“The deed is done, master.” Lusk barely had a second to notice the glint of the long-knife, and only a fraction of that second to realize what it meant.
Baralis sliced Lusk’s body open with one forceful but elegant stroke, cleaving from the throat to the groin. Baralis shuddered as the body fell to the floor with a dull thud. He held his hand up to his face where he detected a sticky wetness: Lusk’s blood. On impulse he drew his finger to his lips and tasted. It was like an old friend, coppery, salty and still warm.
He turned away from the now lifeless body and noticed his robes were covered in Lusk’s blood; it was not a random spraying, the blood formed a scarlet arc against the gray. A crescent moon. Baralis smiled, it was a good omen-a crescent moon marked new beginnings, new births, new opportunities-the very currency he would deal in this night.
For now, though, he had some minor details to take care of. He must get changed for one thing; it would not be fitting to meet his beloved in bloodstained clothes, and there was the body to deal with. Lusk had been a faithful servant, unfortunately he had one tiny flaw-a tongue too prone to flap with indiscretion. No man with a fondness for ale and a tendency for drunken disclosure would jeopardize his carefully laid plans.
As he dragged the body onto a threadbare rug, his hands began to ache with the familiar, stabbing pain. He had taken a small amount of pain-relieving drug earlier to facilitate his use of the long-knife, but it had quickly worn off, as it did all too often these days, and he was reluctant to take more in case it interfered with his performance.
Baralis wielded the long-knife once more, marveling at the sharpness of blade and the way he, who had never been an expert in such matters, seemed to be endowed with a certain finesse when haft was in hand. He made the appropriate cuts and placed what were the better part of Lusk’s features in a linen swath, which quickly soaked with blood. This really was most unpleasant. He had no liking for bloodshed, but would do what was expedient. He moved across the room and threw the swath onto the fire.
In the distance, a clock began to chime. Baralis counted eight tolls of the bell. It was time to get cleaned and changed. He would arrange to have the rest of Lusk’s body taken away in the morning by the hulking dimwit Crope. Now there was a man who would tell no tales.
Less than an hour later, Baralis quietly left his apartments. His destination lay above him, but his route took him downward. Stealth was the greatest consideration; he could not risk being challenged by an over-zealous guard or engaged by a damn fool nobleman.
He made his way to the second cellar level. The candle he held was not usually necessary to him, but tonight was special; he would take no chances, tempt no fates.
Baralis crept to the innermost section of the second cellar. The dampness was already affecting the joints in his fingers and his hand trembled, but only partly from pain. The candle wavered and hot, liquid wax fell onto his hands. A sharp spasm coursed through his fingers. He dropped the candle and it went out, plunging Baralis into darkness. He hissed a curse; he had no flint to relight the flame and his hand was throbbing violently. He could not risk drawing light on this night. He would have to proceed in darkness.
He felt his way to the far wall and, using his hands like an insect’s antennae, carefully felt for inconsistencies in the stone. He found them, manipulated them delicately with his fingertips, and stood aside while the wall moved backward. He stepped into the breach. Once inside, he repeated the same procedure on the wall of the passageway and the section fell back into place. Now he could begin to move upward.
Baralis smiled. Everything was going to plan: the lack of light was only a minor problem and, after all, what was a little darkness now compared with what was to come?
He felt his way through the passages with remarkable ease. He could not see openings and stairways, but he felt their approach and knew which ones were for him. He loved the dank underbelly of the castle; some knew it existed, but few knew how to enter it. Fewer still knew how to use it other than as a way to surprise a buxom lady’s maid on her chamberpot. With the use of this network of passages, he could move around the castle undetected and find his way into many rooms. Rooms of both the lowly and the exalted. One should never underestimate the lowly, he mused. Some of his best information came from overhearing the casual gossip of a milkmaid or a cellar boy; who was plotting against whom, who was sleeping where they should not, and who had more gold than was good for them.
Tonight, however, he was not concerned with the lowly, tonight he would gain access to the most exalted room of all-the queen’s bedroom.
He made his way upward, massaging his hand to ward off the cold. He was nervous, but then only a fool would be otherwise. Tonight he would enter the queen’s chamber for the first time. He had spent many hours watching her, marking her routines, her womanly rhythms, recording every detail, every nuance. Recently, though, his cool observations had been enriched by the delight of expectation.
He approached her room and peered inside to check that she was asleep. The queen was lying fully clothed on the bed, her eyes closed. Baralis felt a tremor of anticipation run through his body. The queen had drunk the drugged wine: Lusk had done his job. With the utmost caution he entered the room. He decided to leave the gap in the wall open, in case of the need for quick escape. He immediately crossed over to the door of the chamber and drew the bolt. Nobody beside himself would enter this room tonight.
He approached the bed. The queen, normally so haughty and proud, looked impossibly vulnerable, and of course she was. Baralis shook her arm lightly, and then harder; she was out cold. He glanced over to the flagon of wine-it was empty, and so was the queen’s golden cup. A ripple of anxiety showed on his brow. Surely the queen would never drink a whole flagon of wine? One of her ladies-in-waiting must have shared it. He was not unduly worried; the unfortunate girl would spend the night in an unusually deep sleep and wake slightly groggy in the morning. Still, it was a slipup, and he didn’t like those. He made a mental note to check into it on the morrow.
Baralis regarded the queen with detachment for several minutes. Sleep suited her. It smoothed her brow and softened the set of her arrogant mouth. He put his hands beneath her, rolling her onto her stomach and then proceedeed to unlace her gown. This took some time, as his hands were stiff and the lacing intricate, but he endeavored, for he could not risk cutting the laces-that would arouse too much suspicion.
Eventually the ties were loosened and he rolled her onto her back. He pulled the front of her bodice down, revealing the pale curves of her breast. Although he had all but given up the pleasures of the flesh these past years, he could not help but respond to the sight. Poets and minstrels were forever harping on about the queen’s beauty, but he had always remained unaffected by it-until now. Ironic, he thought, that she had to be out cold before he could find her desirable. He chuckled mirthlessly and lifted her skirts around her waist.
He loosened her undergarments and pulled them off, spreading her legs. Her thighs were soft and smooth, a little cool perhaps, but that was only to be expected, a side effect of the drug. Baralis found the coolness not unpleasant. He was, he realized with relief, sufficiently aroused. He had feared lack of performance; after all, the queen’s fare was not to his normal taste. If he had any preference at all it was usually for the young, the very young. Her thighs might be soft, but she was no newly broken maiden and the mark of years could clearly be seen in the delicate blueness of her veins. She was beautiful, though, her legs long and slender, her rounded hips an enticement to any man. Unlike most women her age, her body had been spared the ravages of childbirth. Her breasts were still high and her belly flat as an altar-stone. He slipped down his leggings and entered the queen.
He was sure she was in her fertile span; he had spied on her often enough to know what time of the month she bled. He had heard of men in the past having the ability to sense which stage of her cycle a woman was in by just being in the room with her, feeling the ebb and flow of her menses as palpable force. Such illustrious accomplishments had eluded him, however, and he was forced to rely on more prosaic methods.
He had gleaned the knowledge he used this night from the wisewoman of the village he grew up in. Many young boys besides himself had been keen to know the best time to take a maiden without risk of begetting. He had been the only one to ask what time was best for begetting. The wisewoman had looked at Baralis with foreboding on her old, careworn face, but she had answered him anyway; it was not her habit to question motives.
Baralis had waited fourteen days from the onset of the queen’s bleeding before making his move. But that was nothing-he had planned and waited years for this. Everything he had done in the past and would do in the future depended on this night. For years he had studied the portents, the signs, the stars, the philosophies: tonight was the time. He would be altering the course of the known world and securing his own destiny. The stars glittered brightly for him this night.
His attention returned to his task. He was nervous at first, but there was not a flicker from the queen, so he continued on more forcefully. He knew the quickening of desire and was surprised by its familiarity. As his excitement grew so did his abandon, and he pushed into her with all his strength. He had not expected to enjoy it and was surprised when he did. Eventually he reached his climax and his seed flowed deep within the queen.
As he withdrew from her, a trickle of blood escaped from the queen and ran lazily down her inner thigh; maybe he had been a little rough, but no matter. For the second time that evening he drew bloodied fingers up to his lips. He was not surprised to find the queen’s blood tasted different: sweeter, richer. Ouickly, he wiped the remains of the blood from her thigh. He pushed her legs together and pulled her skirts down.
Before he pulled up her bodice, Baralis traced his hand over the arc of her left breast, such pale perfection. On impulse he pinched it viciously, squeezing the delicate flesh cruelly between his fingers. He then arranged her body carefully and even placed a soft pillow beneath her head.
Now it was time for him to go away and wait. He would be back later to finish the job. He did not remove the lock on the door; he wanted no one disturbing the queen’s peace while he was gone.
Bevlin looked into the deep, clear sky, searching. His eyes scanned the myriad of stars; he knew something was not right in the world this night. He felt the weight of it pressing his old bones and weakening his old bowels. When it came to sensing unease in the world his bowels were as sure as blossoms in springtime, if not as sweet smelling.
He sat, looking upward for almost an hour, and was beginning to blame the queasiness in his bowels on the greased duck he’d eaten earlier when it happened. A star in the far north grew suddenly brighter. Bevlin’s bowels churned unpleasantly as the brightness lit up the northern sky. Only when it started to fall toward the horizon did he realize that it was not a complete star at all, but a portion of one: a meteor, racing toward the earth with a speed born of light. As he watched, it hit the atmosphere-but instead of burning up, the meteor split into two. The cleaving sent sparks and flames streaming into the air. When the light diminished, Bevlin could make out two separate pieces where one had been before. As they arced across the sky, trailing stardust in their wake, he saw that one shone with a white light and the other shone red as blood.
A single tear ran down Bevlin’s cheek: he was surely too old for what was to come.
In all his years of looking at the stars and of reading the books, he had seen no reference, no prophecy of what he had just witnessed. Even now, as the two meteors raced toward oblivion on the far side of the horizon, he could hardly believe what had happened. He went inside quite sure there would be nothing else to see.
In a way it was quite a relief to him. He had waited for so long for a message in the sky, and now that it had happened, a subtle tension uncoiled within him. He did not know what it meant or what action, if any, should be taken. He did know his bowels had been right and that meant the greased duck was fine, which was just as well, as there is nothing like a great sign in the sky to make one hungry. Bevlin laughed merrily on his way to the kitchen, but his laughter had turned slightly hysterical by the time he got there.
Bevlin’s kitchen also served as his study: the huge oak table was covered in books, scrolls and manuscripts. Having sliced himself a fair portion of duck and loaded an abundant helping of congealed fat on top, he settled amidst the cushions on his old stone bench and relieved the pressure in his bowels by farting loudly. Now it was time to get down to work.
Baralis returned to his chamber and was met by the pleasing smell of cooked meat. Puzzled but hungry, it took him a few seconds to realize where the odor came from. Resting amongst the glowing embers in the fireplace was what looked like an irregular, burnt, cut of meat. It was, Baralis recognized, what was left of Lusk’s features.
“Too well done for me,” he said, relishing the joke and the sound of his own voice. “By Borc! I’m hungry. Crope!” he shouted loudly, sticking his head out of the door. “Crope! You idle dimwit, bring me food and wine.”
A few seconds later Crope appeared in the passageway, huge and wide, with a disproportionately small head. Crope managed to appear both menacing and stupid at the same time. “You called, my lord?” He spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“Yes, I called, you fool. Who do you think called, Borc himself?” Crope looked suitably sheepish but not too worried, he could tell when his master was in a good mood.
“I know it’s late, Crope, but I’m hungry. Bring me food!” Baralis considered for a moment. “Bring me red meat, rare, and some good red wine, not the rubbish you brought me yesterday. If those stinking louts in the kitchen try to palm you off with anything less than a fine vintage, tell them they will have to answer to me.” Crope balefully nodded his consent and left.
Baralis knew Crope didn’t like to perform any task that involved talking to people. He was shy and awkward around them, which was, as Baralis saw it, a definite advantage in a servant. Lusk had been too talkative for his own good. He glanced to the left of the door, where what remained of Lusk lay wrapped in a faded rug. Crope had not even noticed the unseemly bundle or, if he had, it would never occur to him to mention it: he was like an obedient dog-loyal and unquestioning. Baralis smiled at the vision of Crope appearing in the kitchen this late at night; he was sure to give the lightfingered kitchen staff quite a shock.
Before long, Crope returned with a jug of wine and a portion of meat so rare, pink juices oozed from the flesh and onto the platter. Baralis dismissed Crope and poured himself a cup of the rich and heady liquid. He held it up to the light and reveled in its dark, crimson color, then brought the goblet to his lips. The wine was warm and sweet, redolent of blood.
The events of tonight had given him a voracious hunger. He cut himself a thick slice of the fleshy meat. As he did so, the knife slipped in his hand and cut neatly into his thumb. Automatically, he raised his finger to his face and suckled the small wound closed. He shuddered suddenly, half remembering a fragment of an old rhyme, something about the taste of blood. He struggled for the memory and lost. Baralis shrugged. He would eat, then take a brief nap, until the better part of the night was over with.
Many hours later, just before the break of dawn, Baralis once more slipped into the queen’s chamber. He had to be especially careful-many castle attendants were up and about, baking bread in the kitchens, milking cows in the dairy, starting fires. He was not too concerned, though, as this last task would not take too long.
He was a little worried when he saw the queen was in exactly the same position as when he had left her, but closer inspection revealed that she was breathing strongly. The memory of the previous evening was playing in his loins, and he had an urge to mount her again, but calculation mastered desire and he willed himself to do what must be done.
He dreaded performing a Searching. He had only done one once before, and the memory still haunted him to this day. He had been a young buck, arrogant in his abilities, way ahead of his peers. Great things were hoped for him-and hadn’t they been proved right? He had a ravening thirst for knowledge and ability. He had been proud, yes, but then, were not all great men proud? Everything he read about he tried, desperate to accomplish and move on, move forward to greater achievements. He had the quickest mind in his class, outpacing and eventually outgrowing his teachers. He’d rushed forward with the speed of a charging boar, the pride of his masters and the envy of his friends.
One day when he was thirteen summers old, he came across a musty, old manuscript in the back of the library. Hands shaking with nervous excitement, he unraveled the fragile parchment. He was at first a little disappointed. It contained the usual instructions–drawing of light and fire, healing colds. Then at the end a ritual called a Searching was mentioned. A Searching, it explained, was a means to tell if a woman was with child.
He read it greedily. Searching had never been mentioned by his teachers; perhaps it was something they could not do, or even better, something they didn’t know of. Eager to attain a skill which he supposed his masters not to have, he slid the manuscript up his sleeve and took it home with him.
Some days later he was ready to try his new ability, but who to try it on? The women in the village would not let him lay his hands upon them. That left his mother, and it was certain she would not be with child. However, having no other choice, he resigned himself to using his mother as a guinea pig.
Early the following morning, he stole into his parents’ bedroom, careful to ensure his father had left for the fields. It was a source of shame to him that his father was a common farmer, but he took solace in the fact that his mother was of better stock: she was a salt merchant’s daughter. He loved his mother deeply and was proud of her obvious good breeding; she was respected in the village and was consulted by the elders on everything from matters of harvest to matchmaking.
Baralis’ mother had awoken when her son came into the room. He turned to leave but she beckoned him in. “Come, Barsi, what do you want?” She wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled with tender indulgence.
“I was about to try a new skill I learnt,” he muttered guiltily.
His mother made the error of mistaking guilt for modesty. “Barsi, my sweet, this new trick, can you do it while I am awake?” Her face was a picture of love and trust. Baralis momentarily felt misgiving.
“Yes, Mother, but I think I might be better trying it on someone else.”
“Copper pots! What nonsense. Try it on me now-as long as it doesn’t turn my hair green, I don’t mind.” His mother settled herself comfortably amid the pillows and patted the bedside.
“It won’t do you any harm, Mother, it’s a Searching … to tell if you are well.” Baralis found the lie easy. It was not the first time he had lied to his mother.
“Well,” she laughed indulgently, “do your worst!” Baralis laid his hands on his mother’s stomach. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her nightgown. His fingers spread out and he concentrated on the search. The manuscript had warned that it was more a mental than physical exercise, so he focused the fullness of his thoughts on his mother’s belly.
He felt the blood rushing through her veins and the forceful rhythm of her heart. He felt the discharge of juices in her stomach and the gentle push of her intestines. He adjusted his hands lower; he met his mother’s eyes and she gave him a look of encouragement. He found the spot the manuscript spoke of: a fertile redness. Excitement building within him, he explored the muscled embrace that was his mother’s womb.
