by J. V. Jones
She walked through the woods enjoying the night. The air was cold and soon to frost; the trees formed elegant silhouettes against the night, their branches reaching toward the heavens in patient anticipation of the spring. A flash of white caught her eye. High in the trees a bird settled to a branch. She stopped in her tracks, suddenly wanting Jack to draw level with her. When he came to her side, she pointed above and said, “I didn’t think doves flew at night.”
My, my, thought Baralis, this is an interesting turn of events. My clever dove has located not one but two fugitives from the castle. He was seeing through the eye of the bird—an unsettling view of form and movement. He watched as the two companions made their way to a shallow stream. It was almost dark and the moon glimmered softly upon the slow-moving water.
He had seen all he needed. The pair would go no further tonight. He would have them captured tomorrow. There was no need for haste, as his creature would track their movements. He let the dove sleep, and as he withdrew his perceptions from the bird he was aware that it was cold and had not eaten.
Four
Lord Maybor was in bed with his daughter’s maid, Lynni. The enjoyments of the flesh had failed to lessen his distress. His carefully laid plans would be foiled if he could not find his daughter.
From an early age, Maybor’s only goal was to accumulate land and power. He had been born the second son to a minor lord. His father had not subscribed to the view that the land should be shared equally between sons and had died leaving all his holdings to Maybor’s older brother, Reskor.
Maybor had bided time, hiding his resentment beneath a veneer of fraternal duty, until one day an opportunity presented itself to him. There had been a deep spring snow and the two brothers were out helping locate lambs in the field. They were in a section of land that Maybor knew well and Reskor did not. Maybor suggested to his brother that there might be sheep still trapped in the distance beyond a low rise. Reskor galloped off. Not long after, the still air was filled with the horrifying sound of cracking ice. Maybor heard his brother’s cries for help, heard the terrified squeal of his horse. He took no heed, riding off to the manor house, never once looking back.
After the spring thaw, Reskor’s body and the body of his horse were found floating on a small lake. Snow had concealed its frozen surface, and it was concluded that Reskor had accidentally ridden to a cold oblivion. Maybor inherited his brother’s land, but he soon coveted more.
His eyes looked to the east, where the crops were bountiful and the climate more temperate. He married the only child of a great eastern lord. There was no doubting his motives, for the girl was not sound of mind and had been born with only a stump for a right hand. It had been easy to convince her father that the troubled girl had one day taken it upon herself to jump from a high battlement. Both Maybor and the girl’s father were glad to see her dead. Maybor’s position as heir to the father’s estates was solid, for the brief union had produced a son. Five years passed and his father-in-law died, and Maybor gained possession of the vast stretches of fertile land that lay west of the River Nestor.
Within a month of his father-in-law’s death Maybor married again. Never one to let his heart choose his mate, he married a girl of little beauty and taste, but whose father owned land adjacent to his own. His new wife had a brother who was due to inherit her father’s land. He was a sickly boy of eight summers. He soon caught a terrible chill while out riding with Maybor and died shortly afterward.
And so Maybor became the greatest landholder in the east. His second wife eventually died a natural death, having provided him with two more sons and a daughter. She had lived a miserable life, unloved and ignored by her husband.
Maybor then began an aggressive policy of buying up neighboring land: if the landowners would not sell, Maybor would force them. He would hire men to burn their crops and barns, set loose their animals, and build dams to stop their water. Eventually most landowners succumbed to the pressure, and Maybor picked up the land surrounding his for a very reasonable price.
He soon found that acquiring land was not enough. He wanted power and prestige. He yearned to be a man of importance, to have the ear of the highest in the land, and he succeeded—he bought and ambitioned his way into the king’s favor. Now he aspired to his greatest accomplishment: father to a queen. He had to locate Melliandra; she held the throne room’s only key.
