face into something unrecognizable, wiped away whatever he might have said next. He waved at the men around us, and they hoisted the stone off his legs. Warrel was gone from the hips down. He bled out in less than a second.

“I walked back to the village. Warrel had some gold saved, and I spent it all on ale. It helped keep the memories away. When I didn't show any sign of sobering up, Pater Antil took Warrel's name from me. He changed my last name to Stone so everyone would know I was an orphan. He started trying to beat me sober about then.”

Errol stopped, finished and hollow. His tears made faint splashing sounds.

They sat in silence. Errol felt the memory spreading, taking Rale and his farm back to Callowford, back to Warrel's end.

And his own.

 12 
Compulsion

O
N A CLOUDY MORNING
some days later, Errol woke with the nagging feeling he'd lost something. The sensation persisted throughout the day, relieved only by the repeated amazement he experienced at being able to think clearly for more than an hour at a time. Now that the twin effects of sickness and ale no longer plagued him, he found he could see and think with a clarity he'd never experienced before.

True, without the ale's dulling effects his emotions, raw and powerful, lurked just beneath the surface, easy prey for memories that came upon him unaware, and unbidden tears tracked his cheeks more than once when memories of Warrel took him by surprise. But the pain faded a little each day, and every day that he refused Anomar's offer of ale, he felt his resolve and strength grow.

Rale often beckoned him to the yard in front of the cottage with a sideways tilt of his head, and the two of them would dance with the staff. At those times, moving the two spans of wood, he imagined himself whole, or almost, just another young man trying to please his master so that he could spare himself unnecessary bruises.

Errol drank in Rale's advice—“Don't keep your hands so close together on the staff. You struggle against the weight of the wood, and it slows your strike. Every weapon is fought with the whole body, not just the arms, and half the battle is fought from the neck up”—and strove to master every nuance of technique, balance, and strategy the man showed him.

One day, after parrying a blow, all the hours of training and advice clicked together. He pivoted, moving faster than thought, spun his staff, and struck.

A soft
thwack
sounded, followed by a grunt from Rale, who stepped back to rub his shin. “Bones, boy. That was quick.”

Rale smiled and Errol's heart soared at the farmer's approval.

“Let's see how you handle this, lad.”

Errol retreated before an array of blows so fast and numerous they should have come from two men. Each thrust and strike of Rale's onslaught came closer and closer to landing until at last the oak staff found the meaty part of Errol's thigh and he backed away, wincing.

That earned him another nod. “Not bad, boy. Not bad at all. Most men wouldn't have lasted half the time you did. The only thing you need now is the one thing I can't give you.”

Errol's heart leapt and sank with Rale's words. “What can't you give me?”

Rale came forward and tapped him on the chest and then gripped his arms. “Muscle. You're fast, boy. One of the fastest I've ever seen, and your balance is perfect, but if you want to move that length of wood fast enough to knock the lightning from the sky, you'll need to thicken up.”

Rale laughed. “I wouldn't worry too much on that account, though. If you can manage to stay out of the ale barrel, you'll be fine. As long as you get enough to eat and work the staff, your body will do the rest. It'll make up for the years you lost. You may not end up like this Liam you told us about, but you'll have nothing to be ashamed of, and no man will take you for granted in a fight.”

Looking down at his arm, sinewy but thin, Errol imagined how it could look and found the idea appealing.

“Now, boy,” Rale said, pulling his attention forward, “let's see if you can touch me again. Attack.”

An hour later, sweating and panting so that the air whistled in his throat, Errol held up one hand for a halt. The moment their staffs came to rest, the feeling of displacement returned, as though he'd lost something. It was ridiculous. He didn't own anything. There was nothing to lose, nothing. Perhaps the church's compulsion to go to Erinon acted upon him at last.

Two days later he felt the sensation again and told his host of it. Rale paused in the midst of feeding the cows to lean on his pitchfork and consider him. “It's yourself you've lost, boy.”

Errol made as if to look for something. Then he patted himself. “I'm right here. That's a relief.”

Rale smirked in a way to show Errol he didn't think the joke very funny. “Keep your sense of humor, boy. You'll need it, such as it is. What I meant was you've lost your sense of self.” He threw another forkful of hay over the fence. “I've seen it happen to other men who've crawled out of the barrel. For the last five years your aim has been to keep yourself drunk enough to keep from remembering Warrel's death. Now, without that, you'll have to find some other purpose.”

At the mention of Warrel, Errol's mouth watered and an image of a foaming tankard of nut-brown ale rose in his mind. Waving one hand, as though he could shoo the picture away, he made himself relive Warrel's last moments. He wanted to throw up.

“Come, Errol,” Rale said. “We've time for a bit of staff work. It will give you something to distract you, at least for a while.”

