by J. V. Jones
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 burnt 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 burn, 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 burnt. 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 be 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?”
“She would have told me, sir.”
Maybor felt the quick flare of anger. He took the girl’s thin shoulders in his hands and shook her. “Does she have a lover?” he demanded.
“No, sir.” The girl’s voice trembled with fear.
“If you are lying to me, I will have your tongue pulled out.”
“No, sir, she is a virgin. I’m positive.”
Maybor changed his line of questioning, “Has her bed been slept in?”
“Well, sir, the covers were ruffled somewhat, but I have a feeling she had not slept there.”
“Come with me.” He grasped Lynni by the arm and marched her to Melli’s bedchamber. Baralis! If that demon had a hand in this, he would be dead before the day was finished.
By the time they arrived at his daughter’s chambers, Maybor had worked himself into a fury. There was no sign of his daughter. His eye alighted on the ivory box in which she was allowed to keep her less valuable jewels. It was empty!
“Find out if any of her clothes are missing . . . now!” he boomed loudly when the girl hesitated. As Maybor waited, he held the fragile box in his hands, shaking his head.
The girl ran from the dressing room. “One of her woollen dresses and her heavy riding cloak are missing.”
Maybor was frantic—what had become of her? A thousand dangers could befall a young girl outside the castle walls. Melliandra had no idea of the real world, no idea at all. She was a lamb to the slaughter. “Damn.” Maybor flung the box across the room, where it shattered against the wall. “She is only a child!” The rage left him as he looked upon his handiwork. Fragments of ivory lay scattered upon the floor. He spoke quietly, more to himself than the girl. “She has to be brought back. She cannot have gone far.