He found he had no further appetite for the girl in his bed and he commanded her to leave. She was a spirited wench, abundant in thigh and hip, and normally he would have enjoyed her once more, but his daughter’s flight lay heavy upon his mind and worry blunted the edge of his desire.
He thought long on where his daughter might be headed, and he eventually recalled his second wife having relatives in Annis. He hoped with all his being that she was not headed there, for the way to Annis led through the battlefields and lands of the Halcus. The enemy would love to get their hands on his daughter: they would rape and then tear her limb from limb. Maybor couldn’t bear thinking about it, and with shaking hands he poured himself a glass of red wine. Just before the liquid met his tongue, he did something he had not done for over thirty years: he sent a silent prayer to Borc, begging him to keep his daughter safe.
Tavalisk was enjoying his breakfast. He was eating lamb’s kidneys, savoring their delicate flavor of blood and urine.
Today was to be an important day for the city of Rorn. The whole city had been given a holiday and all the people would be crowding the streets to watch the procession. It was on this day, nearly two thousand years ago, that the great hero Kesmont had founded the city. Legend told that Kesmont was being pursued by his enemies and had managed to evade them only by the swiftness of his mount. The unfortunate horse was ridden so fast and hard that it was said to have dropped dead under the great man. The hero was immediately filled with intense remorse and dug a deep grave for his beloved mare. With tears in his eyes, he vowed he would build a great city on the site of his mount’s final resting place. That city he named Rorn after his horse.
Tavalisk had studied the life of Kesmont and thought him to be a rather foolish and sentimental man. He had been rumored to have founded another city, this one named after his mother. Lamentably, that city had been situated perilously close to the Great Marshes and eventually had succumbed to the inevitable pull of the slow mud, never to be heard of again. Yes, thought Tavalisk, Kesmont may have been a master with the sword, but he’d been sadly lacking in common sense.
Tavalisk expertly skewered another kidney and placed it between his full, wet lips. There was much to do today. Not only had he to dress for and take part in the procession, but he also had other matters to attend to. Last night he had received a very interesting piece of information.
Gamil, his aide, had placed a letter in his hands—a very interesting letter, indeed. Gamil informed him that the letter had been intercepted by his spies in Bren. The letter was from the upstart Baralis and was addressed to the duke of Bren. It spoke of a marriage between Catherine of Bren, the duke’s daughter, and Prince Kylock. So: Baralis was seeking to ally the Four Kingdoms with Bren. This situation would definitely warrant careful monitoring. There was nothing Tavalisk disliked more than people making plans without his knowledge or consent.
He pulled the satin cord which hung conveniently close to hand, and a few moments later his aide appeared.
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Tavalisk made a point of making his aide wait while he finished his last morsel of kidney. “Gamil, I think we should keep an eye to what our cunning friend Lord Baralis is up to.” After the velvety dryness of the kidneys, Tavalisk needed something to cleanse his palate. He poured honey into a bowl and proceeded to dip morsels of bread into the amber liquid. “Tell our spy in Castle Harvell to step up his vigilance.”
“It will be done.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Baralis should soon receive the note I sent him, regarding the return of my books. They were due back several months ago.
” Tavalisk drank deeply from his golden cup. “The letter’s delivery will act as a timely reminder of my presence.” Tavalisk smiled sweetly as he recalled selecting the books which had been sent. He had been careful to ensure that nothing of great significance had reached Baralis’ greedy eye. It had been a small price to pay for the pleasure of stirring up trouble between the Four Kingdoms and Halcus. The fact that the war had gone on longer than he anticipated was an added bonus: interest was accruing most deliciously from war loans to the Halcus. In the spirit of neutrality, the archbishop had of course offered a similar loan to the Four Kingdoms. His offer had been declined: the kingdoms were too rich for their own good. Whenever they needed money, all they had to do was cut down another of their damned forests. Timber was a valuable commodity in the southeast, and the kingdoms had the greatest resource in the Known Lands. Annis, Helch, and Highwall had their share of timber, but it was mostly fir and pine. What carpenter would choose pine when he could have walnut, oak, and ash?
