by J. V. Jones
He and Nabber rode on northward and eventually Tawl found himself recognizing specific landmarks: a grove of trees, the curve of a stream, the tilt of the land. He knew they were drawing close to Bevlin’s cottage. They had not passed a village or a solitary farmhouse all day. The wiseman lived in moderate isolation, not shunning the world, merely keeping his distance.
As they drew nearer, Tawl felt tension coil within him. He could not understand why this visit was so important to him. It was true that Nabber needed help—the boy’s condition had grown worse this past day and Tawl suspected wet fever had set in. It was more than the boy, though. He had problems of his own. He hoped that Bevlin would be able to help him. Help erase whatever the drunk had seen in his eyes. Tawl had been haunted by the man’s words ever since: Larn! You have the mark of Larn in your eyes.
They headed into a sparse grouping of trees. As they rode further the woods thickened and became dense: huge craggy oaks circled with ivy, their limbs heavy and low. Tawl knew this place—out on the other side lay the dwelling of Bevlin. He recalled one night five years back when he walked the same woods. He had been so vulnerable, so desperate for a cause. Tyren had promised him glory and the need was so strong it overwhelmed him.
A ghost of a smile crossed Tawl’s lips. His desire for glory was nothing more than an attempt to make up for the past. For deserting his sisters and leaving them in the hands of a man whose only interest was his next drink. He had to succeed—failure meant that he’d abandoned his family for nothing. And that was a thought Tawl could not live with. The quest and the third circle had become the symbols of his success. Their attainment was the only thing that mattered. It was how he judged himself. He was beyond redemption, but at least he could do something, some small thing of value, that prevented his life from being in vain.
Megan’s words came to him: “It is love, not achievement, that will rid you of your demons.” She was wrong. Love was beyond him and demons would be forever at his back. The best he could hope for was to silence their accusations for a while.
The trees began to thin once more and Tawl spotted a clearing ahead. He urged his horse forward toward the break in the trees. As they emerged from the trees a small cottage came into sight; there was a vegetable garden at the front and a fenced paddock at the back. The roof was thatched and badly in need of repair. As the two companions approached, the door opened and an old man dressed in disheveled brown robes stood in the doorway. Bevlin wished them welcome.
“Come in, come in, it is good to see you again, Tawl, and I see you have brought a friend with you.” He smiled brightly at Nabber. “You look like a man with a hankering for greased duck.”
“Greased duck,” said the boy skeptically.
“Ah, so you have never tried it, then? Well, you are in for a rare treat. As luck would have it, I just greased up a fresh one this morning. I had a feeling I might have visitors.” Bevlin led them in through the low doorway and into the warm and crowded kitchen. As Tawl walked past him, the wiseman squeezed his hand. “It’s fitting that you came, Tawl. I am pleased to see you again.” He gave Tawl an inquiring look. “Are you well? You look a little pale.”
“I am fine, Bevlin. It is the boy who has taken a fever. He is from Rorn and not used to the cold weather.” Tawl turned away from the old man; he did not welcome the scrutiny.
“So you are from Rorn, boy. Most interesting. And what is your name?”
“Nabber.” The boy had lost some of his natural exuberance to sickness.
“Well, Nabber,” said Bevlin, “I can see you are a little fevered, but no matter, I expect Tawl has mentioned the lacus to you?” The boy shook his head. “Well, the lacus will make you better; however, it may make you a little sleepy once you’ve taken it. So I’m going to give you a bite to eat first, a little broth and a slice or two of duck, and then I’ll give you the lacus. You’ll be feeling as right as rain in a few days.” Bevlin made himself busy clearing scrolls from the table and dusting chairs. “Sit, sit, it is a poor host who keeps his guests standing.”
They sat at the large wooden table. Nabber was gazing around with unabashed curiosity at the strange array of items that crowded the shelves and every other available area of space in the kitchen. “You’ve got a lot of stuff,” he said admiringly.
“Yes, I have. I just wish I knew what they were all for.” Bevlin poured some broth into little pots and handed them both one.
“I can tell you what that one’s for.” Nabber pointed to a strange-looking device on the wall.
“Can you, indeed? I’d be most interested in knowing.” He broke a loaf into hefty chunks and handed them round.
