The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  He walked for some time before deciding upon a likely looking tavern. THE ROSE AND CROWN, declared the old and peeling sign. Tawl slipped inside out of the wind.

  The tavern appeared to be doing a fine business. Customers were talking loudly, there were people shouting for ale, a group of men were noisily proposing toasts to famous local beauties, and others were placing bets on times ships would come to harbor. There were those who sat around tables engaged in heated discussions and others who drank alone. It was a seafaring tavern, a place where sailors came to talk about the sea.

  A large and comely woman approached Tawl. “What’s your favor, sir?” she asked, smiling and thrusting her magnificent bosom out to its best advantage. Tawl, almost against his will, was drawn into the familiar cadence of flirtation. Exchanging smiles was enough to create the potential for a liaison. He was tempted to see the dance through, to feel the joy—no matter how visceral—of shared intimacy. The woman waited for a sign, confident of her attractions.

  Tawl’s gaze moved from her eyes to the floor. “All I’ll take is a mug of ale, if you please.”

  She raised an eyebrow, surprised but not put off by his restraint. “Certainly, sir,” she replied, her full lips curving slightly. “I hope the ale serves to warm your blood.” She retreated slowly, giving Tawl plenty of time to regret the loss of her ample curves.

  After a few minutes the woman returned. He watched as the eyes of many a man appreciated her generously proportioned form—she possessed an abundance of flesh that was sadly lacking in many women of the day. “There you are, sir. Be sure to let me know if you change your mind and take a fancy for something else.” She acknowledged Tawl’s rueful smile and then left with a saucy turn of her hips.

  Tawl made himself comfortable and sampled his ale. It was really quite delicious: foamy and cool, with a pleasant nutty taste.

  “The owner here brews his own.” Tawl looked up to find an old, red-faced man standing over him. “Do you mind if I sit a while with you?”

  “Please, feel free to do so, sir. It would be my honor.”

  The old man was clearly pleased with Tawl’s courtesy. “You have a nice manner about you, young man, but you have a strange accent. I cannot quite place it.”

  “I’m originally from the Lowlands.” Tawl did not want to say any more on the subject and the old man, sensing this, let the matter be.

  “I’m known hereabouts as Jem.” The old man smiled kindly. “Do you have a name you would share?”

  “I am Tawl.” His name sounded short to his ears without its normal title.

  “I wish you joy of the day, Tawl.” The man finished the last of his ale and placed his empty mug loudly on the counter. Tawl offered to buy him another. The man accepted graciously, and minutes later the two were sitting and supping.

  “What is your trade, Jem?”

  “Better to ask what was my trade.” The old man sighed heavily and stared into his ale. “I was a seafarer. I’ve spent the best part of my life on the high seas. I’d be out there now if it wasn’t for my bad leg—dry land is too still for my taste.”

  “So you have visited many places?” Tawl asked casually.

  “Aye, that I have, on both coasts.”

  “Tell me, Jem, have you ever heard of a place called Larn?”

  The old man sucked in his breath. He was silent for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice had changed its timbre. “Why would you wish to know of such a place?”

  Tawl decided to take a chance. “I would visit with the seers there.”

  “I would not risk going there if I were you.” Jem shook his head. “No, I would not, indeed.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “How could I call myself a seafarer and not know, eh?” he responded sharply, but then continued more quietly. “Larn is not that far from where we stand. Only a couple of days sailing southeast. It’s a tiny island, so small you will find it on no charts. But seafarers know it well. It is a deathtrap to sailors. The sea for miles around is rocky and shallow. Woe betide the sailor who is blown off course to that damned isle.”

  “There must be a way to get there, though?” Tawl tried to disguise his eagerness by taking a long draft of ale.

  “No captain who valued his ship would take you there. The best way would be to sail as far as was safe, and then row the rest of the way in a small boat.”

  “How far would one have to row?”

  “A sane captain wouldn’t sail any closer than twenty leagues.”

  “Yet people must journey there to consult with the seers?”

  “No one in his right mind would want to consult with the Seers of Larn, boy,” warned the old man.

  “What have you heard of them?”

  “Plenty.” Jem sipped his ale. His eyes flicked around the room, and when he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. “I’ve heard plenty. Tales so horrifying that even an old man like myself doesn’t like to repeat them.”

  “Why don’t I buy you another drink and you can tell me what you know.”

  Jem considered the offer. “Very well, boy. You are getting a good bargain.” Tawl called for more drinks; both young man and old waited in silence. The drinks came and neither man noticed the charms of the barmaid this time.

  The old man spoke. “The Seers of Larn have existed for as long as anyone can remember. They were around long before the city of Rorn was founded. There is said to have been seers on Larn since the time of the great purge. What strange beliefs they have I don’t know, what Gods they worship I cannot tell you. What I do know of is the terrible way the seers are created.

  “The powers that be on Larn pick young children—boys who are rumored to have a little skill in foretelling. They pay the parents of these children one hundred gold pieces. The parents never set eyes upon their sons again. The boys are shipped to the dread isle, and they are kept in a darkened room for a full year to cleanse their souls and minds. They are fed nothing but bread and water, for they believe that all other foods interfere with the foretelling.