He detected something: a delicate burgeoning. He was unsure; he searched deeper. His mother’s face was beginning to look worried, but he paid her no mind. His abandon was growing; there was something there, something new and separate. It was wonderful and exhilarating. He wanted to touch the presence with his mind; he dug deeper and his mother let out a cry of pain.
“Barsi, stop!” Her beautiful face was contorted with agony.
He panicked and tried to withdraw as quickly as possible, but as he drew back, he dragged something out with him. He felt a shifting, a dislodging and then the tear of flesh. Terrified, he removed his hands. His mother was screaming hysterically and she doubled up in pain, clutching her stomach. Baralis noticed the quick flare of blood on the sheets. The screams! He could not bear her agonized screams! He didn’t know what to do. He could not leave her alone to call for help. Spasms racked his mother’s body and the blood flowed like a river, soaking the white sheets with its bright gaudiness.
“Mother, please stop, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, please stop.” Tears of panic coursed down his cheeks. “Mother. I’m sorry.” He hugged her to him, heedless of the blood. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice a frightened whisper.
He held his mother as she bled to death. It took only minutes, but to Baralis it seemed like an eternity, as he felt the strength and life wane from her beloved body.
Baralis stirred himself from his recollection. That was then, many years ago, when he had been young and green. He was a master himself now. There would be no mistakes caused by inexperience. He now understood that to have tried such a mental task when only a boy was pure stupidity. He’d barely known what “being with child” meant, and had only the whisperings of adolescence as his guide to how children were conceived.
Baralis realized he was taking a risk performing a Searching on the queen, but he had to know-conception was at the best of times a chance event. He dared not think of what he would do if his seed had not found favor. Part of him was aware it might be far too early to tell, but the other part of him suspected that he would be able to discern a tiny change, and that would be enough.
He bent over the body of the queen and placed his hands on her stomach. He knew straight away that the fabric of her elaborate court gown was too heavy. He lifted her skirts once more and was surprised to see he had forgotten to replace her undergarments. It was just as well, really, he thought, as they were uncommonly bulky, too.
More experienced he may have been than when he was thirteen, but he wished his hands were still youthful. It was a strain to spread his fingers full-out upon her belly, and he bit his lip in pain; he could not allow his own discomfort to interfere with the endeavor. He found the right place straight away; he was no novice now.
He began the Searching. It was so familiar, the cloistered warmth of the organs, the pulsing redness of the blood vessels, the heat of the liver. He proceeded with filigree fineness, deep within the queen’s body and deeper within her womb. He felt the intricate tanglings of muscle and tendon, felt the sensuous curve of the ovaries. And then he perceived something, barely discernible, hardly there, a gentle ripple on a pond, a pulsing other. A life minutely separate and distinguishable from that of the queen. Scarcely a life at all, more a glimmering suggestion … but it was there.
Elated, he made no quick move to withdraw-with infinite slowness and patience he removed himself. Drawing away with a surgeon’s skill. Just as he left, he felt the other presence assert itself: a dark pressure.
Baralis withdrew. There had been something in that last instant of contact which gave him cause to be wary, but his misgivings were eaten up and forgotten by the joy of his success.
He removed his hands from the queen and straightened her dress. She moaned lightly, but he was not concernedshe would not wake for several hours. Time for him to leave. With a light tread he moved toward the door and unbolted it. One last pause to admire his handiwork and then he was off, back to his chambers, barely casting a shadow in the thin light of dawn.
One
“No, you’re wrong there, Bodger. Take it from me, young women ain’t the best for tumblin’. Yes, they look good on the outside, all fair and smooth, but when it comes to a good rollickin’, you can’t beat an old nag.” Grift swigged his ale and smiled merrily at his companion.
“Well, Grift, I can’t say that you’re right. I mean, I’d rather have a tumble any day with the buxom Karri than old widow Harpit.”
“Personally, Bodger, I wouldn’t say no to either of them!” Both men laughed loudly, banging their jugs of ale on the table as was the custom of the castle guards. “Hey there, you boy, what’s your name? Come here and let me have a look at you.” Jack stepped forward, and Grift made a show of looking him up and down. “Cat got your tongue, boy?”
“No, sir. My name is Jack.”
“Now that is what I’d call an uncommon name!” Both men erupted once more into raucous laughter. “Jack boy, bring us more ale, and none of that watered-down pond filler.”
Jack left the servants’ hall and went in search of ale. It wasn’t his job to serve guards with beer, but then neither was scrubbing the huge, tiled kitchen floor, and he did that, too.
He didn’t relish having to see the cellar steward, as Willock had cuffed him around the ears many a time. He hurried down the stone passageways. It was drawing late and he would be due in the kitchens soon.
Some minutes later, Jack returned with a quart of foaming ale. He had been pleasantly surprised to find that Willock was not in the beer cellar, and he had been seen to by his assistant. Pruner had informed him with a wink that Willock was off sowing his wild oats. Jack was not entirely sure what this meant, but imagined it was some part of the brewing process.
“It was definitely Lord Maybor,” Bodger was saying as Jack entered the hall. “I saw him with my own eyes. Thick as thieves they were, he and Lord Baralis, talking fast and furious. Course when they saw me, you should have seen ’em scramble. Faster than women from the middens.”
“Well, well, well,” said Grift with a telling raise of his eyebrows. “Who would have guessed that? Everyone knows that Maybor and Baralis can’t stand the sight of each other, why I never seen them exchange a civil word. Are you sure it was them?”
“I’m not blind, Grift. It was both of them, in the gardens behind the private hedges, as close as a pair of nuns on a pilgrimage.”
“Well, I’ll be a flummoxed ferret!”
“If the codpiece fits, Grift,” chirped Bodger gleefully. Grift noticed Jack’s presence. “Talking of codpieces, here’s a boy so young, he hasn’t got anything to put in one!” This struck Bodger as so hilarious he fell off his chair with laughter.
Grift took this chance, while Bodger was recovering, to haul himself off his bench and pull Jack to one side. “What did you just hear of what me and Bodger were saying, boy?” The guard squeezed Jack’s arm and fixed him with a watery gaze.
Jack was well versed in the intrigues of the castle and knew the safest thing to say. “Sir, I heard nothing save for some remark about a codpiece.” Grift’s fingers ground painfully into his flesh, his voice was low and threatening.
“For your sake, boy, I hope you’re speaking the truth. If I was to find out you’re lying to me, boy, I’d make you very sorry.” Grift gave Jack’s arm one final squeeze and twist and let it go. “Very sorry, indeed, boy. Now get you off.”
Grift turned to his companion and carried on as if the nasty little scene had not occurred. “You see, Bodger, an older woman is like an overripe peach: bruised and wrinkled on the outside, but sweet and juicy within.” Jack hastily gathered up the empty jug of ale and ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the kitchen.
Things were not going well for him today. Master baker Frallit was in the sort of black mood that made his normal demeanor seem almost pleasant by comparison. It should have been Tilly’s job to scrub the large baking slabs clean, but Tilly had a way with Frallit, and one smile of her plump, wet lips ensured she would do no dirty work. Of all the things he had to do, Jack hated scrubbing the huge stone slabs the worst. They had to be scoured with a noxious mixture of soda and lye; the lye burnt into his hands causing blisters, and sometimes his skin peeled off. He then had to carry the unwieldy slabs, which were almost as heavy as he himself, into the kitchen yard to be washed off.
He dreaded carrying the huge stones, for they were brittle, and if dropped would shatter into a hundred pieces. The baking slabs were Frallit’s pride and joy; he swore they baked him a superior loaf, claiming the dull and weighty stone prevented the bread from baking too fast. Jack had recently found out the penalty for shattering one of the master baker’s precious cooking slabs.
Several weeks back, Frallit, who had been drinking heavily all day, had discovered one of his slabs missing. He’d wasted no time in confronting Jack, whom he found hiding amongst the pots and pans in the cook’s side of the kitchen. “You feeble-witted moron,” Frallit had cried, dragging him from his hiding place by his hair. “Do you know what you have done, boy? Do you?” It was obvious to Jack the master baker did not expect a reply. Frallit made to cuff him round the ears, but Jack dodged skillfully and the master baker was left slapping air. Looking back on the incident now, Jack realized the dodge had been a major mistake. Frallit would have probably given him a sound thrashing and left it at that, but what the master baker hated more than anything was being made to look a fool-and in front of the sly but succulent Tilly, no less. The man’s rage was terrifying and culminated with him pulling a fistful of Jack’s hair out.
It seemed to Jack that his hair was always a target. It was as if Frallit was determined to make all his apprentices as bald as himself. Jack had once woken to find that his head had been shorn like a sheep. Tilly threw the chestnut locks onto the fire and informed him that Frallit had ordered the chop because he suspected lice. Jack’s hair got the only revenge it could: it grew back with irritating quickness.
In fact, growing in general was starting to become quite a problem. Not a week went by without some evidence of his alarming increase in height. His breeches caused him no end of embarrassment; four months ago they’d rested discreetly about his ankles, now they were threatening to expose his shins. And such horrifyingly white and skinny shins they were! He was convinced that everyone in the kitchens had noticed the pitiful expanse of flesh.
Being a practical boy, he’d decided to make himself another more flattering pair. Unfortunately needlework was a skill that required patience not desperation, and new breeches became an unattainable dream. So now he was reduced to the unauspicious step of wearing his current ones low. They hung limply around his hips, secured by a length of coarse twine. Jack had sent many a desperate prayer to Borc, begging that the twine in question didn’t give way in the presence of anyone important–especially women.
His height was becoming more and more of a problem: for one thing, his growth upward bore no relation to his growth outward, and Jack had the strong suspicion he now possessed the physique of a broom handle. Of course, the worst thing was that he had started to outgrow his superiors. He was a head above Tilly and an ear above Frallit. The master baker had started to treat Jack’s height as a personal affront, and could often be heard muttering words to the effect that a tall boy would never a decent baker make.
Jack’s main duty as baker’s boy was to ensure the fire under the huge baking oven did not go out. The oven was the size of a small room, and it was where all the bread for the hundreds of courtiers and servants who lived in the castle was baked early every morning.
Frallit prided himself on baking fresh each day, and to this end he had to wake at five each morning to supervise the baking. The massive stone oven had to be kept going through the night, every night, for if it was left to go out, the oven would take one full day to fire up to the temperature required for baking. So it was Jack’s job to watch the oven at night.
Every hour Jack would open the stone grate at the bottom of the huge structure and feed the fire within. He didn’t mind the chore at all. He became accustomed to grabbing his sleep in one-hour intervals, and during winter, when the kitchen was bitterly cold, he would fall asleep close to the oven, his thin body pressed against the warm stone.
Sometimes, in the delicious time between waking and sleeping, Jack could imagine his mother was still alive. In the last months of her illness, his mother’s body had felt as hot as the baking oven. Deep within her breast there was a source of heat that destroyed her more surely than any flame. Jack remembered the feel of her body pressed against hisher bones were as light and brittle as stale bread. Such terrible frailty, he couldn’t bear to think of it. And, for the most part, with a day full of hauling sacks of flour from the granary and buckets from the well, of scraping the oven free of cinders and keeping the yeast from turning bad, he managed to keep the ache of losing her at the back of his mind.
Jack found he had a talent for calculating the quantities of flour, yeast, and water required to make the different bread doughs required each day; he could even reckon faster than the master baker himself. He was wise enough to conceal his talents, though. Frallit was a man who guarded his expertise jealously.
Recently Frallit had allowed him the privilege of shaping the dough. “You must knead the dough like it were a virgin’s breast,” he would say. “Lightly at first, barely a caress, then firmer once it relents.” The master baker could be almost lyrical after one cup of ale; it was the second cup that turned him sour.
Shaping the dough was a step up for Jack, it signaled that he would soon be accepted as an apprentice baker. Once he was a fully fledged apprentice, his future at the castle would be secured. Until then he was at the mercy of those who were above him, and in the competitive hierarchy of castle servants that meant everyone.
Somehow, from the time he left the servants’ hall to the time upon his arrival in the kitchens, night had fallen. Time, Jack found, had a way of slipping from him, like thread from a newly made spindle. One minute he would be setting the dough to rise, the next Frallit would be cuffing him for leaving it so long that it had toughened and was attracting flies. It was just that there was so much to think about, and his imagination had a way of creeping up on him. He only had to look at a wooden table and he was off imagining that the tree it came from once gave shade to a long-dead hero.
“You’re late,” said Frallit. He was standing by the oven, arms folded, watching Jack’s approach.
“Sorry, Master Frallit.”
“Sorry, ” mimicked Frallit. “Sorry. You damn well should be sorry. I’m getting tired of your lateness. The heat in the oven has dropped perilously low, boy. Perilously low.”
The master baker took a step forward. “And who’ll get into trouble if the fire goes out and there’s no baking for a day? I will. That’s who.” Frallit grabbed his mixing paddle from the shelf and slammed it viciously against Jack’s arm. “I’ll teach you not to put my good reputation at risk.” Finding a place that took the paddle nicely, he continued the beating until forced to stop due to an inconvenient shortness of breath.
Quite a crowd had gathered at the sound of shouting. “Leave the boy alone, Frallit,” one wretched scullery maid risked saying. Willock, the cellar steward, silenced her with a quick slap to her face.
“Be quiet, you insolent girl. This is none of your business. The master baker has a perfect right to do whatever he pleases to any boy under him.” Willock turned to face the rest of the servants. “And let it be a lesson to you all.” The cellar steward then nodded pleasantly to Frallit before shooing the crowd away.
Jack was shaking, his arm was throbbing-the paddle had left deep imprints upon his flesh. Tears of pain and rage flared like kindling. He screwed up his eyes tightly, determined not to let them fall.
“And where were you this time?” The master baker didn’t wait for an answer. “Daydreaming, I bet. Head in the clouds, fancying you’re something better than the likes of us.” Frallit swept close, grabbing Jack’s neck-the smell of ale was heavy on his breath. “Let me tell you, boy, your mother was a whore, and you’re nothing but the son of a whore. You ask anyone in this castle, they’ll tell you what she was. And what’s more, they’ll tell you she was a foreign whore at that.”
Jack’s head felt heavy with blood, spent air burnt in his lungs. There was one thought in his mind-the pain was nothing, the risk of ridicule wasn’t important-he had to know. “Where did she come from?” he cried.
He’d spoken the one thing that mattered most in his life. It was a question about himself as much as his mother-for wherever she came from so did he. He had no father and accepted that as his fate, but his mother owed him something, something she had failed to give him-a sense of self. Everyone in the castle knew who they were and where they came from. Jack had watched them, he’d witnessed their unspoken confidence. Not for them a life of unanswered questions. No. They knew their place, their personal histories, their grandfathers and grandmothers. And armed with such knowledge, they knew themselves.
Jack was envious of such knowledge. He too wanted to join in conversations about family, to casually say, “Oh, yes, my mother’s family came from Calfern, west of the River Ley,” but he was denied the pleasure of self-assurance. He knew nothing about his mother, her birthplace, her family, or even her true name. They were all mysteries, and occasionally, when people taunted and called him a bastard, he hated her for them.
Frallit eased up on his hold. “How would I know where your mother came from?” he said. “I never had call for her services.” The master baker gave Jack’s neck one final squeeze and then let go. “Now get some wood in the oven before I change my mind and decide to throttle you all the way.” He turned and left Jack to his work.
Bevlin was expecting a visitor. He didn’t know who it would be, but he felt the approach. Time to grease up another duck, he thought absently. Then he decided against it. After all, not everybody had a taste for his particular favorite. Better be safe and roast that haunch of beef. True, it was a few weeks old, but that hardly mattered-maggot-addled beef had never killed anyone, and it was said to be more tender and juicy than its fresher counterpart.
He hauled the meat up from the cellar, sprinkled it with salt and spices, wrapped it in large dock leaves, and buried it amongst the glowing embers of the huge fireplace. Roasting beef was a lot more trouble than greased duck. He hoped his guest appreciated it.
When the visitor finally arrived, it was dark outside. Bevlin’s kitchen was warm and bright, and fragrant cooking smells filled the air. “Come in, friend,” croaked Bevlin in response to the knock on the door. “It’s open.”
The man who entered was much younger than the wiseman had expected. He was tall and handsome; gold strands in his hair caught the firelight in defiance of the dirt from the road. His clothes, however, had little fight in them. They were an unremarkable gray; even the leathers that had once been black or tan bore testament to the persistence of the dirt. The only bright spot was a handkerchief tied about his neck. Bevlin fancied there was something touching about its faded scarlet glory.
The stranger looked a little saddle weary to the wiseman, but then that was to be expected; after all, Bevlin lived in a very remote spot-two days ride from the nearest village, and even then the village was no more than three farms and a middens.
“Welcome, stranger. I wish you joy of the night; come share my food and hearth.” Bevlin smiled: the young man was surprised to find himself expected, but he covered it well.