Tavalisk licked the honey from his finger; it was so much nicer than a spoon. “What has become of our knight?”
“He was picked up by a prostitute, Your Eminence.”
This statement struck Tavalisk as amusing, and he laughed showing his small, white teeth. “Well, well. I thought it was the prostitute who was supposed to be picked up.” He looked to his aide to appreciate his joke, but Gamil did not share it.
“What should we do next, Your Eminence?”
“Why, nothing of course. It is well that he has been picked up; it would have been unfortunate for one so young to die.” Tavalisk poured himself a generous cup of wine. “Do nothing, Gamil . . . save watch him like a hawk.” Tavalisk waved his arm in dismissal. “You may go now. I must dress for today’s festivities. The people will be disappointed if I do not look my best.”
“Very well, Your Eminence.”
Tavalisk watched as Gamil walked across the room. The aide was about to open the door when he spoke. “Oh, by the way, Gamil, there’s no need for you to bother dressing up. After last year’s unfortunate incident with the horse dung, I feel it’s best if you keep out of the public eye altogether.” The archbishop smiled benignly and pretended not to notice the look of hatred on his aide’s face as he left the room.
“You mean to tell me, Bodger, you ain’t ever heard of the Glinff?” Grift had a roguish twinkle in his eye.
Bodger leaned forward and lowered his voice. “No, Grift, I can’t say as I have.”
“Oh, the Glinff are a mighty strange people, Bodger. They live deep in the forest and would rollick you as soon as look at you.”
“You mean the women?”
“Aye, and the men, too. They’re a powerful passionate race are the Glinff.”
“I’ll be a-walkin in the woods soon then, Grift.”
“You wouldn’t want to do that, Bodger. The Glinff might well give you a good rollickin’, but when you’re off your guard, it’s whoosh, off with your plums.”
“Off with my plums!”
“Aye, they eat ’em for breakfast. What do you think makes ’em so randy?” Bodger gave Grift a dubious look—he could never tell when Grift was pulling his leg. The two men downed more ale.
“Something mighty strange happened in the kitchens yesterday, Bodger.”
“What makes you say that, Grift?”
“Lord Baralis himself came charging down. In a right state he was, ordered Frallit to destroy half a morning’s baking.”
“That does seem a bit odd, Grift.”
“It’s more than odd, Bodger. It’s sorcery, if you ask me.”
“Sorcery?”
“Aye, Bodger, the worst evil in the Known Lands.”
“I thought there was no such thing, Grift.”
“More fool you, then, Bodger. It’s real all right, as real as Lady Helliarna’s thighs are wide. It was rife in Borc’s time. He put an end to most of it, though, slaughtered all he could find who used it.”
“All of them, Grift?”
“No, more’s the pity. His blade was sharp, but his wits grew soft.”
“That’s blasphemy, Grift.”
“Call it what you will, Bodger. Borc failed us, and Lord Baralis running round the kitchens ordering the destruction of perfectly fine loaves serves to show us how badly.”
“Maybe the loaves weren’t to his taste, Grift.”
“No one decent has a taste for sorcery, Bodger.”
The nagging pain in his back finally awoke Jack. He shifted his position and realized that he had been sleeping most of the night on top of a collection of small rocks. He rubbed his bruises as he remembered the previous night.
He and Melli had eventually managed to find a small stream and had filled the flask with its clear, cold water. They had decided that they would walk no further that night and so they made a meager camp. Melli had agreed with Jack that they should not light a fire, for fear of attracting attention—neither person daring to say who they sought to avoid.
The night had been moonlit and cold, and they bedded down under the stars, Melli ostentatiously keeping a noticeable distance between Jack and herself. They had not thought to set guard against intruders or wild animals. The two companions merely bundled themselves up in the coarse blankets and fell asleep on the hard ground.