  “After a year in the dark, the boys are measured. A huge stone weighing many tons is cut for each boy. The stones are then hauled into the Great Hall of Seeing and are laid flat on the ground. Each boy is then bound to his stone.

  “They lay the boys out, limbs spread wide, and bind them to the stone with the strongest of ropes. They lash them as tight as they dare. The boys cannot move as much as a finger or a toe. All they can do is watch and breathe. They spend all of their lives so bound. Never able to move a limb. As the months pass, their limbs atrophy, becoming useless husks. All the better to think and foretell. It is the worst fate I can imagine for any man.

  “The powers that be ensure that the seers are fed and cleansed. They claim the seers are closer to God. They say that the seers are allowed, through their sacrifice, to know the will of God. They spend their days contemplating the great pattern of life. They live and die bound to the stone. Lost in a world of hallucination and madness.”

  The old man grew silent. Tawl could hardly believe what he had been told. He shuddered at the fate of the seers and wondered how desperate a family would have to be to sell their sons into such a living hell.

  Tawl could stand the silence no longer. “Old man, you have told a story that has chilled my blood. I fear I owe you more than a drink.”

  The man spoke quickly, as if he had already prepared his answer. “You owe me nothing. Save a promise not to visit that cursed place.”

  “I can give you no such undertaking. For I fear I am fated to go there.” The old man stood up to leave. Tawl caught his arm. “Tell me, what is the price for a foretelling?”

  The old man walked away as he spoke. “The price is whatever they decide. Be careful they do not ask for your soul.”

  Tawl watched as Jem left. It was getting late. He wanted to get back to Megan. He needed to feel her warm arms around his body.

  The queen was in the king’s chamber, probably the most splendid room in the
whole castle. She watched as the king was bathed by his manservant. He had not remembered her name this night. Baralis was right: he was getting weaker. Only last spring he could sit a horse, now he barely left his bed.

  Ever since the hunting accident, she had lived with less than a man. At first the injury had not seemed so bad. The wound had healed normally, and although it had left an ugly scar, the physicians were not unduly concerned. However, as the weeks passed a deep fever had set in that seemed to rob him of his strength. Gradually, the weeks had turned to months. The physicians began to shake their heads; they blamed infection, fever on the brain, poison on the arrow. But they could do nothing to heal him.

  First they tried hot poultices to draw out the infection. Next they had tried leeches to cleanse his blood of bad humors. The physicians had then attempted to expunge the malignant biles by piercing the king’s stomach. They had shaved his head, pulled his teeth, and let his blood—all to no avail.

  The queen had watched these horrific remedies and many more, and she saw that they only served to weaken her husband further. Finally, she had driven all the physicians away, preferring to tend to the king herself. She engaged the services of a wisewoman who knew the ways of herbs.

  After the physicians left, the king’s health actually improved. The wisewoman’s remedies were a lot easier for the king to bear: mulled holk with a sprig of juniper, herb-laden vapors, and rubs with therapeutic oils. Unfortunately, the wisewoman’s treatments seemed to slow down his decline, not stop it. Years passed and his strength lagged further and his mind grew clouded. The queen could not count the times she had lain alone in her bed crying through the night. She was a proud woman and would allow no one to see her private anguish.

  The attendant wiped a speckle of drool from the king’s chin. The sight of the small gesture wrenched at her heart. What had her husband come to? The once proud King Lesketh reduced to being spoonfed and nursed like a baby! He was not yet an old man; others his age were in their prime.

  The queen thought on the audience she’d had with Baralis. He’d hinted that he had something in his possession that might help the king. No matter how much she loathed the chancellor, she would have to summon him back. She was desperate to try anything that might improve her husband’s condition. She decided to see Baralis and find out what he wanted from her. She was no fool; she knew there would be a price to pay.

  Six

  Jack lay awake for some time before opening his eyes. He could smell the freshness of trees and ferns and the odor of wood smoke. Then he detected the smell of food, a savory stew or soup. Lastly, he smelled the delicious aroma of warm holk.

  Tempted by such a beguiling array of odors, Jack opened his eyes. Soft, green light filtered through the trees and onto his face. He looked at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a sort of nest or den, which appeared to be woven out of leaves and branches. He was lying on a low pallet that rested upon a blanket of ferns and velvet mosses. He was alone.

  Drawn to the smell of food, he caught sight of a small brick stove in the middle of the den. A gap had been left in the weave of trees to allow the smoke out. Jack tentatively put his foot on the floor and found to his surprise that the moss was warm to the touch. As he swung both his legs off the pallet a wave of nausea swept through his body. Jack felt dizzy and wondered whether he should just stay in his bed. The promise of hot food and holk proved too tempting to be put off by mere physical discomfort, and Jack rose from his bed.

  Shakily, he approached the small stove. An open pot contained a rich, dark stew. Jack scanned the den, and found various cups and plates lying in wait on a low, wooden table. He ladled some of the fragrant mixture onto a plate, and poured himself a cup of mulled holk.