“Thank you, sir. Is this the home of the wiseman Bevlin?” The stranger’s voice was deep and pleasant, a trace of country accent went unconcealed.
“I am Bevlin, wiseman is not for me to say.”
“I am Tawl, Knight of Valdis.” He bowed with grace. Bevlin knew all about bowing; he had stayed at the greatest courts in the Known Lands, bowed to the greatest leaders. The young man’s bow was an act of newly learned beauty. “A knight of Valdis! I might have guessed it. But why have I been sent a mere novice? I expected someone older.” Bevlin was well aware that he had insulted the young man, but he did so without malice, to test the temper and bearing of his visitor. He was not disappointed with the young man’s reply: “I expected someone younger, sir,” he said, smiling gently, “but I will not hold your old age against you.”
“Well spoken, young man. You must call me Bevlinall this `sir’ nonsense makes me a little nervous. Come, let us feast first and talk later. Tell me, would you prefer saltroasted beef or a nice greased duck?”
“I think I would prefer the beef, sir, er, Bevlin.”
“Excellent,” replied Bevlin, moving into the kitchen. “I think I’ll have the duck myself!”
“Here, drink some of this lacus. It will calm the rage in your belly.” The wiseman poured a silvery liquid into a cup, and offered it to his companion. They had eaten and supped in silence-the knight had resisted Bevlin’s attempts to draw him into casual conversation. Bevlin was willing to overlook the young man’s reticence, as it could conceivably be due to gut sickness. Looking decidedly pale and sickly, the knight tasted the proffered drink. He drank reluctantly at first, but as the liquid found favor on his tongue, he drained the cup empty. Like so many men, in so many ages, he held his cup out for more.
“What in creation is this stuff? It tastes like-like nothing I’ve ever had before.”
“Oh, it’s quite common in some parts of the world, I assure you. It’s made by gently squeezing the lining of a goat’s stomach.” The visitor’s face was a blank, and so Bevlin elaborated. “Surely you have heard of the nomads who roam the great plains?” Tawl nodded. “Well, the plains goats are the tribes’ livelihood; they provide the nomads with milk and coarse wool, and when they are killed, they provide meat and this rather unusual liquid. It’s a rare goat that favors the plain. A most useful creature to have around, don’t you agree?” The young man nodded reluctantly, but Bevlin could see he was already beginning to feel much better.
“The most interesting thing about the lacus is that served cold it cures ailments of the belly and-how should I put it-the, er, private parts. When the lacus is warmed, however, it changes its nature and provides relief from pain of the joints and the head. I have even heard said that when condensed and applied as a paste to wounds, it can quicken healing and stave off infection.”
Bevlin was feeling a little guilty. He realized the addled beef was responsible for his visitor’s illness, and decided that before the young man left he would make amends by giving Tawl his last remaining skin of lacus.
“Is the lacus more than the sum of its ingredients?”
The knight had keen perception. Bevlin revised his opinion of him. “One might say there is an added element that owes nothing to the goat.”
“Sorcery.”
Bevlin smiled. “You are most forthright. All too often these days people are afraid of naming the unseen. Call it what you like, it makes no difference, it won’t lessen its retreat.”
“But there are still those who . . .”
“Yes, there are those who still practice.” The wiseman stood up. “Most think it would be better if they didn’t.”
“What do you think?” asked the knight.
“I think that like many things-like the stars in the heavens, like the storms in the sky-it is misunderstood, and people usually fear what they can’t comprehend.” Bevlin felt he’d said enough. He had no desire to satisfy the youthful curiosity of the knight. If Tawl was to find anything out, let it be through experience-he was too old to play teacher. Guiding the conversation around to its former topic, the wiseman said, “I think maybe you should sleep for now. You are weak and need to rest. We will talk in the morning.”
The knight recognized the dismissal and stood up. As he did so, Bevlin caught a glimpse of a mark on his forearm. A branding-two circles, one within the other. The inner circle had been newly branded: the skin was still raised and puckered. A knife wound of some sort ran through the center of both circles. There were stitches still holding it closed. It seemed an unusual place for an enemy’s blade to fall.
Battle scars aside, the knight was young to have gained the middle circle. Bevlin had guessed him to be a novice. Perhaps he should have spoken further about that which made the lacus sing. The knight would have been keen to learn-the second circle marked scholarship, not just skill with a blade. Still, he was offering the knight a chance for glory-why should he offer him knowledge as well?
As soon as Melli entered the chambers of her father, Lord Maybor, she made a beeline for his bedroom, in which was to be found that most precious of objects: a looking glass. This was the only glass that Melli had access to, as they were considered too valuable for the use of children. Melli drew back the heavy red curtains and let the light shine into the luxuriant bedchamber.
Melli considered the chamber-all crimson and goldto be a little gaudy for her taste, and resolved that when she had a chamber of her own one day, she would show greater discrimination in the choosing of furnishings. She knew well that the rug she walked on was priceless and that the looking glass she had come to use was supposed to be the most beautiful one in the kingdom, better even than the one possessed by the queen. Still, she was not greatly impressed by these trappings of her father’s great wealth.
Melli moved directly in front of the minor. She was disappointed by what she saw there: her chest was still flat as a board. She breathed in deeply, pushing her meager chest out, trying to imagine what it would be like to have womanly breasts. She was sure they would arrive anyday now, but whenever she stole into her father’s rooms, her image remained unchanged.
Part of Melli longed to become a woman. Oh to be able to use her lady’s name, Melliandra, instead of the rather short and decidedly unimpressive Melli. How she hated that name! Her older brothers would tease her mercilessly: Melli, Melli, thin and smelly! She’d heard that rhyme a thousand times. If only her blood would start to flow, for then she would be allowed to use her proper name … and then there was the court dress.
All young ladies were given a special court dress on reaching womanhood. Wearing them, they would be presented to the queen. Here Melli knew that she, as Lord Maybor’s daughter, would have a definite advantage. He was one of the richest men in the Four Kingdoms and would certainly use the presentation of his daughter at court as an opportunity to show off his wealth.
She had already decided what her dress was to be made from: silver tissue-expensive and exquisitely beautiful, made from combining silk with threads of purest silver. The art of weaving such fabric had long been lost in the north, and it would have to be specially imported from the far south. Melli knew nothing would please her father more than spending his money on such a publicly displayable commodity.
Becoming a woman was not all good, though; at some point she would be forced to marry. Melli knew well she would have little say in the matter-as a daughter, she was considered the sole property of her father and would be used as such. When the time came, he would trade her for whatever he deemed suitable: land, prestige, titles, wealth, alliances … such was the worth of women in the Four Kingdoms.
She had no great liking for the pimply, simpering boys of the court. She’d even heard mention of a possible match between herself and Prince Kylock; after all, they were the same age. The very thought made her shiver; she disliked the cold and arrogant boy. He might well be rumored to be learned beyond his years and an expert in swordplay, but he rather scared her, and something in his handsome, dark face raised warnings in Melli’s heart.
She was about to leave the bedchamber when she heard the sound of footsteps and then voices in the other room. Her father! He would be most annoyed to find her here and might even punish her. So, rather than make her presence known by leaving, she decided to stay put until her father and his companion left. She heard the deep, powerful voice of her father, and then another voice: rich and beguiling. There was something familiar about the second voice. She knew she’d heard it before….
Lord Baralis! That was who it belonged to. Half the women at court found him fascinating, the other half were repulsed by him.
Melli was puzzled, for although she knew little of politics, she was aware that her father and Baralis hated each other. She moved closer to the door to hear what they would say. She was not an eavesdropper, she told herself, she was just curious. Lord Baralis was speaking, his tone coolly persuasive.
“It will be a disaster for our country if King Lesketh is allowed to make peace with the Halcus. Word will soon spread that the king has no backbone, and we will be overrun with enemies knocking at our door, snatching the very land from under our feet.”
There was a pause and Melli heard the rustle of silk followed by the pouring of wine. Baralis spoke again. “We both know the Halcus won’t be content with stealing our waterthey will set their greedy eyes upon our land. How long do you think Halcus will keep this proposed peace?” There was a brief hush, and then Baralis answered his own question. “They will keep the peace just long enough for them to mass and train an army, and then, before we know it, they will be marching right into the heart of the Four Kingdoms.”
“You need not tell me that peace at Horn Bridge would be a disaster, Baralis.” Her father’s voice was ripe with contempt. “For over two hundred years, well before any family of yours came to the Four Kingdoms, we had exclusive rights over the River Nestor. To give up those rights in a peace agreement is a serious miscalculation.”
“Indeed, Maybor,” Lord Baralis again, his tone calming, but not without irony, “the River Nestor is lifeblood to our farmers in the east and, if I am not mistaken, it runs through much of your eastern holdings.”
“You know well it does, Baralis!” Melli caught the familiar sound of anger in her father’s voice. “You are well aware that if this peace goes through, it will be my lands, and the lands set aside for my sons, that will be affected the most. That is the only reason why you are here today.” Maybor’s voice dropped ominously low. “Mistake me not, Baralis. I will be drawn no further into your web of intrigue than I deem fitting.”
There was silence for a moment and then Lord Baralis spoke, his manner changed from moments earlier. It was almost conciliatory: “You are not the only lord who will suffer from peace, Maybor. Many men with eastern holdings will support us.”
There was a brief pause, and when Baralis continued, his voice was almost a whisper. “The most important thing to do now is to disable the king and prevent the planned meeting with the Halcus at Horn Bridge.”
This was treason. Melli was beginning to regret listening in; her body had grown cold and she found herself trembling. She could not bring herself to move away from the door.
“It must be soon, Maybor,” murmured Baralis, his beautiful voice edged with insistency.
“I know that, but must it be tomorrow?”
“Would you risk Lesketh making peace at Horn Bridge? He is set to do so and the meeting is only one month hence.” Melli heard her father grunt in agreement. “Tomorrow is the best chance we have; the hunting party will be small, just the king and his favorites. You yourself can go along to avoid suspicion.”
“I can only go ahead with this, Baralis, if I have your assurance that the king will recover from his injuries.”
“How can you ask that, Maybor, when it will be your man who will aim and fire the arrow?”
“Don’t play games with me, Baralis.” The fury in her father’s voice was unmistakable. “Only you know what foul concoction will be on the arrowhead.”
“I assure you, Lord Maybor, that the foul concoction will do nothing more than give the king a mild fever for a few weeks and slow down the healing of the wound. In two months time, the king will appear to be back to normal.” Melli could detect a faint ambiguity to Lord Baralis’ words. “Very well, I will send my man to you tonight,” said her father. “Be ready with the arrow.”
“One will be enough?”
“My man is a fine marksman, he will have need of no more. Now, I must be gone. Be discreet when you depart, lest you be marked by prying eyes.”
“Have no fear, Maybor, no one will see me leave. One more thing, though. I suggest that once the arrow is removed from the king’s body, it should be destroyed.”
“Very well, I will see to it.” Her father’s voice was grim. “I wish you good day, Baralis.” Melli heard the door close and then the soft tinkle of glass as Baralis poured himself another cup of wine.
“You can come out now, pretty one,” he called. She could not believe he was addressing her. She froze, not daring to take a breath. After half a minute, Baralis’ voice called again: “Come now, little one, step into the room, or I will be forced to find you.”
Melli was about to hide under the bed when Baralis entered the bedroom, casting a long shadow before him. “Oh, Melli, what big ears you have.” He shook his head in mild reproof. “What a naughty girl you are.” His voice had a hypnotic quality, and she found herself feeling sleepy.
“Now, Melli, if you are a good girl and promise not to tell what you heard, I will promise not to tell your father that you heard it.” Baralis put down his goblet on a low table and turned toward her, fixing Melli with the full impact of his dark and glittering eyes. “Do we have an agreement, my pretty one?”
Melli’s head felt so heavy she found she could barely remember what she was agreeing to. She nodded as Baralis sat on the bed. “That’s a good girl. You are a good girl, aren’t you?” Melli nodded again dreamily. “Come here and sit on my lap and show me just how good you can be.” Melli felt her body move forward of its own accord. She settled herself on Baralis’ lap and put her arms around his neck. She smelled his scent; it was as compelling as his voice: the sensuous fragrance of rare spices and sweat.
“That’s a good girl,” he said softly, his hands enclosing her waist. “Now tell me how much can you remember of what you heard.” Melli found she couldn’t speak, much less remember; her mind was a blank. Baralis seemed satisfied with her silence. “Such a very pretty girl.” She felt him caress the stiff fabric of her dress. His hand moved lower, down her leg and under her skirt; she felt his cool touch upon her calf. She was dimly frightened, but she couldn’t act, and his hand moved upward. Then, with his other hand, Baralis traced his fingers over her thin breast. She noticed for the first time how loathsome his hands were, scarred and swollen.
Repulsed by the sight of the ugly hands, something in Melli stirred, and with great effort she forced herself out of her lethargy. Her thoughts sharpened into focus and she pulled away from him. Quick as a flash she stood up and ran out of the chamber, the sound of Baralis’ laughter echoing in her ears.
That little whippet will be no problem, thought Baralis, as he watched her flee. It was a shame that she had seen fit to leave so soon. The encounter had just begun to get interesting. Still, he had more pressing matters to attend to and desire was already thinning from his blood.
He exited Maybor’s chambers by means of a hidden passage, making his way to his own suite. He must prepare the poison for the king’s arrow: a delicate and time-consuming task. Also a dangerous one-the many scars and blisterings on his hands could attest to that. The poison that he would paint on the arrowhead would be of an especially pernicious kind, and he would not be surprised if, before the day was through, he had more welts and reddenings etched upon his tender palms.
Baralis had another task he was anxious to do: he needed to recruit a blind scribe. He’d just secured the loan of the entire libraries of Tavalisk-the events that he and Maybor had been discussing were in fact part payment for the loan. He smiled knowingly. He would have arranged the king’s accident regardless of Tavalisk and his precious library, but it suited Baralis for the moment, to have Tavalisk believe that he was running the show.
Not that he’d ever make the mistake of underestimating Tavalisk. The man had a dangerous talent for trouble-making. One wave of his heavily jewelled fingers, and he could sanction the wiping out of entire villages. Whenever it suited the interests of his beloved Rorn, Tavalisk could be heard to cry loudly, “Heretics. ” Baralis had to admire the particularly potent power which the man’s position afforded him.
It was, however, not too stable a position. In fact, that was part of the reason Tavalisk had agreed to loan his library. He needed Rorn to be prosperous; as long as the city was doing what it did best-making money by trade and banking-his place would be assured. Rorn, much like a surgeon in times of plague, always did best when others did badly. A spark of insurgency in the north would result in the cautious money moving south.
There was more, of course. With Tavalisk one always had to be careful-the man had knowledge of sorcery. How much was hard to judge, as rumor was never a reliable source. Baralis had met him once. It had proven difficult to take his measure-his obesity had proved an effective distraction, yet it was enough for each man to know what the other was. Yes, it was best to be wary of Tavalisk: an enemy was at his most dangerous when he had intimate knowledge of the weapons at his opponent’s command. That one day Tavalisk would become his enemy was a fact Baralis never lost sight of.
But for the time being, the alliance served both men: Tavalisk was able to promote income-generating conflict within the Four Kingdoms, and in turn Baralis was given access to some of the rarest and most secret writings in the Known Lands.
He was no fool; he knew, even before the huge chests had arrived’ last week, that there would be volumes missing. Tavalisk would have kept back those writings which he considered too valuable or too dangerous for him to see.
There was still, however, a wealth of knowledge in what remained: brilliant, fantastic books, the likes of which he’d never imagined, bound in leather and skin and silk. Relating histories of people he’d never heard of, showing pictures of creatures he’d never seen, giving details of poisons he’d never made. Infinitely delicate manuscripts, made brittle by the passing of time, tied with fraying thread, providing insights into ancient conflicts, showing maps of the stars in the heavens, presenting listings of treasures long lost to the world … and much, much more. Baralis was made lightheaded by the thought of so much knowledge.
One thing he had determined to do was have all of Tavalisk’s library copied before it was returned. To this end, Baralis needed a blind scribe: someone who could copy exactly, sign for sign, what was written on a page but not understand a word of it. Baralis had no intention of sharing the rare and wondrous knowledge which the books contained.
He needed a boy with a dexterous hand and an eye for detail, a clever boy, but a boy who had never been taught to read. Crope was out of the question; he was a blithering, big-handed fool. The sons of nobles and squires were taught to read from an early age and so were of no use. Baralis would have to look elsewhere for a blind scribe.
Jack was woken up by Tilly. The pastry maid took great delight in shaking him much harder than was necessary. “What is it?” he asked, immediately worried that he’d overslept. The light filtering through the kitchens was pale and tenuous, a product of freshly broken dawn. Pain soared up his arm as he stood, and the memory of Frallit’s words the night before raced after it.