Weak, morning light filtered through the trees, and Jack felt the need to be up and stretch his legs. He also felt a more basic need and scanned around for a suitably dense bush behind which he could relieve himself.
Quietly, to avoid waking the sleeping form of Melli, Jack stole away from the campsite. He decided he would gather some wood and bracken for a fire; he would surprise Melli by making a warm porridge with the drybread and stream water.
He was some distance from the campsite when he first heard the distant thunder of hooves. Jack’s heart began to beat quickly—he knew they came for him. He poised, motionless for the barest instant, deciding whether to return to the campsite and Melli, or whether to capitalize on what little head start he had and run alone into the heart of the wood.
Jack turned back toward the campsite and ran swiftly calling Melli’s name.
Melli was awakened by a distant rumbling. She opened her eyes and saw that Jack had gone. She glanced over to her horse and her sack of supplies. At least he had not robbed her. She became aware that the nagging sound was getting louder; it was familiar to her. It was the sound of horses. She knew they were for her. They were drawing closer and she had little time. With lightning speed, she gathered the blankets in her sack and tied it to the back of the mount. She untethered her horse and jumped on its back.
She had never before ridden a horse without a saddle and she had no time for lessons. She gripped its flank with her thighs and took up the reins, urging the creature into a brisk canter. The riders were approaching from the north so she would head south, into the depths of the forest.
As her horse broke into a run, she fancied she heard her name called, but the sound was lost under the noise of leaf and hoof, and she paid it no heed.
The men were gaining on her. She risked a glance backward and could see their shadowy forms looming close. Her old horse would go no faster, and so she decided to head for the thickening trees, where it would prove harder to maneuver a group of horses.
Her horse moved with surprising agility if not speed in the dense trees, as if it were well used to the wood. She listened to the approach of the riders as they crashed through the undergrowth, calling harsh cries to one another: there sounded to be many. She had no time for fear, only action, and she instinctively moved deeper into the heart of the wood.
Her plan appeared to be working, for the approach of the riders was slowed as they were forced to ride through ever thicker trees and bushes. Melli urged her reluctant horse onward, but the wood became so dense she was forced to slow down to a trot: the branches of trees were low and plentiful and could easily knock her from her horse.
Melli heard the riders bearing down upon her an
d she began to realize there was little hope for her escape. She glanced back: the head rider was visible behind her. She was surprised to see the man was not wearing her father’s colors of red and silver. There was no time to ponder what it meant, though, as her horse had carried her to the banks of a fast-flowing stream.
“Come, boy,” she urged. “It looks not too deep.” The reluctant horse whinnied nervously. Melli leaned forward and stroked the beast’s ears, fear rising in her breast. The men were upon her. If only her horse would move forward!
Baralis had neither the time nor the inclination to watch his men bring in the boy and girl. They were not blithering fools like the royal guard. They would do what he had paid them for. Baralis was well pleased with engaging the service of the mercenaries. A discreet trip into Harvell and eight golds apiece was all it had taken to purchase their expertise. It had been a most reassuring experience. One always knew where one stood with a mercenary: greed was so much simpler to deal with than loyalty.
For now, however, he had something much more important on his mind. He was about to have an audience with the queen.
He dressed with great care, donning his most splendid robe, jet black and edged with the finest fur. Baralis himself had little interest in finery, but such display was necessary when dealing with Arinalda—she was a woman who set great store by appearances.
Baralis absently smoothed the soft, black fur with his twisted hands as he contemplated his meeting. He knew he would have to proceed very carefully. He was well aware the queen had no liking for him. He did have an interesting gift for her, though, one she would be most anxious to receive.
He stepped into his study and took out a small glass vial. The fluid within rolled thickly like oil, catching the light in its unctuous core. Baralis turned the vial in his hands, a trace of a smile upon his pale lips. The contents of this bottle would greatly increase Her Highness’ willingness to listen to what he would propose.