“It’s what the smirchers use to search for coins amidst the filth of the streets. That end bit there is to grab coins with—stops them from having to put their hands in the—” The boy caught himself in time. “Course it doesn’t work all that well and a master smircher wouldn’t be caught dead with such a thing.” Nabber smiled with the joy of one imparting knowledge.
“My dear boy, I do believe you are right. Your visit is proving to be most valuable to me.” Bevlin brought another curious-looking implement forward. “You wouldn’t happen to know what this is, would you, boy?”
“Sorry, I can’t help you there, friend.”
“That’s too bad, Nabber.” The wiseman sighed. “I’ve been trying to figure out what it is for years now. A man in Leiss gave it to me once. Ever been to Leiss, boy?”
Tawl ate his meal in silence. He had no desire to join in the conversation between the wiseman and the boy. He kept an eye on Bevlin as he ate. Now that he had got here it didn’t seem like such a good idea to tell him about Larn and the drunken ramblings of an old man. The wiseman did not look like someone whom he could trust.
Bevlin caught Tawl looking at him, and their eyes met for an instant. “Come on, Nabber,” said Bevlin, “time to take the lacus, then off to bed.” He ignored the boy’s protests and ushered him out of the room. As he closed the door, he flashed Tawl the briefest of glances—it promised he would return soon and they would be able to talk in confidence.
Tawl was relieved when the door closed and he was alone. He found he did not want to talk to Bevlin and began to wonder why he had ever thought the man could help him.
Maybor was once more in the stables. He personally would have preferred the middens, but apparently Traff didn’t have the stomach for them. On the ground next to him was a heavy wooden box, and in it were two hundred gold coins of standard size. A fortune by any man’s counting and one which Maybor was greatly adverse to parting with. He was a rich man, but like most men of wealth there was a streak of tightfistedness in him and he hated to pay for anything.
Maybor was feeling decidedly worried about certain events at court. He’d heard from one of the guards that the queen had called Baralis to an audience this very morning, and he had the unsettling feeling the king’s chancellor was up to no good. To confound things further he had actually seen his own son talking to the man. How could Kedrac possibly talk to a man who had so badly wronged his whole family?
Maybor had discreetly taken his son’s steward aside and asked him about the nature of the conversation. The steward, his palms sufficiently greased with ten silvers, had told him that Baralis had merely wished Kedrac a good day and asked him if he were well. A further ten silvers had assured that he would learn of any further meetings between his son and Baralis.
He knew what the man was up to: Baralis was finding out how strong the bonds of family were between him and Kedrac. Maybor was not too concerned. Baralis would find out they were stronger than he hoped. His son might have fallen out with him, but family loyalty ran deeper than any petty quarrel—Baralis was sadly mistaken if he thought he could lure Kedrac to his side. The thought that the man had miscalculated served to reassure Maybor. There were things that Baralis, as a man without family, could never hope to appreciate—he would never know how it felt to be secure about the loyalty of any man. He had to rely u
pon hired hands, and Maybor knew just how easily their loyalties could be shifted—the two hundred gold pieces on the ground beside him was proof of that.
Traff approached, well muscled and broad, with an annoying smirk on his face. How he detested the man. The mercenary thought he had struck a hard bargain and it rankled Maybor to think it would be quite some time before Traff realized how wrong he was.
“Good day to you, Maybor.” The man checked the stalls for spies. “I see you have brought me a little gift.” His eyes lingered over the box.
“It is what you asked for, no more.” Maybor had not missed Traff’s pointed lack of respect—the man failed to call him lord.
“If you would be so kind as to open it. Nothing personal, you understand. In my line of business you learn it’s best to check everything.” Traff watched greedily as Maybor opened the box. “Everything looks to be in order. I won’t insult you by counting them.” Maybor could not stop himself from snorting indignantly. The man had already insulted him by insisting that the box be opened in the first place.
“Before I release this money into your possession, I demand to hear what you know about my daughter.”
“Yes, the lovely Melli.” Traff spoke with an air of proprietorship. “Well, Baralis hasn’t got her any longer. Spirited girl, she has escaped from under everyone’s noses. Course she had the boy to help her. That little bastard killed half a dozen of my men.” Maybor could not take all this in. He attempted to clarify it.
“So, Baralis was holding Melliandra?”