Tilly put her finger to her lips, indicating that he should be quiet. She beckoned him to follow her, and she lead him to the storeroom where the flour for baking was kept.
“Willock wants to see you.” Tilly pushed one of the sacks of flour aside to reveal a hidden store of apples. She selected one, hesitated a moment, considering whether or not to offer Jack one, decided against it, and then pulled the flour sack back into place.
“Are you sure it’s me he wants, Tilly?” Jack was genuinely surprised, as he had little dealing with the cellar steward. He cast his mind back a few weeks earlier when he’d secretly tapped a few flagons of ale on a dare from a stablehand. It suddenly seemed quite likely that Willock had discovered the missing ale; after all, the man was known for his scrutinous eye. Jack had a horrible suspicion that the famous and slightly bulging eye had turned its gaze his way.
“Of course I’m sure, pothead! You’re to go straight to the beer cellar. Now get a move on.” Tilly’s sharp teeth bit through the apple skin. She watched as Jack smoothed down his clothes and hair. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. No amount of grooming can make a stallion out of a packhorse.” Tilly gave Jack a superior look and wiped the apple juice from her chin.
He hurried down to the beer cellar, wondering what form his punishment might take. Last year, when he’d been caught raiding the apple barrels in an attempt to brew his own cider, Willock had given him a sound thrashing. Jack sincerely hoped another sound thrashing would be called for. The alternative was much worse: being forced to leave the castle.
The kitchens of Castle Harvell had been his home for life; he had been born in the servants’ hall. When his mother grew too sick to tend him, the scullery maids had fostered him; when he needed food to eat, the cooks had fed him; when he did something wrong, the master baker had scolded him. The kitchens were his haven and the great oven was his hearth. Life in the castle wasn’t easy, but it was familiar, and to a boy without Father and mother or anyone to call his own, familiarity was as close as he could get to belonging.
The beer cellar was a huge chamber filled with rows of copper vats in which various grades of ale were produced. When Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he was surprised to find Frallit was there, standing beside Willock, sipping on a cup of ale. Both men looked decidedly nervous to Jack. Willock spoke first. “Did anyone follow you down here?” His small eyes flicked to the door, checking if anyone was behind him.
“No, sir.”
Willock hesitated for a moment, rubbing his cleanshaven chin. “My good friend the master baker has informed me that you are nimble with your hands. Is this true, boy?”
The cellar steward’s voice seemed strained, and Jack was beginning to feel more than a little worried. He brushed his hair back from his face in an attempt to appear nonchalant.
“Speak up, boy, now is not the time for false modesty. The master baker says you have a real feel for kneading the dough. He also tells me you like to carve and whittle wood. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir.” Jack was confused. After last night’s encounter with Frallit, he hardly expected praise.
“I can see you are a polite boy and that’s good, but the master baker also tells me you can be quite a handful and need a good whippin’ from time to time. Is this true?” Jack didn’t know how to respond, and Willock continued. “A rare opportunity may be coming your way. You wouldn’t want to miss a rare opportunity, would you, boy?”
The hair which Jack had pushed from his eyes was threatening to fall forward again. He was forced to hold his head at a slight angle to prevent its imminent downfall. “No, sir.”
“Good.” Willock glanced nervously in the direction of several huge brewing vats. A man stepped out from behind them. Jack could not see him clearly, as he was beyond the light, but he could tell the stranger was a nobleman from the soft rustle of his clothes.
The stranger spoke, his mellifluous tones oddly out of place in the beer cellar. “Jack, I want you to answer one question. You must give me a truthful reply and do not be mistaken, I will know if you lie.” Jack had never heard a voice like the stranger’s before, low and smooth but charged with power. He didn’t question the man’s ability to tell truth from lie and nodded obediently. At this sudden move of his head, Jack’s hair fell over his eyes.
“I will answer you truthfully, sir.”
“Good.” Jack could make out the curve of thin lips. “Come forward a little so I may better see you.” Jack moved a few steps nearer the stranger. The man stretched out a misshapen hand and brushed Jack’s hair from his face. For the briefest of instances, the stranger’s flesh touched his, and it took all of Jack’s willpower not to recoil from the touch. “There is something about you, boy, that is familiar to me.” The stranger’s gaze lingered over him. Jack began to sweat despite the chillness of the cellar. The pain in his arm sharpened to a needlepoint. “No matter,” continued the stranger, “on to the question.” He shifted slightly and the candlelight fell directly onto his face. His eyes shone darkly. “Jack, have you ever been taught how to read?”
“No, sir.” Jack was almost relieved by the question; the threat of being banished from the castle receded upon its asking.
The stranger held Jack enthralled with the force of his stare. “You speak the truth, boy. I am pleased with you.” The man turned to where Willock and Frallit were standing. “Leave me and the boy alone.” Jack had never seen either man move so fast, and he might have actually laughed if it hadn’t been for the stranger’s presence.
The man watched with cold eyes as the two scuttled away. He moved full into the light, his silken robes softly gleaming. “Do you know who I am, boy?” Jack shook his head. “I am Baralis, King’s Chancellor.” The man paused theatrically, giving Jack sufficient time to fully understand the importance of the person who was facing him. “I see by the look on your face that you have at least heard of me.” He smiled. “You are probably a little curious as to what I want of you. Well, I will prolong your wait no longer. Have you heard of a blind scribe?”
“No, sir.”
“A blind scribe is a contradiction in terms, for he is not blind, nor does he understand what he sees. I can tell I am confusing you. Let me put it simply. I require someone to spend several hours each day copying manuscripts word for word, sign for sign. Could you do this?”
“Sir, I have no skill with pen. I have never even held one.”
“I would have it no other way.” The man who now had a name drew back into the shadows. “Your job is merely to copy. The skill with pen is nothing. Frallit tells me you are a clever boy-you will pick that up in a matter of days.” Jack did not know if he was more amazed at Baralis’ offer or that Frallit had actually spoken well of him.
“So, Jack, are you willing to do this?” Baralis’ voice was a honeyed spoon.
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. You will start today. Be at my chambers at two hours past noon. I will require your presence for several hours every day. You will not give up your kitchen duties.”
Jack could no longer see Baralis; the shadows hooded the man’s face. “One more thing, Jack, and then you may go. I require your complete discretion. I trust you will tell no one of what you do. The master baker will provide you with an alibi if you need one.” Baralis slipped away into the darkness between the brewing vats. There was not a sound to be heard upon his departure.
Jack was shaking from head to foot. His knees were threatening a mutiny and his arm felt as if it had been keelhauled. He sat down on the cellar floor, suddenly tired and weak. The stone was damp, but the unpleasantness went unnoticed as he wondered about what had happened. Why would the king’s chancellor choose him?
Coming to the lofty conclusion that the world of grown men made little sense, Jack curled up into a ball and drifted off to sleep.
It was a perfect morning for a hunt. The first frost of winter hardened the ground underfoot and crisped the undergrowth. The sun provided light but not warmth, and the air was still and clear.
King Lesketh felt the familiar knot of tension in his stomach that always accompanied the hunt. He welcomed the feeling; it would keep an edge to his judgment and a keenness to his eye. The small party had set off for the forest before dawn and now, as they approached their destination, the horses grew skittish and the hounds barked noisily, eager to begin. The king briefly looked over his companions. They were good men, and the fear of the hunt was a bond between them on this fine day: Lords Carvell, Travin, Rolack and Maybor, the houndsmen, and a handful of archers.
He did not miss the presence of his son. The king had felt relief when Kylock had failed to show at the predawn meet. The boy was turning out to be a brilliant sportsman, but his cruelty toward his prey troubled the king. Kylock would toy with his game, needlessly wounding and dismembering–trying to inflict as much pain as possible before death. More disturbing than that was the effect his son had on those around him. People were guarded and uneasy in the boy’s presence. The hunt would be more joyous in his absence.
The party waited as the hounds were loosed. Minutes passed as the dogs searched for quarry. The king’s hounds had been specially trained to ignore smaller game such as rabbit and fox. They would only follow the bigger prize: the wild boar, the stag, and the bristled bear. The hunting party waited, tension written on every man’s face, breath whitening in the cold air. Before too long, the baying of the hounds changed and became a savage beckoning. All eyes were on the king. He let out a fierce cry, “To the hunt!” and galloped deep into the forest, his men following him. Sound blasted the air: the thunder of hooves, the blare of horn, and the yelping of hounds.
The hunt was long and dangerous. It was difficult to maneuver horse around tree and over ditch. The hounds led the party on a twisting path into the heart of the wood. The trees became so dense that the party was often forced to slow down. The king hated to be slowed. The cry of the hounds urged him to go faster, to take risks, to pursue his game at any cost. Lord Rolack was at his flank and threatened to take the lead. Lesketh dug spur into horseflesh and pushed ahead. The men were gaining on the hounds. Over stream and fallen log they leapt, through glade and brush they charged. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, they caught a glimpse of a huge and fast-moving form.
“A boar!” cried the king exultantly. That single vision had sent a shiver of fear through him: the beast was massive, much larger than was usually found in these parts.
The horsemen closed in on hound and boar, and the archers loosed their first arrows. Most went wide as the boar dived once more into the bush. However, when the boar was spotted again, it was sporting two arrows: one on its neck, the other in its haunch. The king knew that the first hits would actually quicken the boar, filling it with a dangerous blind rage. He turned his horse quickly and pursued the game deeper into the bush.
The hounds smelled blood and were wild with excitement, their cries reaching a fever pitch. The men responded to the sound; blood had been drawn, the hunt had now truly begun.
The king had no time for thought. He survived on his reflexes and those of his horse, which seemed to know when to jump and turn without any prompting from its master. The boar was sighted again. This time its escape route was cut off by a deep gully. The archers fired once more and the boar was hit a further three times. The beast let out a piercing squeal. One of the arrows went astray, striking a hound and puncturing its eye. In the confusion, the boar turned on the party and blazed a path through them. The king was furious. “Put that hound out of its misery!” he said through clenched teeth. He spun his horse round, drawing blood with his spurs, and charged after the game.
The boar did not slow down. Pursued by the hounds, it fled into the depths of the forest, leaving a trail of blood in its path.
Finally the boar was cornered by the hounds; it had run toward a still pond and could go no further. The dogs kept it from moving by forming a half-circle around it. The mighty beast kicked at the earth, preparing to charge. The men readied their weapons. The king moved closer, his eyes never leaving the beast. One wrong move, one hesitation could lead to death. Lesketh knew he had only an instant before the boar charged. He neared the beast, raising his spear and, with all the force in his body, thrusting the weapon deep into the boar’s flank. The beast sounded a chilling death cry and hot blood erupted from the wound.
One moment later, all the lords were upon the beast, stabbing it countless times with their long spears. The boar’s blood flowed onto the ground and down to the pond. The houndsmen called the dogs off; the party was jubilant.
“Let’s have its balls off!” cried Carvell.
“Off with its balls,” repeated Maybor. “Who will do the honors?”
“You should, Maybor. It’s rumored you’re skilled in the art of castration.” Everyone laughed, relieving the tension of the hunt.
Maybor took his dagger from its sheath and dismounted his horse. “By Bore! I don’t think I’ve ever seen such huge balls.”
“I thought you had a looking glass, Maybor!” quipped Rolack. The lords guffawed loudly. With one quick slice, Maybor relieved the dead beast of its testicles and held them up for his companions to admire.
“On second thought,” he said with mock seriousness, “I think mine are bigger!”
As the men chuckled in response, the king thought he heard a familiar whirring sound. The next instant, he was knocked off his horse by the force of something hitting his shoulder. As he fell he saw what it was … an arrow. The instant of recognition was followed by the forewarning of danger. It didn’t feel right. He’d been hit by arrows before and knew well the sting of impact. The sting was there, but there was more-almost as if something was burrowing into his flesh. A thin but biting pain gripped his body and he passed out.
Bevlin awoke in a bad mood: he’d had a terrible night’s rest. He’d slept in the kitchen amongst his books. He wondered where his good sense had been-here he was, as old as the hills, barely able to walk, and yet he’d offered his bed to the young and abundantly healthy knight. He himself had slept on the hard wood of the kitchen table. Of course he could have slept in the spare room, but the roof leaked above the bed, and he’d reached the age now where he’d rather be dry than comfortable.
His spirits picked up somewhat when he discovered his visitor was cooking breakfast. “How did you manage to do that without waking me?” he demanded testily.
“It was easy, Bevlin. You were fast asleep.” Bevlin did not like the idea of this handsome young man seeing him asleep in such an undignified manner. He was willing to forgive him, though, as the food he was preparing smelled delicious.
“There was no need for you to do this. I would have cooked breakfast.”
“I know,” said Tawl. “That was what I was afraid of.” Bevlin decided to let the remark pass without comment. The young man had good cause to be wary of his cooking. “What are you making?”
“Hamhocks stuffed with mushrooms and spiced ale.”
“Sounds good, but could you grease the ham up a little? It looks a smidgen dry to me.” The wiseman had a liking for grease; it helped food slip down his rough old throat more easily. “So tell me, where does a fine man such as yourself pick up the skills of the hearth? Last time I heard they didn’t teach cooking at Valdis.”
Tawl’s smile was sad. “My mother died in birthing while I was still a boy. She left me two young sisters and a babe in arms to care for.” The knight hesitated, looking deep into the fire, his face an unreadable mask.
When he spoke again his tone had changed: it was bright with forced cheer. “So I leamt to cook.” He shrugged. “It made me popular with my fellow knights at Valdis, and I earned more than a few coppers roasting up pig’s liver in the early hours of the morning.”
Bevlin wasn’t a man who valued tact highly and curiosity always got the better of him. “So where are your family now?” he asked. “I suppose your father will be looking after your sisters.”
“Suppose nothing about my family, wiseman. “
Bevlin was shocked at the bitter fury in the knight’s voice. He lifted his arm as a beginning to an apology, but was denied first say.
“Bevlin,” said Tawl, his face turned back toward the fire, “forgive my anger. I …”
“Speak no more, my friend,” interrupted the wiseman. “There is much in all of us that bears no questioning.”
A candle length later, when the two men had finished eating and were sitting in the warm kitchen drinking mulled ale, Bevlin carefully opened a fat, dusty book. “This, Tawl,” he said, gesturing the yellowing pages, “is my most precious possession. It is a copy of Marod’s Book of Words. Not any old copy, mind you, but one faithfully transcribed by the great man’s devoted servant, Galder. Before his master died, Galder made four exact copies of Marod’s great lifework. This is one of those four copies.”
Bevlin’s old fingers traced the inscription on the sheep’s-hide cover. “One can tell it’s an original Galder copy if one looks very closely at the pages: Marod was so poor near the end that his servant couldn’t afford to buy new parchment and was forced to reuse existing papers. Galder would wash the ink off the paper with a solution of rainwater and cow’s urine, he would then leave the paper in the sun to dry. If you look carefully, you can still see the ghosts of some of those previous documents.”
Tawl studied the page that Bevlin opened: the old man pointed out the merest whisper of words and letters lying beneath the text. “Of course, the unfortunate fact is that the very solution used to soak the pages clean eats away at the nature of them, making them brittle and delicate. I fear it won’t be long before it is rendered unreadable and will only be good as a relic in a collection. That will be a very sad thing indeed, for Marod’s book holds much of relevance for those who live today.” The wiseman closed the book.
“But there must be thousands of copies of the Book of Words around. Every priest and scholar in the Known Lands must have one,” Tawl said.
Bevlin shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately copies are often vastly different from the original. There is not one scribe who failed to alter Marod’s words in some subtle way, changing ideas to suit their beliefs or those of their patrons, omitting sections they considered immoral or insignificant, altering verses they thought were miswritten or frivolous or just plain dull.” Bevlin sighed heavily, the weariness of age marked clearly on his pale features. “Every translator’s interpretation minutely altered the essence of Marod’s words and prophesies. In consequence, through the course of centuries, his work has been irrevocably changed. The priests and scholars of which you speak may well have books of the same name, but they are not the same work.”
“For all I know, the other three Galder copies are lost or destroyed: I may be the only person in possession of the true word of Marod.” The wiseman finished the last of his ale and placed the empty goblet on the table. “It is a source of much sadness to me.”
Bevlin looked thoughtfully into the face of his companion. Tawl was young, maybe too young to undertake what would be asked of him. The wiseman sighed heavily. He knew the immensity of the task at hand. This young man before him, strong and golden and self-assured, had his whole life in front of him, a life that could be blighted by a fruitless search. Bevlin extinguished the candleswith his fingers. What could he do? He had no choice; no one had asked him if he wanted the responsibility for all that was to come. All that could be done was to give the young man a choice-he could at least do that.