Errol looked at the pile of hay and the pitchfork lying discarded next to it. “What about the cows?”

Rale laughed. For a moment his face lost some of it hardness. “You've never worked a farm, I see. The work is never over, just delayed. The cows will be fine.”

They sparred for nearly an hour. Errol wore an assortment of
bruises that made him look as if he'd been born with spots. Rale sported exactly one mark, a slight purpling above the ankle. He sat on the ground, rubbing it and gave Errol a considering look. “You're getting better. I have to work harder to get through your defenses and you can get through mine one time in ten. Most of the lads I've trained can't touch me until I've worked with them for a couple of months or better. And then, they can only do it once.”

Errol ducked his head in acknowledgment of the compliment that eased the ache in his muscles. “Will it work for me to use the staff ?”

Rale's brows furrowed. “For what?”

He shrugged. “To replace the ale.”

“I don't think so, boy. The ale was never your problem. The hole that Warrel's last words and death created was the problem. You tried to fill it with ale. That didn't work so well, did it?”

Errol rubbed one cheek, remembering the feel of Cilla's wood floor that had sufficed for his bed. “No. Not so much.”

Dark gray eyes considered him. “I've known men that gave themselves to the sword, or the bow, or the staff when they sobered up. I'm not sure they were much better off.”

Errol felt a shock of surprise.

Rale held up a hand. “Don't misunderstand me. The staff is as close to making music as I can come with these hands, but it's not enough. You need something to fill that hole inside you, lad.”

“What?”

Rale smiled. “Deas will tell you when the time's right.”

Talk of Deas reminded Errol of Antil. He didn't pursue the subject.

On a cool morning nearly a week later, Errol awoke outside the door of the cottage with the rising sun at his back. He stood in his smallclothes and gave a shiver against the chill of the early morning air. He had no memory of leaving his bed, traversing the floor of the cottage, or opening the door. Yet here he stood,
his skin pebbling against the breeze and his face set to the west in expectation.

Myrrha's laughter, deep and throaty for a girl whose age did not exceed his own, took him by surprise. His head snapped to the left to see her carrying a basket of eggs across the yard and eyeing him broadly. She darted glances left and right before she spoke. “You could do with a few more weeks of food and work with the staff before strutting in your smallclothes, but you're not half bad to look upon.” She finished with an exaggerated wink and a slow head-to-toe gaze that made Errol's face flame into crimson. Her laughter followed his hasty retreat into the cottage.

During breakfast, he told Anomar about his experience, careful to omit her daughter's comments. To his surprise, she nodded as though she'd expected no less.

“You've been here more than four weeks. If the reader did lay the compulsion on you, then you can expect something to happen.” Her eyes turned serious, almost sad. “I've only heard of the compulsion twice in my life, but it's never been denied. It will grow stronger with each passing day, moving from your dreams into your waking hours.” She laid bread and cheese on his plate. “You'll be leaving soon, I think. Best to build up your strength before you go.”

Errol spent the next few days working with Rale on the farm and trying to eat the mountain of food Anomar piled in front of him. His hips and legs complained with a persistent ache that no amount of exercise with the staff could relieve.

One afternoon, when a warm southerly wind ruffled his hair and carried the scent of honeysuckle, Rale stepped back to consider him. He wore a thoughtful frown and then walked to where Errol stood. “You're growing.”

Errol felt a flush of warmth as though the other man had just paid him a sought-after compliment. After Warrel died, the other boys in the village and almost all those that passed through with the caravans had been taller than he. “Really?” The smile stretched across his face.

Rale nodded, without smiling. “Aye. You'll have to be careful. Your strike distance will be different, and if you're like most lads, you'll be awkward until you get used to the change.” He tapped Errol's chest with a thick forefinger. “Be careful. Clumsy fighters don't win very often.”

Errol's grin subsided, but Rale's tone couldn't erase it completely. “I will be, but I'm still glad to be growing.”

Rale smirked in response. “Aye. No one can blame you for that.”

At noon the next day, Errol let the axe slip from his fingers in the middle of splitting wood and walked west. He made it nearly half a mile before unseen hands shook him and brought him back to self-awareness.

Errol blinked against sweat he only just noticed, jerked in surprise to find Rale in front of him. “Where am I going?”

Rale looked back in the direction of the farmhouse. “West. You'll have to leave tomorrow. The church's call is getting too strong. Better you leave at a time of your own choosing than to have the compulsion take you unawares.” His face became as hard as stone. “Churchmen. You could put blisters on your feet or walk until you dropped dead from lack of food and never know what killed you. Come. I'll take you back to the cabin. Anomar and Myrrha will want to fuss over you one last night before you leave. I'll go into the village and get some supplies you'll need for your journey.”