  The stew was delicious; it contained mushrooms and rabbit meat, carrots and onions, all flavored with robust herbs and spices. He felt sure he could detect the subtle taste of apples and cider. He ate a hearty portion, and then another one—the last time he had eaten seemed to be a long time ago. It didn’t occur to him to question where he was or how he’d gotten here. Food and warmth were quite enough to occupy him for the moment.

  After his meal, he felt the need to relieve himself and he looked for a way to leave the den. He could not find one. He was not too worried, as he had noticed a chamberpot at the foot of his bed. After he had finished, he climbed back onto the pallet and immediately fell into a deep and restful sleep.

  Some time later Jack was woken by the sound of movement in the den. He opened his eyes to find a tall, long-bearded man staring back at him. “I see you have eaten well, young man.” He spoke in a curious lilting accent. Jack could only manage to nod his head; he was feeling a little guilty for eating what he had not been invited to. The man appeared to recognize Jack’s concern.

  “You did well to eat, ’twas meant for you. I hope you found it to your liking?”

  Jack nodded enthusiastically. “It was delicious—the best stew I have ever tasted.” He hesitated. “I thank you for it, sir.” Jack took in the strange appearance of the man: he seemed neither young nor old and was dressed in skins and coarse weaves. His most remarkable feature was his magnificent, long, ash-colored beard.

  “I am no sir, young man. I have not been a sir in many years, and I do not wish to be one now.” A half-smile graced the man’s lips.

  “I am truly sorry if I have offended you.” Jack felt the man was amusing himself at his expense.

  “No matter, no matter. I suppose I will have to give you my name.”

  “If you would rather not, I will understand. My own name is Jack, though. You are welcome to it.”

  This speech seemed to please the man. “Well, Jack, you shame me. You would give freely of your name to a stranger who has not given his. There are many people who believe that if you know a person’s name, you gain power over them. What do you say to that?”

  It was a little difficult for Jack to follow what the man said, for his voice made speech sound like song. The man continued, “I will give you my name, Jack, but I can only give you half of it. I have lived without naming myself for many years. The trees do not ask my name, the birds would gain no benefit from it, the streams run and do not stop from want of knowing it. But I will give it to you, Jack, for man, unlike nature, has need of names. People do well to be wary of names—they have power. If I were to name a tree, I would make it mine, and no man should have such a claim over a tree, or a brook or a blade of grass.” The man grew disheartened and breathed wearily.

  Jack spoke to fill the silence. “If a bird does not ask your name, then neither will I. I refuse to know even half of it.”

  The man smiled and shook his head sadly. “My half name is Falk.” Jack felt as if he was being let in on a great secret. He wanted to offer some comfort to the man, but found he could think of nothing to say.

  Eventually the man spoke again. “You have been sick, Jack. You caught a wet fever, and you should rest for now and regain your strength. I must be off. I will bring you more food later. Before I go, I would have you take a sip of this medicine.” Falk crossed the room and came back with a cup of pungent-smelling liquid. Jack obediently swallowed all of the concoction, not at all sure he liked the taste. He wondered what the medicine was made from. Jack gave the man a questioning look, and Falk smiled kindly. “I have given you half my name, would you know all my secrets, too?”

  Jack felt suitably chastened and handed the cup back to the man. He watched as Falk walked toward the wall. With gentle hands, he pulled the weave of branch and twig apart, creating an opening. He then stepped out into the cool air. Once on the other side, Falk rewove the flexible branches which served to seal and conceal the entrance to the den.

  * * *

  Baralis could hardly contain his pleasure when the messenger arrived from the queen. She had not only taken the bait, she had swallowed it whole. She was on the hook now. All that remained was to reel her in.

  All his other concerns were petty annoyances. The girl Melliandra
he was still tracking; he would move in on her more carefully next time. She would not elude him twice. As for Jack, well, how far could a boy on foot get in a few days? He would find him soon.

  Baralis took from his drawer a measure of the white powder that was his pain-killing drug. He was about to swallow the foul tasting crystals when he thought better of it. His head would need to be clear. He would have to endure the pain in his hands until after his audience with the queen. It was a small price to pay.

  He once again dressed with care, ensuring he chose a different robe than the one he had worn for his last meeting. It suited him to go along with the customs of the court.

  This time the queen did not keep him waiting outside the door. She beckoned him in the moment he knocked. Her tone was still as cold as ever, though. “Good day, Lord Baralis.” She was dressed with exquisite care: her gown was embroidered with rubies and pearls, and matching gems sparkled at her throat and wrist.

  “Joy of the day to Your Highness.”

  “I will not keep you long. I would rather get straight to the point, Lord Baralis.” The queen smoothed her hair nervously; Baralis was gratified to note that her hand trembled as she did so.

  “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  “You hinted during our last meeting that you had something in your possession that might help the king. Am I right to assume that was what you meant?”

  “You are, Your Highness.” Baralis decided to say little, preferring to let her talk.

  “Then am I also right in assuming that you speak of some medicine or potion that will help the king’s illness?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” He watched the queen grow impatient with his short answers.

  “Lord Baralis, what is the nature of this medicine, and how do I know it will work?”

  “The answer to the first question is that I cannot divulge its nature. The answer to the second is that you cannot know it will work until you try it.”