The wiseman held his hands closely together to stop them from shaking and looked firmly into the blue eyes of the knight. “I expect you must be wondering what all this has to do with you coming here?”
“What you doin’ here, boy? This ain’t no place for the likes of you.” The guard’s voice echoed through the stone halls of the castle.
“I need to get to the nobles quarters,” said Jack.
“The nobles quarters! The nobles quarters-what business could you have in the nobles quarters? Get going, you little snot.”
Jack was late. He couldn’t understand why he’d been so exhausted after meeting the king’s chancellor earlier. It seemed as if the man had drained all the energy from him, much to his great misfortune: the morning loaves had been late to bake, and were, by the time they were ready, more precisely called afternoon loaves. Frallit’s fury had been stoked to an inferno by that particular observation. Even more infuriating to the master baker was the realization that he couldn’t beat Jack on the spot-he could hardly send a bruised and bloodied boy to the king’s chancellor.
Jack almost felt sorry for Frallit, who was shown to be powerless in the face of genuine power. The master baker might be lord of the kitchens, but Baralis was lord of the castle. Still, Jack was sure Frallit would come up with some suitable punishment for sleeping when he should have been baking. Besides an armory of physical punishments, the master baker had a stockpile of humiliations at his flour-caked fingertips. For the second time this day, Jack found himself preferring the tried and tested sting of a sound thrashing to the blow of the unknown.
Jack contemplated the guard and realized that he wouldn’t get far with chitchat. The man wasn’t going to believe that he, a mere baker’s boy, had an appointment with the king’s chancellor. For some reason Jack felt like action-it would be good to be the one in control for once. A faded tapestry hanging against the wall caught his eye. He took a step forward and pulled hard on its comer. It fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. The guard’s face had just time enough to register amazement and Jack was off, jumping over the tapestry, dodging around the guard and running down the corridor.
Dust was in his lungs, the guard was at his heels, stone raced beneath his feet. The chase was on.
In between wheezing breaths, Jack realized it hadn’t been such a good idea-he didn’t have the slightest notion in which direction Baralis’ chambers lay. It was exhilarating to outrun the guard, though, to pit himself against another and grab the chance for success. After a short while the footsteps receded and his pursuer could be heard shouting obscenities from behind. Jack smiled triumphantly-a man reduced to shouting obscenities was a man with not enough breath to run.
Finding the chamber was not as difficult as Jack thought. Staircases and turnings presented themselves to him, and he knew instinctively which to take. It appeared that the very castle itself was beholden to the great man. Its most dark and vital passages seemed to lead to Baralis’ door. Jack paused on the threshold, trying to decide if a humble tap or a confident knock was called for. He’d just decided that humility was probably his best course when the door swung open.
“You are late.” Lord Baralis stood there, tall and striking, dressed in black.
Jack tried to keep his voice level. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“What, no excuse?”
“None, sir. The fault was entirely my own.”
“My, my, we are an unusual boy. Most people would have a hundred excuses at their lips. I will forgive you this time, Jack, but do not be late again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I noticed you were admiring my door.” Jack nodded enthusiastically, pleased that the great man had misinterpreted his reason for dallying on the threshold.
Baralis ran his scarred fingers over the etchings on the door. “You do well to admire it, Jack, for it has several interesting properties.” Jack expected him to expand further on the subject, but Baralis just smiled, a guarded curve of lip with no show of teeth.
Jack followed him through what seemed to be a sitting room and then into a large, well-lit chamber crammed from top to bottom with all manner of paraphernalia. “You will work here,” said Baralis indicating a wooden bench. “You will find quill, ink, and paper on the desk. I suggest you spend today learning how to use them.” Jack was about to speak but was cut short. “I have no time for mollycoddling, boy. Get to it.” With that Baralis left him at the desk and busied himself at the far side of the room, sorting through papers.
Jack didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do. He had never seen anyone use a pen before. Certainly no one in the kitchen could read or write; recipes for breads, beers and puddings were kept in the head. The cellarer was the only person who Jack knew could write. He was the one responsible for keeping account of all the kitchen supplies, but Jack had never actually seen him use a pen.
He picked up the quill and turned it in his hands, then readied a piece of paper and pressed the nib to it. Nothing. He realized he must be missing something. His eyes glanced around the desk. The ink. That was it. He poured a quantity of the liquid onto the page, where it quickly spread out. He then ran the quill through the ink, making crude marks. He felt he hadn’t got it quite right so tried again on a fresh piece of paper, once more pouring the ink onto it. This time Jack managed to trace some lines and shapes in the ink.
“You fool.” Jack looked up to see Baralis hovering over him. “You are not supposed to pour the ink on the page. The ink stays in the pot. You dip the pen into the ink. Here.” Jack watched as Baralis demonstrated what he described. “There. Now you have a go.” Baralis left him alone once more. Several hours later, Jack was beginning to get the hang of it. He had mastered the exact dipping angle required to pick up maximum ink and could draw signs and shapes. To practice he drew what he knew of: the shapes of various loaves-the round, the platt, the long loaf. He also drew baking implements and various knives and weaponry.
After a while Jack’s attention began to wander. He’d never been in a place of such wondrous luxury. Walls lined with books and boxes tempted him, bottles filled with dark liquids wooed him. He couldn’t resist. He stole over to the wooded sill and took the stopper from a particularly seductive-looking jar. A smell sweet and earthy escaped. There was nothing to do but try it. He raised it to his lips.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jack,” came Baralis’ mocking voice. “It’s poison. For the rats.”
Jack’s face was hot with shame. He hadn’t heard Baralis approach-did the man walk on air? Quickly replacing the stopper, he tried his best not to look like a person caught in the act. He was almost light-headed with relief when someone else entered the room. Jack recognized the huge and badly disfigured man at once.
“Yes, Crope,” said Baralis, “what is it?”
“The king.”
“What about the king?”
“The king has been hit by an arrow while out hunting.”
“Has he indeed.” For the briefest instant, malice flashed across Baralis’ face, but just as quickly, his expression changed to one of deep concern. “This is ill news.” He looked sharply at Jack. “Boy, go back to the kitchens at once.”
Jack raced out of the chambers and down to the kitchen, his mind awhirl with thoughts of the king. He would probably be the first person downstairs with the news; he would be the center of attention and Frallit might even treat him to a cup of ale. The thought of ale wasn’t as cheering as usual, and it took Jack a moment to realize why: he was afraid. The look that had so quickly flitted across Baralis’ face had formed a memory too disturbing to ignore. Jack hurried on his way. Baralis’ expression would be one detail he would leave out of his account to the kitchen staff-he was a smart boy and knew that such things were best not repeated.
“There are grave times ahead.” Bevlin exhaled deeply and continued, his voice thin with age. “Just over twelve summers back I saw a terrible thing in the sky. A fragment of a star fell from the heavens. As it sped toward the earth a great cleaving occurred. The two pieces lit up the sky with equal brilliance before disappearing beyond the horizon in the east.” The wiseman walked over to the fire and stirred the embers. He had need of more warmth.
“I need not tell you that such an event is a sign of great importance. At the time I had little idea what it meant, and I have spent the past years looking for answers. I read all the great books of prophecy, all the ancient scripts.” Bevlin managed a wiry smile. “Such works are always filled with vague predictions of doom: dark clouds looming on the horizon, fatal curses upon the land-the stuff with which parents frighten their children into obedience. I found little of value in any of them; more often than not they are written with the reasoning that if one predicts doom long enough, one is bound to be proven right. Doom, I fear, is just as inevitable as leaves falling in autumn.”
Bevlin placed a pot of ale upon the fire and spooned some honey into it. “Of course, one man’s doom is often another man’s triumph.” He grated cinnamon into the pot, stirred it once and then spat in it for luck. He let it warm a little while and then ladled the mixture into two cups, handing one of them to Tawl.
“Marod’s work is different. He is emboldened to specifics. He was not a man given to ambiguity like a cheap fortune-teller.” The wiseman’s hand settled on the thick book. “Marod was chiefly a philosopher and historian, but, thanks to the benevolence of the Gods, he had instances of foretelling. Unfortunately, although he was a specific man, he enjoyed making references to other, more obscure works known to him. Most of those works have failed to be passed down to our time. They have either been lost, or destroyed: burnt by overly fanatical clergy, eager to be rid of the works of heretics.”
“I finally managed to track down one such book mentioned by Marod. I paid a heavy price for what was little more than a few pages with failed binding. However, in it I found what I was looking for-a mention of what I saw in the sky twelve years back.”
“The pages tell that it was a sign of birth, dual births. Two babes were begot that night, two men whose destinies lie in shaping the world-for good, or bad, I do not know. Their lives are linked together by an invisible thread and their fates will pull against each other.”
“There is a specific prophecy divined by Marod, which I believe is relevant to one of the two. You may be familiar with some of it-scholars have pondered its meaning for years-but this is the original. Possibly no one else besides you and I will ever know the true wording of the script:”
“When men of honor lose sight of their cause
When three bloods are savored in one day
Two houses will meet in wedlock and wealth
And what forms at the join is decay
A man will come with neither father nor mother
But sister as lover
And stay the hand of the plague
The stones will be sundered, the temple will fall
The dark empire’s expansion will end at his call
And only the fool knows the truth.”
Bevlin warmed his hands against his cup and looked into the eyes of his companion. Tawl met his gaze and, with the fire crackling in the background, an unspoken communion passed between them.
“The world is ever changing,” said Bevlin softly, breaking the silence. “And it is always greed that compels those changes. The archbishop of Rorn cares more for money than he does his God, the duke of Bren grows restless for more land, the city of Marls in its desperation for foreign trade has brought a plague upon itself. Even now, as we speak, King Lesketh in the Four Kingdoms seeks to avert war with Halcus … it is not for me to say if he will succeed.”
Bevlin and Tawl remained silent for some time, both deep in thought. It was the young man who spoke first, just as the wiseman knew it would be. “Why was I sent here?” Bevlin suspected that the young man already knew the answer.
“There is one thing I believe you can do.”
“Tyren expected you would set me a task. What is it?”
Tawl was so willing, so eager, the wiseman felt an unaccountable sadness.
“Your job will be to find a needle in a haystack.”
“What do you mean?” Tawl was mouthing the appropriate words, but Bevlin realized that the knight knew the future was set, and all that was now being said was already understood and decided.
“I need you to find me a boy: a boy of about twelve summers.”
“Where will I find this boy?”
“There are no easy answers to that question, I’m afraid.”
“One of the two?” asked Tawl. The wiseman nodded. “The one named in the prophecy.” Bevlin resisted the urge to talk further about the prophecy-the knight would not be pleased with his reasons for believing it would soon come to pass. “I have little for you to go on. The only advice I can give you is use your instincts. Look for a boy who appears more than he seems, a boy set apart. You will know him when you find him.”
“And if I find him?”
“Then you will receive your final circle. That’s why they sent you here, wasn’t it?” Bevlin regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. The young man before him had done nothing to deserve offense.
“Yes, that’s why I came.” The knight’s voice was gentle. “These,” he uncovered his circles, “are all that matter now.” Bevlin watched as he pulled down his sleeve. Tawl was somehow different than other knights he’d met. The commitment was the same, but it was tempered with something akin to vulnerability. Valdis specialized in breeding a particularly single-minded race of knights: unconditional obedience, no question of marriage, all income to be relinquished to the cause. And what was the cause? The knights had started out as a moral order, dedicated to helping the oppressed and the needy. Nowadays it was discussions on politics, not humanity, that could be heard most often filtering through the halls at Valdis.
Money was ever an interest, too. It was gold that had brought the knight here-though Bevlin was certain Tawl had no knowledge of the transaction. Tyren had probably told him there was a great deed to be done, a chance to bring honor to the knighthood. And there was, of course, but Valdis didn’t know it. All he was to Tyren was a foolish old man with a dream of stopping a war that hadn’t even started. Well, if his gold had spoken more seductively than his prophecies, so be it. The result was still the same. He got what he wanted: a strong young knight to help him search for the boy. And Tyren got what he wanted: more money to finance his political maneuverings.
It hadn’t always been that way with the knights; they had been glorious once, famous for their chivalry and learning. They were counted on to keep the peace in times of unrest, famine, and plague. No city was powerful enough to intimidate them, no village too small to ask for their help. A whole legion of them had once ridden a hundred leagues with barrels on their backs to bring water to a town that was dry. A thousand songs were sung about them, generations of women swooned at the sight of them. And now they had stooped to intrigue.
Exactly what the knights hoped to achieve by their maneuverings was difficult for Bevlin to understand. Valdis was not as great a city as it once was; Rorn had long eclipsed it as the fiscal capital of the Known Lands, and Valdis was obviously envious of its rival’s success. Tyren, perhaps in an attempt to regain a foothold in trade, was quietly buying up interests in salt pans and mines. If the knights gained control over the salt market, it would mean they could virtually hold cities for ransom, especially the ones dependent on the fishing trade in the south. But there was more than trade at stake: Tyren had only taken over the leadership a year ago, but he was already advocating a more zealous approach to their faith.
The major southern cities-Rorn, Marls, Toolay-all followed the same religion as Valdis, but they were more liberal in their interpretation of the creeds and dogmas. Hence Valdis was positioning itself as the moral leader in the south and had begun stirring up trouble in the name of religious reformation.
All in all, it added up to trouble. Bevlin foresaw conflict ahead. It was really quite ironic–the knights, who with their peculiar mix of greed and religious fervor could conceivably spark off a major war, had sent one of their number to find a boy who could conceivably end one! Indeed, by sending Tawl here, with gold not good deeds as their motive, they may well have put Marod’s prophesy into motion: When men of honor lose sight of their cause.
Bevlin sighed deeply; there would be much suffering ahead. He turned and looked at Tawl. The young knight was sitting quietly, lost in thought. There was something about the way he sat, with his whole body enthralled by the fire, that affected the wiseman deeply. The knight was trying to deal with some inner torment; every muscle in his face, each breath from his lips, attested to it. Bevlin made a silent promise that he’d never be the one to tell Tawl the truth behind Valdis’ reasons for sending him here. “Well, my friend,” he said. “Have you made your decision? Will you help me find the boy?”
“There was never any question.” Tawl looked up, his blue eyes deep with need. “I will do as you ask.”
Baralis entered King Lesketh’s chamber. All the members of the hunt were there, still wearing clothes soaked in boar’s blood. The queen was at the king’s bedside, her normally cool and haughty features stricken with worry. The surgeon was busy stripping the clothes away from the king’s shoulder while murmuring the appropriate prayers of healing.
“What happened?” asked Baralis.
“The king was shot.” Carvell looked down at the floor, as if he bore part of the blame.
“Who would dare do such a thing!” exclaimed Baralis, careful to keep a note of indignant surprise to his voice. “Where is the arrow? Did anyone get a good look at it?”
“Maybor removed it,” answered Carvell.
Maybor moved forward. “Yes, it is true I did, but in my panic to withdraw it from the king, I threw the damned arrow away.” His gaze met Baralis’.
“That was not a wise move, Maybor.” Baralis turned to look at the other men present. “What if the arrow had been barbed? You might have caused the king worse damage by removing it.” There were murmurs of agreement in the room. Baralis noted the quick flash of hatred in Maybor’s eye.
“How do you know the arrow was not barbed?” asked Maybor coolly. The room grew quiet as they waited for Baralis’ reply.
“I could tell the moment I saw the king’s wound that a barbed arrow had not been used.” The men reluctantly nodded their heads. Baralis promised himself that one day he would deal with Maybor; the man was altogether too unpredictable. Furthermore, he was beginning to suspect Maybor regretted entering into the conspiracy. Well, I have one more card up my sleeve that you don’t know about, Maybor, thought Baralis, and it is time I played it.
“Did anyone else get a look at the arrow?” he asked, his voice pitched low to gain the attention of everyone in the room. “I did, my lord.” One of the houndsmen stepped forward. Maybor looked up, his face ashen.
“And who are you?” Baralis knew well who the man was-he had paid him ten gold pieces only days ago for his part in this little performance.
“I am Hist, King’s Houndsman.”
“Tell me, Hist, what exactly did you see?”
“Sir, I can’t be exactly sure, but the shaft did seem to have a double notch.” Maybor stepped forward, his hand raised in protest, about to speak. Baralis did not give him the chance.
“A double notch!” he exclaimed to the room. “We all know the Halcus arrows are double notched.” The room erupted into an uproar:
“The Halcus, those treacherous bastards.”
“The Halcus have shot our king.”
“To hell with the peace at Horn Bridge,” pitched in Baralis.
“We must avenge this deed.”
“We must beat the Halcus senseless.”
Baralis judged the time was right. “We must declare war!” he cried.
“Aye,” cried the men in unison. “War!”
