Read Online A Cast of Stones by Patrick W. Carr - Free Book Online

his pocket. He could keep it. Martin had said so. Surely the nuntius would not require its return after all he’d been through. It would buy enough ale to last him a week.
    He let the thought of a week’s worth of ale roll over him. He could almost smell the malty light liquid. A seven-day would be his, no washing dishes, no gathering plants for the herbwomen, no shoveling out Braen’s stables. Just one crisp tankard of ale after another. And then sleep. Sweet, dreamless sleep after that.
    â€œErrol,” Luis called to him, breaking his reverie into pieces. “Try again.”
    With a slump of his shoulders, Errol lifted the potion to Martin’s mouth one more time. Nothing changed.
    Or maybe it did. Had he seen a bubble between Martin’s lips? He lowered the skin, poured a bit of the watery elixir over his hand and then held his palm to Martin’s mouth. There. For a moment he thought he felt a hint of breath across his skin. His hands shook as he poured a tiny amount into the priest, hardly more than enough to wet his lips. It disappeared. He poured again, a little more this time. It too disappeared, and now he could see the priest’s throat tighten and loosen the smallest bit as he swallowed.
    Errol whipped around to face Luis. “He’s alive!” He levered the skin again, the tremble gone from his hands.
    Minutes and uncountable sips of potion later, Martin’s hand twitched, then rose to rest on Errol’s. His lips and tongue worked as if they labored to remember their purpose. At last he spoke, his speech a mere burble of sound. “Enough.” As though a dam broke with that word, his face turned a shade less gray, and color began to return.
    Errol felt a hand on his shoulder, turned to find Luis on shaky legs behind him. He looked up into brown eyes that crinkled at the edges and a gaze that returned his with warmth. “Thank you, Errol. Help me get Martin up and moving.”
    They each took an arm and pulled. Errol grunted under the priest’s weight. They tottered back and forth before Martin gestured toward an outcropping of rock. The priest seated himself and eyed Luis and then Errol before he rubbed one hand down his forehead and across his heavy jaw. “I think it would be goodif someone told me what happened.” His gaze rested on Luis, who shook his head and nodded toward Errol.
    The priest’s brown eyes locked with his, and Errol felt the tug of the man’s ecclesiastical authority. He ducked his head and answered as briefly as he could. “Moritweed.”
    The word’s effect on Martin and Luis was immediate. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, their eyes unreadable. Luis started to speak, but Martin forestalled him with one raised hand and turned toward Errol.
    â€œHow do you know it was moritweed, Errol?”
    â€œAdele told me.”
    Martin’s eyes tightened at the mention of the herbwoman’s name, but he nodded, chewing on the corner of his lower lip. “And why did you go to Adele?”
    Luis cleared his throat and grimaced, looking embarrassed. “I sent him.”
    Martin nodded. “Well, we’ll leave that discussion for another time.” He paused, eyeing Errol as if trying to choose which question to ask next. “Errol, moritweed is rare, especially in this part of the world. How do you think Adele knew we’d been poisoned by it?”
    For a moment, Errol thought Pater Martin accused Adele, but that didn’t make sense. She had no reason to poison the priest or his servant, and no one had a reason to want Errol dead. Besides, the old woman didn’t have access to the priest or his servant. No, Martin sought something else. With a flash of insight, he knew. Martin knew about the presence Adele talked to, the one that spoke like a rush of wind. But Errol could not speak of it.
    â€œI don’t know, Pater.” He shrugged and tried to look away. “By