Free A Cast of Stones by Patrick W. Carr Page B

him too well, even Pater Oren de Voral. Possessions given to him were bartered for ale sooner rather than later, and people had long ago given up on trying to change him.
    Errol opened the door of the acolyte’s cell they’d let him use and stepped out into the hallway. He made his way past the sanctuary, with its high-ceilinged austerity, toward the rectory. The smell of food—eggs, salted pork, and tea—drifted to him from ahead. His stomach growled. Maybe, just maybe, his unexpected good fortune would last and he would be able to capitalize on Martin’s company to finagle a free meal to go with last night’s lodging. Being in the company of the priest had its benefits.
    He walked into the kitchen, where the cook—he didn’t know her name—and her assistant, dished up steaming platters of food.
    She eyed him up and down and then smiled, her ancient blue eyes twinkling. “You look as if you’ve a few meals to make up for.” She held out a platter of eggs to him. “You must be Errol. Pater Martin and Pater Oren are in the dining room with Luis. Take this in and tell them the ham will be coming soon.”
    She pointed to a heavy wooden door at the far end of the kitchen. Errol held the platter in front of him, breathed through his nose, and floated on the savory smell of scrambled eggs. He kept his mouth closed, but it watered every step of the way. He backed his way through the door and into a simple dining room with a large maple trestle table surrounded by eight chairs. Only three of them were filled.
    Martin sat at the head of the table with Luis on his left and Oren on his right. Errol thought it odd Berea’s priest would defer to Martin but didn’t comment. The strangeness of the place and the fact that he might not be allowed to stay for breakfast served to stitch his mouth closed. He put the platter of eggs on the table within easy reach of all three men and stepped back, waiting.
    Martin motioned him to the chair next to Luis. “Tell me, Oren, why does Mara still put up with you? She’s the finest cook in the foothills. And don’t tell me it’s because you pay her so well. She could walk out your door, ask for twice the pay, and get it before lunch.”
    Oren de Voral laughed, his mouth stretching beneath his red nose. His thin old man’s shoulders moved up and down, and the wisps of his remaining hair waved with his mirth. “To tell you the truth, Martin, I don’t know. I’ve asked her that same question any number of times, and every time I do, she just tilts her head and looks at me with those eyes the color of belle flowers and says she wants to stay here.”
    Luis dropped his gaze to his plate, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He scooped eggs on Errol’s plate and passed the platter. “Eat well, Errol,” he murmured. “The surprises of the day will be easier to face on a full stomach.”
    It was lightly said, but something in Luis’s tone set Errol onhis guard. Surprises? He didn’t want any more surprises. Deas should have used them all up by now. He shoveled eggs into his mouth as though he could keep the unexpected at bay with food.
    He looked up to find the priest of Berea staring at him.
    Pater Oren started and sought Luis’s gaze. He cleared his throat. “Tremus, are you sure that you wish to do this thing?” Oren asked, his attention darting back to Errol. “After all, there are certain, ah, hazards to taking postulates that are, um, more mature than usual.”
    Errol kept his eyes on his food, but his ears tingled. Tremus? Why did Oren call Luis Tremus?
    â€œPater Oren, please call me Luis. It is my name after all. I haven’t been tremus for five years.”
    Oren nodded and bobbed his head as if he’d been rebuked. Errol frowned. The men spoke in arcs, hinting, relying on the other men’s familiarity for understanding. And it was obvious that