Two
“No, Bodger, there’s only one way to tell if a woman has a passionate nature and it ain’t the size of her orbs.” Grift leant back against the wall, arms folded behind his head in the manner of one about to impart valuable knowledge.
“How can you tell, then, Grift?” Bodger drew closer in the manner of one about to accept such knowledge.
“Body hair, Bodger. The hairier the woman, the more passionate the nature. Take old widow Harpit. She’s got arms as hairy as a goat’s behind and you won’t find a randier woman anywhere.”
“Widow Harpit’s not much to look at, though, Grift. She’s got more hair on her upper lip than I have.”
“Exactly, Bodger! A man would count himself lucky to bed her.” Grift smiled mischievously and took a long draught of ale. “What about your Nelly, how hairy is she?”
“My Nelly has arms as smooth as freshly turned butter.”
“You won’t be getting much then, Bodger!”
Both men chuckled merrily. Grift filled their cups and they relaxed for a while, sipping their ale. They liked nothing better, after a cold morning patrolling the castle grounds, than to sit down with a cup of ale and bandy ribald remarks. There was usually a little gossip exchanged, too.
“Here, Grift, last night while I was relieving myself in the ornamental gardens I heard Lord Maybor having a real go at his daughter. He even gave her a good slapping.”
“Maybor ain’t what he used to be. Ever since this damned war with the Halcus he’s been getting nasty and hot tempered-you never know what he’s gonna be doing next.” Both men turned at the sound of footsteps.
“Here comes young Jack. Jack, lad, do you fancy a sup of ale?”
“I can’t, Bodger, I haven’t got time.”
“If you’re off wooing, Jack,” said Grift, “you’d better brush the flour from your hair.”
Jack smiled broadly. “It’s there for a purpose, Grift. I want the girls to think I’m old enough to be gray just like you!”
Jack didn’t wait around to hear the guard’s reply. He was on his way to Baralis’ chambers and was late as usual. The king’s chancellor had been making him work long hours recently, and he was often scribing into the early hours of the morning. Jack suspected that the library he was copying would soon be due back to its owner, and that Baralis was eager to have what was left copied down to the last page as quickly as possible. In consequence, Jack now spent his days baking and his nights scribing. There was little time left for rest, and he had been close to falling asleep at his copying desk on more than one occasion.
Jack found that scribing became easier with practice. At first he could barely copy a page a day, but over time he’d grown better at his job, managing to complete as many as ten pages in one session.
Jack now had a guilty secret. For the past few years he had been able to read every word that he copied. Five summers had passed since Baralis had first recruited him to be a blind scribe, only Jack was no longer blind.
It had begun after the passing of three moons. Jack had started to notice patterns in the words and symbols. His main breakthrough had taken place over a year later when Baralis had asked him to copy a book full of drawings of animals. Each drawing was meticulously labeled, and Jack recognized many of the creatures in the book: bats, bears, mice. He began to understand that the letters underneath the drawings corresponded to the animals’ names, and gradually he became able to comprehend simple words: the names of birds or flowers or animals.
Eventually Jack had learnt other words-connecting words, describing words, words that made up the basis of language. Once he had started he raced ahead, eager for knowledge. He found a book in Baralis’ collection that did nothing but list the meanings of words. Oh, how he would have loved to have taken that precious volume to the kitchens with him. Baralis was not a man to grant favors lightly and Jack had never dared ask.
Over the past years he had read whatever he copied, stories from far lands, tales of ancient peoples, lives of great heroes. Much of what he copied he couldn’t understand, and nearly half of it was written in foreign languages or strange symbols that he could never hope to decipher. All that he could understand made him restless.
Reading about faraway places made Jack yearn to visit them. He dreamt of exploring the caverns of Isro, sailing down the great River Silbur, fighting in the streets of Bren.
He dreamt so vividly he could smell the incense, feel the cool spray of water on his cheek, and see defeat in the eyes of his opponents. Some nights, when the sky was brilliant with stars and the world seemed impossibly large, Jack had to fight the urge to be off. Desire to leave the castle was so great that it became a physical sensation-a pressure within that demanded release.
Usually by morning the pressure had lost its push. But more and more these days, Jack’s gaze would wander to the map pinned to the study wall. He scanned the length of the Known Lands and wondered where he’d visit first: should it be to the north, over the mountains and into the frozen waste; should it be to the south, through the plains and into territories exotic and forbidden; or should it be to the east, where the power lay? He needed a place to head for, and eyes following the contours of the map, he cursed not knowing where his mother had come from, for he surely would have headed there.
Why had she kept so much from him? What was there in her past that she needed to hide? When he was younger,
Jack had assumed it was shame that held her tongue. Now he suspected it was fear. He was nine when his mother had died, and one of his most enduring memories of her was how she would insist on watching the castle gates each morning to see all the visitors arrive. They would go together arm in arm, up to the battlements, where they would have a good view of everyone applying for entry into Castle Harvell. It was his favorite part of the day; he enjoyed being out in the fresh air and watching the hundreds of people who walked through the gates.
There were great envoys with huge retinues, lords and ladies on fine white horses, richly dressed tradesmen from Annis and Bren, and farmers and tinkers from nearby towns.
His mother would keep him amused by telling him who people were and why they were important. What struck him now was how keen a grasp she’d had on the affairs of Harvell and its northern rivals; she kept herself well informed and was always eager for news of politics and power plays. For many years after her death, Jack had thought it was curiosity that made her watch the gates. Yet curiosity wouldn’t make a dying woman, who toward the end could barely walk, drag herself up to the battlements each day to search the faces of strangers.
It was fear that marked her features at such times. Oh, she tried to hide it. She had a hundred anecdotes at her lips to take his mind from the cold and from her true reasons for being there. She had nearly succeeded, as well. Even now, though, he could recall the pressure of her fingers as they rested upon his arm and feel the delicate strain of her fear.
What had caused this watchfulness? This fear of strangers? To discover that, he must first find where she came from. His mother had left nothing for him to go on. She had been ruthless in withholding all information about herself. He knew nothing, save that she wasn’t from the Four Kingdoms and had been branded a whore. Through the long nights, when sleep refused to come, Jack dreamt of tracking down her origins like a knight on a quest, of finding out the truth behind her fear.
Dreams were one thing, the reality of life in the castle was quite another. If the night stirred his imagination, then the day stifled it. What was he but a baker’s boy? He had no skills to speak of, no future to plan for, no money to call his own. Castle Harvell was all there was, and to leave it would be to leave everything. Jack had seen the way beggars were treated at the castle-they were spat upon and ridiculed. Anyone who didn’t belong was considered lower than the lowest scullery maid. What if he left the kingdoms only to end up scorned and penniless in a foreign land? At least the castle offered protection from such failure; whilst in its walls he was guaranteed a warm bed, food to eat, and friends to laugh with.
As Jack climbed the stairs to Baralis’ chamber, he couldn’t help thinking that a warm bed and food to eat were beginning to sound like a coward’s reasons to stay.
Baralis was well pleased with the events of the last five years. The country was still embroiled in a disabling war, a war that served only to sap the strength and resources of both Halcus and the Four Kingdoms. Many bloody battles had been fought and heavy casualties were incurred on both sides. Just as one party seemed to gain the advantage, the other party would suddenly receive some unexpected help; news of enemies’ tactics would be whispered in an interested ear, details of supply routes would fall into improper hands, or sites of possible ambush were revealed to unfriendly eyes. Needless to say, Baralis had been responsible for every fatal betrayal.
Stalemate suited him nicely. With the attention of the country focused to the east, Baralis could hatch his own plots and follow his own agenda at court.
As he sipped on mulled holk to soothe the pain in his fingers, he reflected on the state of the king. Since Lesketh had taken the arrow to the shoulder, he had never been the same. The wound had healed after a few months, but the king had been badly weakened and could no longer mount a horse. The king’s wits were also, sadly, not all they had been, not that the king had ever been a great thinker, thought Baralis spitefully. If anything, he may have gone a little easy on the poison the day of the hunt: after all, the king could still remember his name!
The king’s affliction was never mentioned aloud at court. If people talked of it at all, it was in hushed voices in the privacy of their own chambers: it was not a subject to speak of lightly. The queen was known to view any such talk as treason. Queen Arinalda had unofficially taken the king’s place as ruler, and Baralis grudgingly admitted that the woman was doing a better job than her dull, hunt-obsessed husband ever had.
She had performed a delicate balancing act; due to her efforts the kingdoms were not perceived as a weak country lacking a leader. She had kept up diplomatic ties with Bren and Highwall, and had even signed a historic trading agreement with Lanholt. The Halcus were seething at her success. But she had shown wisdom in her restraint as well as her strength, and had not given the Halcus too much cause to worry-else Halcus might be forced to go in search of allies and the war escalate beyond the control of the two countries.
Today Baralis would tie up a loose end, one that had been left dangling since the day the king was shot. Lord Maybor had been a thorn in his side for many years now.
The man had been party to the events leading up to the shooting, but it had become evident that Maybor regretted his actions and Baralis feared the man might use the incident against him. There was potential for blackmail and other unpleasantness, and Baralis ill liked having reason to be wary of any man.
The portly lord was up to something else that gave him cause for concern. Maybor was trying to secure a betrothal between his daughter, Melliandra, and the queen’s only son,
Prince Kylock. Baralis was not about to let that proposal take place: he had his own plans for the king’s heir.
“Crope!” he called, eager to be relieved of his problem. “Yes, master.” His huge servant loomed close, blocking all light in his path. He always carried a small painted box and was busy stuffing it out of sight into his tunic.
“Go down to the kitchens and get me some wine.”
“There’s wine here already. I’ll fetch it for you.” Crope started to reach for the wine jug.
“No, you repulsive simpleton, I need another type. Now listen carefully, for I know you’re liable to forget.” Baralis spoke slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly. “I need a flagon of lobanfern red. Have you got that?”
“Yes, master, but you always say lobanfern red tastes like whore’s piss.”
“This wine is not for me, you feckless imbecile. It’s a gift.” Baralis stood up, smoothing his black silk robes. He watched Crope leave the room and then added in a low voice, “I hear Lord Maybor has a fondness for lobanfern red.”
Crope appeared some time later with a jug of wine. Baralis snatched it from him. “Go now, fool.” Baralis uncorked the jug and smelled its contents. He grimaced; only a barbarian could like this sickly brew.
He took the wine and moved over to a tapestry hanging on the wall, lifted it up, and ran his finger over a particular stone and entered his private study. No one besides himself knew of its existence. It was where he did his most secret work, wrote his most confidential letters, and manufactured his most potent poisons.
Poison was now one of Baralis’ specialities and, since gaining access to the libraries of Tavalisk-who was himself a poisoner of high repute-Baralis had honed his skills to a fine art. He now realized that the mixture he had used on the king’s arrow was the crudest of potions.
Baralis could now make poisons that were infinitely more subtle, less detectable and more varied in their results. It was a foolish practitioner who thought a poison’s only use was to kill or disable. No, poisons could be used for much more: they could be made to slowly debilitate a person over years, effectively mimicking the characteristics of specific diseases; they could corrupt a good mind and turn it rotten; they could weaken a heart to a point where it stopped of its own accord; they could paralyze a body but keep the mind sound.
Poison could rob a man of his virility, his memory, or even his youth. It could stunt the growth of a child or, in the case of the queen, prevent the conception of one. It was all a matter of the skill of the poisoner, and Baralis was now in command of such skill.
He moved toward his heavy wooden desk where an array of jars and vials were placed. Most poisons were better made fresh as needed-for poison, like men, lost potency over time. Baralis smiled inwardly: time to cook up a batch.
Tavalisk entered the small, damp cell. He held a scented handkerchief to his nose; the smell of these places was always most unpleasant. He had just eaten a fine meal of roasted pheasant stuffed with its own eggs, a truly remarkable dish, the flavors of which still played in his mouth, whetting his plump tongue. Unfortunately, as well as lingering on his tongue, a small portion of the tenacious bird seemed to be caught between his teeth. Tavalisk pulled forth a dainty silver toothpick from his robes and skillfully dislodged the offending piece of fowl.
He found that inflicting pain and food complemented each other perfectly: after eating a fine meal he liked nothing better than to dabble in a spot of torture.
He regarded the prisoner dispassionately. He was chained up by his hands to the wall, his feet barely touching the ground. Tavalisk had to admit that the young man did have an unusually high tolerance for pain. He had been kept in this dungeon for over a year now. It might have been enough to kill another man. This one, however, had proven to be most exceptional.
Tavalisk had personally supervised the program of torture. Torture was, he considered, a special skill of his. He had designed a specific schedule just for this one prisoner, but was his prisoner grateful? No. This prisoner didn’t even have the decency to succumb to the torture. Burns to the feet had been useless, starvation had been useless, the strain on his arms and wrists had been useless. Even his personal favorite-hot needles in soft flesh-had proved useless. He had been careful not to cause too much damage, though, and had practiced great personal restraint, for Tavalisk had far worse punishments in his repertoire.
He didn’t want to see this young man permanently disabled. He knew that the prisoner was a knight of Valdis, that much was evident from the mark upon his arm-two circles, one within the other, meaning the knight had attained the middle circle and was obviously young to have done so. Unfortunately, the young man had visibly aged since he had been under his care. No longer did the golden hair shine and the cheek run smooth.
But that was of little consequence to Tavalisk. What did matter was what the young man had been doing when he’d been picked up. The knight had been snooping around asking questions, wanting to find somebody, a boy he had said. When the spies had brought him, bound and gagged, to their master, he had refused to speak.
There was one thing which made Tavalisk suspect the knight was involved in something of importance: when he had been brought in, he had in his possession a lacus skin. That skin had Bevlin’s mark upon it. Tavalisk was determined to find out what connection the knight had to the aging wiseman.
Bevlin was considered an old fool by most people, but Tavalisk preferred to give him the benefit of the doubt. Eighteen years ago there had been a momentous sight in the night sky. Tavalisk himself had even heard of it. Most people said it was a sign that the next five years would bring good harvest. And indeed Rorn hadn’t had a bad year since-though gold not gain was harvested in this fair city. But that aside, Tavalisk had the uncanny feeling that the sign had meant more, and that Bevlin had somehow discovered what it was. The wiseman had ranted on about doom and its usual accompaniment, destruction. All but Tavalisk had ignored him: it never hurt to keep an eye on the doings of wisemen-like birds they always knew when a storm was coming. If this prisoner before him was sent on a mission by Bevlin, then Tavalisk was determined to find out the reason behind it.
Of late, he had grown frustrated by the prisoner’s silence and had decided upon another way to discover who the knight was looking for and why. That was what brought him here today. He was going to let the knight go free. All he would have to do is watch and wait; the knight would lead him to the answers he sought.
“Guards,” he called, moving the silken handkerchief from his face. “Free this man and see he gets some water.” The guards hammered the metal stakes from the wrist irons and the prisoner fell heavily to the floor.
“He’s out cold, Your Eminence.”
“I can see that. Take his body and dump him somewhere in the city.”
“Any special part of the city, Your Eminence?” Tavalisk thought for a moment, a mischievous smile spreading across his full lips. “The whoring quarter will do nicely.”
The city of Rorn boasted the largest whoring quarter in the known world. It was whispered that there was not a pleasure imaginable, no matter how illegal or bizarre, that could not be bought for the right price.
The quarter was a refuge for the miserable and the wretched: young girls barely eleven summers old walked the streets, beggars racked with disease could be found on every corner. Pickpockets and cutthroats waited in the shadows for a chance to relieve an unsuspecting passerby of his purse or his life. Weapons and poison and information could be purchased from the countless inns and taverns that jostled for business on the filth-ridden streets.
The streets themselves were so thick with human waste and rotting vegetation, it was said one could tell an outsider by the cloth he held to his nose. It was not a good idea to look like an outsider in the whoring quarter. Outsiders were an easy mark for con men and thieves; they were asking to be robbed or tricked out of their money. But still they came, drawn by the promise of illicit diversions and the thrill of danger. Young noblemen and honest tradesmen alike stole into the quarter as the day grew dim, looking for a game of chance, or a woman for the night … or both.
The sharp smell of excrement was the first thing he became aware of. The next was pain. It was unbearable, pulling every muscle into its knotted snarl. He tried to move through it, to come out where there was now light, but he was too weak. He spiraled downward to meet oblivion and found that it too was crafted from pain.
The dream tormented him once more. He was in a small room. There were children around the fire; two young girls, golden haired and rosy cheeked, smiled up at him, and there was a baby in his arms. The door opened and something glittered brightly on the threshold. Light from the vision eclipsed the glow of the fire, but not its warmth. As he reached toward the brightness, the baby fell from his arms. Stepping through the portal, the door closed behind him. The vision fled, receding to a pinpoint on the horizon, and he turned back to the door. Only the door wouldn’t open. Try as he might, he couldn’t get back to the room and the children around the fire. In desperation he flung himself against the door. His body met with stone.
