Free A Cast of Stones by Patrick W. Carr

to go over to the rectory and your story isn’t true, you’ll regret it.”
    Errol yanked his arm. It didn’t come free. Braen’s hand was a flesh-covered vise. “It’s true. Have you ever known me to steal? What village would ever let me stay if they thought I was a thief ?”
    The big man’s brows unknotted until they’d almost resumed their normal position. He let go of Errol’s arm and wiped his hand on the smock tied around his ample waist. “You still owe me for two tankards you filched the last time you were here.”
    Errol nodded, happy to feel his full weight on his feet again. His arm throbbed. “I’ll pay for them.” He met Braen’s eyes. “Can I have a drink now?” He looked with longing at the foamy tankards that offered comfort to the inn’s other customers.
    Braen signaled his daughter, Anya, who stood behind the bar. Then, without a word, he left with Errol’s coin clutched in onefist, as if he doubted its authenticity. The sight of the tankard made Errol’s mouth water, and he grabbed it from Anya’s hands before she could place it on the table. She smiled, her blue eyes gleaming beneath flaxen hair. She resembled her father the way a beautiful sculpture resembled the slab of marble from which it would be carved. “How are things in Callowford?” she asked with a lift of pale, delicate eyebrows.
    Errol shrugged. Since he made a habit, and a meager living, of running plants to the herbwomen of the region, he doubled as a source of news to both villages. “A messenger from Erinon came through yesterday, looking for Martin.”
    Anya’s eyes widened a fraction at the mention of the seat of the kingdom. “Erinon? Really? What do they want with our hermit?”
    â€œI don’t know, but their man was willing to pay me a crown to deliver his message.” He looked into the welcoming foam of his ale. For a brief moment he thought of Martin and Luis, who celebrated the sacrament over and over again to help him through the previous evening. A flash of guilt fired through him. He didn’t really need the ale in front of him, not yet anyway.
    But he wanted it.
    An image of Martin and Luis, gray and unconscious on the trail, blossomed in front of him. Unbidden, older memories came to him. With a savage thrust, he pushed them away and raised his tankard for a long pull. When he lowered it after a long moment, half its contents were gone. “I think you can go ahead and bring me another, Anya.”
    A cloud passed over her eyes, and she grew still. “Going to make fast work of yourself tonight?”
    Errol heard the familiar accusation in her voice and chose to ignore it, as usual. He took another pull, lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “It was a rough trip from Martin’s cabin. Thirsty work.”
    She turned her back on him and moved off to answer the call of a pair of sheepherders on the far side of the room.
    Errol gave his attention—mellow now that the ale had begunto work its intended magic—to the two merchants sitting at the bar. They both wore the finery of their houses, long waistcoats over thick breeches, but while one man could have been from anywhere along the Sprata range, the other had the dark skin and hair of a Basqu.
    Curiosity wormed its way through Errol’s ale-muddled thoughts, and his ears perked. He had seen someone from that far southern region only a few times in his life. What would a merchant from the arid plains want in Berea?
    â€œI’m telling you,” the Basqu said, “something’s not right in Erinon. The messengers coming from the citadel are thick as the swallows coming to Basquon’s shores in winter.” He spoke with the clipped speech common to his province. His face, dark even after the months of winter, pinched around his words.
    The other man snorted, his jowls shaking with the effort. “The church is always