The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  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 scann
ed 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.