He awoke with a start, sweat dripping into the corners of his mouth. Something had changed and unfamiliar air filled his lungs. It made him afraid. He was accustomed to his cell, and now even the comfort of familiarity was denied him.
When had he been released? He could barely recall when he’d last felt the cool brush of water upon his lips. One thing was fixed in his mind, though, and that was his name: he was Tawl. Tawl-but there had been more than that. Surely he had been Tawl of somewhere or something. The vaguest of stirrings rose in his breast; his mind tried to focus, but it was gone. He could not remember. He was just Tawl. He had been imprisoned and was now free.
He forced his mind to deal with the present and he began to take in some of his surroundings: he was in an alleyway between two large buildings, there was a chill in the air, and he was alone.
Tentatively, he raised an arm and pain coursed through his body. His arm was bare and he noticed the two-circled mark. It was familiar to him, it meant something, but he didn’t know what. Tawl looked up as the sound of voices approached him.
“Hey, Megan, don’t go near that man there. He looks as good as dead.”
“Hush, Wenna. I’ll go where I please.”
“You’re not liable to get a penny out of him. He doesn’t look up to it.”
Tawl watched as a young girl approached him-he was unable to do anything else. A moment later, her friend also drew close and he began to feel uncomfortable under their scrutiny.
“He smells really bad, like he ain’t seen water for a year or more.”
“Wenna, be quiet, he might hear you. Look, his eyes are open!” The one called Megan smiled gently. “He’s not like the usual type down here.”
“He’s half dead, ain’t he? To me that’s the usual type.”
“No, he’s young and golden haired.” The girl shrugged, as if to excuse her own folly. “There’s something about him … look, Wenna, he’s trying to say something.” Tawl had not spoken for many months and could only manage a bare murmur.
“I think he’s saying his name. It sounds like Tork or Tawl.”
“Megan, come away before you land us in a pickle. You’re right he ain’t the usual type and that spells trouble.” The one named Wenna pulled at her friend’s arm, but she would not be budged.
“You go if you choose, Wenna, but I can’t leave him here all alone. He’ll surely die before the night is through.”
“That, my girl, is not my problem. I’m off. I’m wasting precious time here when I need to be earning. If you’ve any sense in that pretty head of yours you’d do the same, too.” With that, the older of the girls marched off, leaving him alone with the other.
Tawl tried to raise his arm again, and this time the girl took it. “Here, let me help you up.” She noticed the mark. “Oh, that’s strange. I’ve never seen a knight’s circle with a scar running through it.” Tawl let the girl help him to his feet and then promptly fell over again. He could not stand; his legs were not used to carrying any weight. “Oh, you poor thing. Here, try again. My little place ain’t far from here. If you could just manage to walk.” They tried again, this time Tawl leaning on the girl for support. He was surprised that she could bear his weight for she was slightly built.
“Come on,” she encouraged him. “There’s not far to walk. We’ll be there soon.” Tawl struggled along by her side, learning to master his pain.
Baralis carefully allowed four drops of the pink-tinged poison to fall into the jug of wine. The poison rippled and then thinned, its deadly transparency soon lost to the eye. He was rather proud of his latest brew, as it was nearly without odor. He washed his hands thoroughly in a bowl of cold water. It wouldn’t do to have any residue of the materials left on them; this was a particularly lethal mixture and he could already feel a burn upon his flesh.
His hands bore the marks of years spent working with deadly substances. Corrosive acids had gnawed the fat from his flesh, leaving his skin upon the bone. The skin itself was taut and red, and as it tightened he could feel it pull upon his fingers, drawing them inward toward his palms. Every day he rubbed warm oils into the straining flesh, hoping to retain what little mobility was left. His fingers, once long and elegant in youth, were now old beyond their years.
It was a price he paid for his expertise. It was high for one who valued manipulation and swiftness of hand as much as he did, but he would have it no other way. There was a cost to all things, and glory only came to those who were willing to pay the price.
It was time to place the jug of wine in Maybor’s chambers. The lord was usually away from the castle in the afternoons, hunting or riding. This was a job he would have to do himself. He could not trust Crope with a task that required such stealth.
He needed to be very cautious. He would have preferred to enter Maybor’s chamber at night, with darkness as his ally, but that did not suit his plans. Twilight was the best he could manage. He slipped into the labyrinth by way of the beer cellar-no one marked his passing. He had a talent for going unnoticed; it was his natural disposition to search out shadow and shade.
He made good time and was soon approaching Maybor’s chamber. Baralis was surprised to hear the sound of voices and he moved close against the wall, putting his ear to a small crack in the stone. He was astounded to hear the voice of the queen. Arinalda in Maybor’s chambers-what intrigue was this? The queen never visited private chambers, she always called people to her. Baralis concentrated on listening to the rise and fall of their voices.
“I am well pleased to hear that your daughter, Melliandra, is willing for the match, as I had harbored a thought that she may have been reluctant.” The queen spoke with little warmth, her regal tones filtering through the breech in the stone.
“Your Highness, I can assure you my daughter wishes to marry your son more than anything else.” Maybor spoke with exaggerated deference. Baralis’ eyes narrowed with contempt.
“Very good,” the queen was saying. “We will hold the betrothal ceremony ten days from now. I am sure you will agree that we should move quickly on this matter.”
“I do, my queen. I also think, if you will pardon me for saying, Your Highness, that the betrothal should be kept a secret until it has taken place.” There was a slight pause and then the queen spoke, her cold tones carrying straight to Baralis’ ear.
“I agree. There are some at court who I would prefer kept in the dark about this matter. I will take my leave now, Lord Maybor. I wish you joy of the day.” Baralis moved his eye to the crack and saw Maybor bow low to the queen. After the door closed, Maybor’s expression of humility changed to one of triumph.
Baralis smiled coldly as the lord poured himself a glass of wine. “Enjoy your wine, Maybor,” he murmured. “You might not relish your next cup as much.” Baralis settled down to wait for Maybor to take his leave, the vial of poison warming in his hand.
Melli was in a turmoil. Her brother Kedrac had just left.
He had informed her the betrothal was agreed upon-the queen had set a date for the official announcement.
On hearing the news of her fate, decided upon without her consent, rebellion stirred within her breast. She would never in a million years marry the cold and arrogant Prince Kylock. She had no wish to be queen of the Four Kingdoms if Kylock would be her king. She couldn’t exactly say why she disliked him so much-he was always polite to her when they met. But there was something about him that touched a nerve deep within her. Whenever she caught sight of him around the castle, she shuddered inwardly. And now her father had finalized the match.
Oh, she knew well what her father’s plan was. With the king weak, every lord was grabbing for power, and her father was no different: when he was not at war, he was plotting and scheming. Now he had decided upon the ultimate move, to place his daughter in the role of future queen. Maybor cared not a jot for her; his only interests were his precious sons. One of the reasons the war with the Halcus had taken place was because he had wanted to secure land for her brothers.
The war had backfired on him, however, for his lands along the River Nestor were now a battlefield and the yields of the famous Nestor apple orchards were at an all-time low. Her father would be feeling the cruel pinch of war upon his pocket.
She hated him! But she was not sure if she meant her father or Kylock. Last night, when she had refused pointblank to ever marry the prince, her father had actually slapped her. In the gardens! Where anyone could have seen. She had noticed of late her father often held his meetings in the gardens. It appeared nowadays that he didn’t even trust stone walls.
To Melli the past five years had been a great disappointment. She had longed to become a woman, but when her breasts swelled and her blood flowed, she found that she was still a young girl. Her presentation to the queen had not been the glorious triumph she had imagined. The country was at war and no one had much time for frivolous ceremonies, so there had been few to admire the beauty of her gown. That had not been her biggest disappointment, though.
She was most disillusioned with her life as a lady of the court. She’d come to realize that the very dresses and jewels she had once dreamed of now bored her. The young men at court were naive and pompous fools, and she wanted none of them. But what she most hated were the restrictions placed upon a woman of her rank. As a child she could race down the corridors, steal to the kitchens for an illicit treat, and laugh loudly at the top of her voice. Now, as a young lady she might as well not leave her rooms for all the freedom she was afforded elsewhere. It was always:
“Walk with your head up, Melliandra.”
“Keep your voice low and pleasing, Melliandra.”
“Never, ever contradict a man, Melliandra.”
The rules for women were endless. She was expected to change clothes three times a day, she was not allowed in the gardens without a servant accompanying her, she could only ride sidesaddle, she must drink her wine watered and eat her food like a bird. To top it all off, she was forced to spend all of her days cooped up with old matrons, sewing and gossiping.
Her friends might love to dress up and flirt, but playing the role of dumb female was beneath her dignity, and she would never, ever pretend a man was right when he was wrong. She hated it so much, she even hated the sound of the very name she had so desired and now longed to be just plain Melli again.
She sat on the corner of her bed and wondered what she would do. She had no choice about the betrothal. Her father was insisting upon it and she dared not defy him. She’d heard chilling stories of daughters who defied their fathers, tales of floggings and starvations and worse-stories told with relish by her aging nurse.
She’d harbored the distant hope that the queen might object to the betrothal at the last minute, deciding she was not good enough, or pretty enough, or well bred enough for her son, but it appeared that the queen was as anxious for this match as her father.
Queen Arinalda was in a weak position and the country was ripe for invasion. The duke of Bren’s greed for land was making her nervous. The city of Bren was becoming too big to support itself and was starting to look elsewhere for food for its tables. The Four Kingdoms were a feast for the taking. The queen needed the country to appear strong in order to curb any thoughts of conquest the duke might be harboring. To this end she needed to ally herself with the most powerful lord in the kingdoms: Melli’s father. Maybor would then be forced to defend the weak king from those who sought to challenge or invade. Whatever the reasons for the match, Melli was sure of one thing: she was just a pawn.
She had tried to reason with her father last night: she’d pleaded with him to give up the idea of the betrothal. He would not listen to her. He’d pointed out that he owned every scrap of fabric on her back, every ring on her finger and, although he didn’t say it … every breath in her body. She was no more than a possession, and the time had come to bring her to market.
No, Melli thought, I will not be traded like a sack of grain.
She would run away. Kedrac’s visit had been the final straw. Her brother had told her, in his condescending manner, that the betrothal was a great honor for their family, a great advancement, a chance to acquire more land and more prestige. Not one word about her. He’d just droned on about his future, his increased prospects, his expectations. She was nothing to him, merely a means to bring greater power and glory to himself. The same was true of her father. The very fact that he had sent Kedrac to break the news instead of coming himself showed how little he thought of her.
Melli took a deep breath. She was going to leave the castle. No longer would she be beholden to her father and brothers, no longer would she be a chattel, a pawn in their games of power. They had misjudged her if they thought she would quietly submit to their plans.
Pacing the room, she tried to hold onto her anger. It strengthened her, made her want to take charge of her own life. She moved to the window, wanting to look upon the outside world, a world that she would make herself part of. It was dark and quiet, a light rain was falling and the chill of night caressed her cheek. Instead of feeling exhilarated, she found herself afraid: the world outside beckoned … ambivalent and unfamiliar. Melli shuddered and pulled the heavy brocade curtains together.
She would go ahead with her plan. She would leave the castle tonight.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of her maid. The sly-eyed Lynni busied herself laying out a dress for the evening. “You’d better hurry, my lady, or you’ll be late for dinner.”
“I am not feeling well, Lynni. I will take a cold supper in my room.”
“You look well enough to me. You must go down. There are visitors from Lanholt and your presence will be expected.”
“Do as I say,” said Melli sharply. The girl left the room, swinging her hips with studied insolence.
Melli began sorting through her things, deciding what she would take with her. She had no money of her own, but was allowed to keep a modest amount of jewelry in her room, and these she placed in a small cloth bag. She scanned her chamber. She now possessed a mirror of her own, and her reflection caught her eye; she looked small and frightened.
She caught hold of her straight, dark hair and pulled it back with a leather thong, thinking it suited her a lot better than some of the overelaborate court styles. Next Melli put on her plainest woollen dress, tied the cloth bag containing her jewels securely around her waist, and then selected her thickest riding cloak. All she had to do was wait for Lynni to return with her supper and she would be off, stealing out of the castle under the cover of darkness. Never for a moment did she consider leaving without her supper-that would be foolish.
Melli slipped beneath the bedclothes to wait, and thought of where she would go. Her mother, before she’d died, had spoken of relatives in Annis. She would head there.
Lord Maybor was having a very good day. The queen had approved the match between Kylock and his daughter. He had supped well this night.
As he dined, he looked around the hall. The huge tapestries caught his eye. They showed the story of how the Four Kingdoms had been ripped asunder during the terrible Wars of Faith. They went on to depict the one man who, over a hundred years later, was responsible for reuniting the four glorious territories in defiance of the Church. The Four Kingdoms boasted the most fertile soil in the north. It was well placed for farm land and timber, its people were plump and prosperous, its armies well trained and well fed. Harvell the Fierce had been the driving force behind the Wars of Reunification. Thanks to him, the green and vibrant country was made whole once again.
Maybor fancied there was a little of Harvell’s nature in himself, and certainly before the year was out he would form part of the great tradition that was the lineage of kings. He would be father to a queen! He could barely contain his excitement.
He noticed that many of the lords gathered around the great table were puzzled by his uncharacteristic good humor, and it pleased him greatly that they were ignorant of his impending elevation. Maybor felt an overflowing of goodwill. He called for more venison and ale, and even cheered the minstrels, who he normally enjoyed pelting with vegetables and chicken bones.
The king must be made to step down, he thought. He is an empty vessel and has no place on the throne of the Four Kingdoms. Fresh blood should flow into the leadership, the blood of his future son-in-law, Kylock. True, Kylock was young, but Maybor had plans to use that youth to his advantage, guiding Kylock’s decisions, molding the new king. He, Maybor, would be the power behind the throne.
He paused in his delicious reverie for a moment and considered Prince Kylock. There was something about the lad that gave him the shivers, but no mind, he thought, he will make a fine king with me to guide him. Melliandra, his ungrateful rebel of a daughter, had actually said she would not marry him. Well, it was too late for her objections now.
He would personally beat the defiance out of her if necessary.
The first thing he would urge the new king to do would be to end the war with the Halcus once and for all. He was tired of his lands being used as campsites and battlefields. Once the war was over, he would claim the land to the east of the River Nestor for himself: it was fine land for growing cider apples.
Personal profit aside, there were other more pressing reasons why the war should be won quickly. Bren was up to no good. The duke had already started a program of annexation to the southeast, and it wouldn’t be long before his eye turned west. Highwall and Annis were strong and well armed. The kingdoms, however, were so distracted by warring with Halcus that they were practically asking to be invaded. No matter they were a distance apart, the good duke’s ancestors had once held land west of the Nestor, and a prior claim, no matter how tenuous, always served to incite the indignant passions of would-be invaders.
Maybor drained his cup. It was getting late, and he took his leave of his dinner companions, his feet a little unsteady from the large amount of ale he had drunk. As he returned to his chamber, the only thing he wanted to do was have a glass of lobanfern red to aid his digestion and then to bed for a deep sleep.
“Kelse, you idle lout,” he shouted before entering his chamber. “Come and turn down my bed and stoke up my fire. There is a bite in the air tonight.” Maybor was surprised not to hear the scurry of his servant’s feet on the stone; Kelse was usually quick to respond. He might already be in the chamber, warming the sheets with hot bricks.
Maybor entered his room. It was cold; the fire had gone out. “Damn!” he muttered. “Kelse, where in Borc’s name are you?” Maybor crossed to the table where he kept a jug of his favorite wine. He poured himself a generous cup and moved through to the bedchamber.
As he lifted the cup to his lips, he caught sight of a body on the floor near his bed. It was his servant Kelse. Puzzled, he put down the cup, moved toward the body and slapped Kelse hard on the cheek.
“Kelse, you drunken malingerer. Awaken this instant, or I swear I will have your innards on a platter.” Kelse did not respond. Maybor grew alarmed; the man had not moved. “What treachery is this?” His eyes alighted on the upturned cup that lay beside Kelse’s body. Maybor drew the cup to his nose and smelled it: lobanfern red. He felt his servant’s lifeless body: it was cold. “Poison,” he spoke.
Maybor felt the hairs on his neck bristle. He was in no doubt that the poison had been meant for him. The unfortunate Kelse had stolen a glass of the tainted wine and had paid for it with his life. Maybor smiled grimly. Kelse had unknowingly performed the greatest service a servant could do for his master: lay down his life. He trembled to think what might have happened if the drugged wine had passed his lips. He would be the one lying on the cold stone, dead. He knew who had done this.
“Baralis,” he whispered under his breath. He had almost been expecting it. For many months now he had seen the look of hatred on Baralis’ face. They both had scores to settle, and it seemed that the king’s chancellor had made the first move to resolve them.
Poison was just the sort of cowardly method that Baralis favored. Maybor was a fighting man, a veteran of many campaigns, and had only contempt for such underhanded tactics. If he were to plan an assassination-and, after the events of tonight, it would seem likely he would have to, a man could hardly be expected to ignore an attempt on his life-he would resort to more conventional techniques. There was more beauty and certainty to be found in a knife to the throat than in a jug of poisoned wine.
“Your plans have gone wrong on this dark night,” he murmured softly. “Sleep soundly in your bed, Baralis, lord and chancellor, for there may not be many nights left for you to dream in.”
Jack was, as usual, up at four. He no longer had to keep the ovens fueled all night-that job had passed on to a younger boy. He was now in charge of supervising the first baking and, after the oven-boy left, he usually had the kitchen to himself for an hour before Master Frallit and the other bakers appeared.
He dressed quickly, the temperature in his room giving speed to his actions. His breeches were four months old and he was pleased to notice they fitted him now exactly as they did when newly made, which meant he’d finally stopped growing. About time, too. It wasn’t much fun being the tallest person in the kitchens. He was always the one called upon to chase spiders from their webs and to shake the moths from slow-drying herbs.
Pulling on a light tunic, he noticed it smelled a little too strongly of sweat. He’d hoped to cross the path of the tablemaid Findra later on in the day, and had recently found out that girls didn’t appreciate too generous a smell. Of course the confusing thing was that Grift had informed him that no smell at all was worse than the most terrible stench: “Women choose a lover with their noses first, so a man’s odor must declare his intentions,” was a favorite saying of his. Deciding that he’d flour his tunic down later to create the delicate balance needed for wooing, Jack made his way to the kitchens.
The first thing he did was add fragrant woods to the furnace. Frallit maintained there were only two types of wood in the world: one for heating and one for cooking. Overnight the oven was fueled with plentiful woods such as oak and ash, but a day’s baking called for more delicate fuel. Hawthorne, hazel, and chestnut were added before the bread was put to bake. The master baker swore by them: “They give a fragrance to the dough that becomes a flavor when the flame is high,” he would say.
Once that was seen to, Jack brought the dough down from the shelf above the oven. The shelf benefited from the heat of the furnace and the dough rose well overnight. He removed the damp linen cloth from the tray and absently punched each individual portion of dough down and then kneaded them, his hands deft with experience. Quickly, he formed neat rows on the baking slabs and then opened the huge iron door of the oven, its blazing heat hitting Jack in a familiar wave. He had singed his hair on more than one occasion in the past. He loaded the slabs onto shelves and closed the door. Next, he threw a measure of water into the furnace; the steam produced would add extra vigor to the crust.
Jack then turned his attention to mixing the “noon loaves.” These would be the third and fourth batches of the day. The population of Castle Harvell was so great that the oven had to be in use nearly every waking hour. The first batches of the morning were maslin loaves. Formed from rye and wheat, maslin loaves were the staple of lords and servants alike. What was cooked next often depended upon who was visiting the castle. When foreign noblemen and envoys were in attendance, the master baker usually honored them by baking their native loaves and delicacies. Later in the afternoon, when the sweet breads and fancies were still cooling, Frallit would indulge in what he called his “baker’s privilege.”
Harvell, like most towns, had several communal ovens where women brought their dough to be baked. A copper penny a loaf was the charge. Frallit had taken to renting out space in the castle oven for a similar rate. Being a canny businessman, the master baker offered the women one free loaf with a dozen, and now had rather a profitable sideline going. The head cellarer and the chief cook were given a silencing cut of the proceeds. Jack’s inducement for keeping quiet was nothing more than the threat of a sound thrashing.
Once the noon loaves were mixed and the yeast set to proof, Jack was free to find himself something to eat. He usually spent the proofing time visiting the servants’ hall for a measure of ale and a bowl of whatever was served the night before. This morning, however, Baralis had kept him up so late scribing, that all he wanted to do was sit down for a while and have a short rest.
He settled himself on the baker’s bench and rested his head against the ledge. His eyes were heavy with lost sleep. He’d only managed to snatch about three hours rest last night and he was tired beyond measure. Before he knew it, he had drifted off into a light and dreamless sleep.
When he next opened his eyes, he saw the alarming sight of black smoke bellowing from the oven. “Copper pots!” he exclaimed, immediately realizing he had fallen asleep leaving bread baking in the oven. He rushed over to the oven, but his nose had already told him what his eyes could see: the loaves were burnt. All eight score of them. Jack grew cold with fear. Frallit would surely kill him for this. Half the morning’s bread bumt to a cinder. Oh, if only he hadn’t fallen asleep.
His mind was racing with panic as he stared at the charred loaves in the oven, desperately wishing they were not burnt. Master Frallit had whipped the hide off a boy once for burning the loaves. The boy had never been seen in the kitchens again. Just this week the master baker had warned Jack about sloppy work, threatening to send him away from the castle if he didn’t improve. It was one thing to dream about leaving, but quite another to be thrown out.
What was he going to do? Master Frallit would be along any minute. If only he could change things, make the loaves dough again. His brow creased with desperation and he felt pain course through his head. He suddenly felt faint and light-headed, and stumbled to the floor, losing consciousness.
Baralis had not slept all night. His head was full of what he’d overheard outside of Maybor’s chamber. The queen was obviously trying her hand at politicking, seeking to consolidate her position by marrying Kylock to Maybor’s daughter. She would be a fool to think that the king would be made safe by an alliance with Maybor. The first thing Maybor would do would be to oust the old king and put Kylock in his place, thinking he could control the young and inexperienced boy.
Only now there would be no betrothal: with Maybor dead, the queen would find his charming daughter, Melliandra, to be less useful a bride for her son. Baralis smiled, his teeth glittering in the firelight. He had a more glorious match for Kylock in mind. He would see the prince married to one more exalted than the daughter of a mere lord. It was time that the kingdoms took up a more central position in the arena of the civilized world.
Baralis tossed and turned in the pale morning light, imagining gleefully what the new day would bring. To finally have that scheming viper Maybor out of his way! He must be careful to rehearse Crope in his alibi: he and Crope were to have been out yesterday gathering special herbs for medicines, and indeed it was partly true-he had sent Crope to the woods and told him to pick some flowers. Flowers to place on Maybor’s grave.
Suddenly, Baralis felt something, the unmistakable sensation that signaled the use of power. Someone was drawing raw, untrained power in the castle. Foreboding crept over him. The power being wielded was mighty indeed but strangely crude. Baralis’ body was a razor edge of perception. He shot out his mental awareness, searching out the source of the drawing.
“Jack, Jack, wake up. What do you think you’re doing falling asleep when there’s loaves in the oven?” admonished Tilly. “It’s a wonder they didn’t bum, else you’d been in deep trouble with Frallit.”
Jack sat up, startled. “But they did burn, Tilly, I-“
“Oh, hush, you big dimwit. You must have been dreaming. They’re just browning off nicely now. Look.”
Jack looked through the gap in the oven designed for monitoring the baking and was startled to find that Tilly was right-the loaves were not burnt. Someone must have replaced the burnt loaves with a new batch while he was unconscious. He stood up and felt a wave of nausea flood over his body.
He checked the trays of waiting dough. There was the same number as earlier-if a new batch were in the oven, they would be empty. He smelled the air. There was the faintest whiff of burning-he had not been dreaming. He rushed over to the waste bins, but no charred loaves had been thrown out.
Tilly was looking at him as if he was mad. He was sure he hadn’t dreamed the incident: the loaves had been bumt. What had he done? He recalled the instant before he passed out there had been a sick feeling in his stomach and great pressure in his head.
Jack felt the turn of fate. Something had happened here, something that went against the laws of nature, something terrible-and he was responsible for it. He was trembling and his legs were threatening to give way beneath him. He needed to lie down, to sleep, to forget.
“Tilly, I don’t feel too good. I need to have a rest.” Tilly, seeing something strange in the young boy’s face, softened. “Very well, I’ll cover for you with Frallit. Be off now.”
Baralis perceived that the unleashing of power had come from below, and he became a hound on the scent. Quickly, he dressed and called for Crope. When the huge simpleton arrived, they both headed out of his chambers and down to the lower depths of the castle.
Baralis knew fear for the first time in many years. He hated the unknown. He was a great believer in careful planning and attention to detail. Nothing disturbed him more than the unexpected. Users of sorcery were few and far between-particularly in the north-indeed, that was why he had settled here in the first place. To be the only one at the court of the Four Kingdoms with the advantages of deviltry at his disposal.
For that is what the fools thought sorcery was: a gift from the devil. Let them think what they would; the ignorance of others had long proved to be one of his greatest allies. The people in the castle were afraid of him. They whispered that he was a demon, a sorcerer, a madman. It suited him nicely to let the whisperings persist: people were afraid of him, and he liked it that way.
The thought that someone in the castle had access to the same elusive source as he gave great haste to his step.
He drew nearer to where the power had been drawn, Crope lumbering behind him. The kitchens! The power had been drawn in the kitchens, he was sure of it. Baralis was oblivious to the servants and guards, who quickly stepped out of his way to let him pass.
Once he found himself in the huge castle kitchens, he could feel the aftermath prickling upon his skin. Without a word to the startled staff, he crossed from the cook’s section to the baker’s kitchen. This was it, every hair on his body confirmed it. He drew close to the huge oven, vestiges of the drawing lapping over his body in waves. It had happened here. Wildly he looked around, ignoring the master baker and Tilly. Next to the oven was a large wooden table on which scores of loaves were cooling. It was the loaves! The power had been drawn on the loaves.
It seemed like madness. Who would draw the power to eight score of loaves? Baralis rubbed his chin as he considered the situation. He looked to the master baker and to Tilly: it was certainly neither of those terrified wretches. He surprised Tilly by grabbing her arm and twisting it painfully behind her back.
“Now, my pretty little wench,” he said, the gentleness of his voice belying his actions. “I see you,are frightened by the sight of my man Crope.” Another twist of the arm. “You do well to fear him, for Crope is a dangerous man, aren’t you, Crope?” He turned to Crope, who nodded enthusiastically. “Now, answer my question. What happened here this morning?”
Tilly looked bewildered. “Nothing, sir.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Who was in the kitchen this morning?” Another twist of the arm.
“Why, no one, sir. Just me and Master Frallit and Jack.”
“Are you sure there was no one else?”
“Well, sir, I’ve only been here a few minutes. You’d better ask Jack-he was here earlier.”
“Where is Jack now?” Baralis’ voice was as smooth and inviting as silk.
“He went to lie down. He said he wasn’t feeling well.” Baralis let Tilly go, a notion beginning to form in his mind. “What do you mean he felt unwell? What was wrong with him?”
“Well, sir, it was quite queer really. When I came down, he was fast asleep on the floor, and he said something about the loaves being burnt, and of course they weren’t … and then he said he didn’t feel well.”
“Where is his room?”
“On the south side of the servants’ quarters, right at the top.”
Baralis paused a moment, his eye on the oven. “All the loaves must be destroyed.”
“But that’s half a morning’s baking-“
“Do as I say!” Baralis’ gaze challenged the master baker to defy him. Satisfied he would be obeyed, he spun round and marched out of the kitchen, Crope in his wake.
Jack had decided not to go to his room, but to get some air instead. His head felt thick and heavy, like it did when he drank too much ale.
He sat down on the grass, his legs giving way beneath him. When he looked up, he saw in the distance the unmistakable figure of Baralis. He was followed by Crope, and they were heading across the grounds in the direction of the servants’ quarters. They had come from the kitchens. There was something about the sight of Baralis’ dark cloak shifting in the breeze that filled Jack with apprehension.
Although he was some distance away, Jack saw determination in the line of Baralis’ brow and the sight of it made him shudder. Jack knew without a doubt they were looking for him.
He began to piece his thoughts together. He had done something terrible this morning; he’d transgressed some fundamental law. And now it seemed that Baralis, the one person in the castle who was rumored to have knowledge of such things, had discovered what he’d done. Baralis and Crope were looking for him, probably to punish him or worse. He’d changed the course of events, performed an aberration against nature … and people were stoned for such things in these parts.
Everyone knew there were forces in the world that couldn’t be explained, but no one liked to speak of them. To mention sorcery was to mention the devil. Grift had told him so a hundred times, and everyone knew the dangers of naming the devil. What did that make him, then? He didn’t feel evil. Sometimes he was slow about his work and didn’t pay the respect he should to Master Frallit-but was he evil?
Clouds drifted across the path of the sun, casting Jack in the shade. There was something about him that was evil, one thought in his mind that was as good as a sin. He harbored a terrible hatred-the man who had fathered and then abandoned him, he would like to see dead. It was the first time that Jack had admitted the strength of his feelings. For too long he had tried to fool himself into believing he didn’t care a jot about who his father was. Yet the events of this morning had somehow allowed him the freedom to admit the depth of his feelings. His mother was no saint, that was common knowledge, but she’d deserved better than to be forsaken-they both did.
Somehow it seemed that all things were connected: the loaves, his mother, his father. He tried to grasp at the common thread, but it eluded him, and then, after a moment, it was gone.
What did remain was the reality of this morning. He had a decision to make: should he stay in the castle and risk the wrath of Baralis and the condemnation of his friends, or should he leave and make a new way in the world?
Perhaps because the shade was akin to the night, Jack felt the urge to be off. If the sun had still been shining, maybe his life would have taken a different path.
With the decision made, Jack began to feel calm. Perhaps this morning was a blessing-it gave him reason to do what he’d only dreamt of before. Swiftly, not turning to look back, he made his way across the castle grounds and to the outer wall. With each step came strength of purpose, and by the time he passed the castle gates, he was sure he’d made the right choice.
Three
Lord Maybor awoke late and immediately felt a deep happiness. A man who has been saved from a certain death has reason to be happy. Maybor had yet another reason: his daughter would he queen.
Once he was king-no, he corrected himself, when his son-in-law was king-things would be very different around the court at Harvell. The Known Lands were in a state of unease-those damned knights of Valdis, with their high ideals and low tolerances, were busy making trouble. Having lost out on trade to Rorn in the south, they were trying to gain a foothold in the north. He wasn’t going to have any of that. He heard the knights were ridiculously honest, and everyone knew honesty was a dangerous habit in a trading partner. Bren was another place that bore watching: he wouldn’t be against the idea of forming a peaceful alliance with some of the other northern powers just to keep ideas of conquest out of the duke of Bren’s ambitious head. Yes, there would be much for him to do behind the throne.
Maybor dressed quickly, careful not to step on his dead servant. He felt like wearing one of his more ostentatious robes on this fine morning, so chose a beautiful silk in deep red. One never knew when one might be called upon to entertain foreign dignitaries. On most days there was usually someone interesting or influential applying for entry at the castle gates.
Maybor was beginning to feel a little guilty for having slapped his daughter the other evening. Now that he knew the future was certain, he would be kinder to her; she would eventually come round. He would buy her a gift. That was it: buy her a beautiful and hugely expensive gift. He had recently heard tell of a rare and exquisite gemstone that came from beyond the Drylands-what was it called? Isslt, that was it. It was supposed to flicker with an inner light. He had been told it was a deep, sea blue-the color of Melliandra’s eyes. Even better. He would spare no expense. She would have the biggest one he could find, big as a fist. He would make the arrangements for acquiring it this very day.
As he was admiring his portly figure in the mirror, there was a knock on his door.
“Come.” He was surprised to see his daughter’s maid Lynni enter the room. Then his spirits picked up; perhaps the young chit fancied a tumble.
“What is it, my pretty one?” The girl looked frightened. “Speak up, girl. There is no need to be shy, many women take a fancy to an older man.” Lynni turned as red as Maybor’s robe.
“Sir, it’s not that.” She hesitated, her eyes narrowing. “But you are an uncommonly handsome man, sir.”
“Yes, the mirror tells me that every day. But come along, girl. Spit out what you have come to tell me, and maybe then we can take a quick tumble if you are willing.”
“Well, sir, I’d be willing for a tumble myself, but I fear my news might wilt your swell.”
“What is it? Hasn’t Lady Melliandra got a clean dress to wear?” Maybor smiled indulgently. Such were the nature of women’s problems: a lost comb, a broken locket, a shoe so tight it pinched.
The girl looked down at the floor. “Lady Melliandra has gone.”
A cold dread stole over Maybor. “What do you mean, gone? Where has she gone?”
The girl could not meet his eye. She played nervously with her fingers. “Well, sir, I came to her room this morning, same as usual, and she was not there.”
“Could she have gone for a walk, or to see a friend?”