“Right. We picked her up in Duvitt and brought her back here. Kept her in Baralis’ hideaway in the woods.”
“Hideaway?” Maybor was determined to hide his amazement at Traff’s story. He had always suspected that Baralis was trying to find his daughter, but to be told the truth of the matter turned him cold. There was only one reason why the man would want to capture Melliandra and that was to stop the proposed betrothal from going through. Maybor now knew without a doubt where the blame lay—Baralis had thwarted his ambitions and stopped him from becoming father-in-law to the future king.
“There’s a tunnel leading to it from the castle—it’s underground. The place gives me the creeps.”
“How long ago did she escape?” Maybor could hardly believe that his daughter had been so near to the castle.
“Over a week ago now, the boy helped her to escape. We caught up with them in the woods a couple of days later, but that boy’s a devil and they managed to get away. They could be anywhere by now. Baralis has sent another crew out looking for them . . . I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes, I can tell you.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“I was injured in the woods. Besides, Baralis has always got a few other things up his sleeve that need taking care of nearer home.”
“Who is this boy you speak of?”
“Jack’s the name—he was a baker’s boy at the castle. We captured him just before we got your daughter, brung ’em both back we did.”
“What interest does Baralis have in a baker’s boy?”
“Me and my men wondered just the same thing, if you know what I mean. I know differently now, though—that boy is trouble. First of all he mangled the face of one of my men, and then in the forest . . .” Traff shook his head savagely.
“What happened in the forest?”
“All hell broke loose, that’s what happened. That boy caused havoc, stirred up the devil he did. Lost good men that day. Baralis never even bothered to warn us the boy could be trouble, just let us charge right in.” Traff’s expression was grim.
“And this boy is with Melliandra now?” Maybor knew better than to ask for specifics of what went on in the forest. He’d caught the whiff of sorcery and he had no desire for a tasting.
“As far as I know.”
“What condition was she in when you last saw her?”
“Well, she’d had that flogging.” Traff was guarded.
“Did she come to any harm in the forest?” persisted Maybor.
“The boy never harmed her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Your men, did they harm her in any way? ” Maybor was not about to let Traff off the hook. The mercenary looked down at the ground.
“She might have taken a shot to her arm. Nothing much, a mere skimming, heal in no time it would.”
Maybor wanted to kill the man on the spot. He felt his sword as a heavy presence against his leg. It would be so easy to draw it and hack the man’s head off. He had to suppress the urge to kill. If he was ever to get the better of Baralis, he must play by Baralis’ rules: rules of deception and cunning. He forced himself to keep a dispassionate demeanor. “So, if Baralis finds Melliandra again he will bring her back to this hideaway in the woods?”
Traff hesitated a moment before answering. “I can’t say that he will.”
“What d’you mean?” demanded Maybor.
“Baralis told the new crew to kill Melli and the boy as soon as they found them. Kill them and bury ’em, that’s what he said.”
“She has not been found yet?” Maybor was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.
“I know the new lot, a blind donkey could track better than them. I’m sure they won’t have found her. Besides, Baralis ordered them back within a week. By my reckoning they haven’t got much time left.”
“What will Baralis do when his men return?”
“Send ’em out again. Most probably he’ll do one of his little tricks and tell them where they will find Melli and the boy.” Traff saw Maybor’s puzzled expression. “Baralis has a few crafty moves up his sleeve—with birds and the like. I think he gets them to talk to him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man.” By refusing to hear about sorcery, Maybor was stubbornly attempting to deny its existence. He changed the subject swiftly. “When Baralis sends the men out, you must arrange to go with them. I have no intention of letting my daughter be murdered in cold blood.”
“I’m ahead of you there, friend,” said Traff smugly. “I wouldn’t want my betrothed to be buried in a shallow grave in the woods. No, it’s my intention to go along with the crew, help them find Melli and the boy, and then whisk your daughter off to safety.”
“Can you be sure of succeeding in such a venture?”
“I’ve seen what that boy can do when he’s cornered. He’ll create such chaos that no one will notice me slipping away with the girl.”
Maybor did not think much of Traff’s plan, but could not come up with a better one himself. He wanted to question Traff further—there was much he needed to learn about Baralis and his future plans. However, a stablehand and two grooms walked in and broke up their meeting. The mercenary quickly lifted the wooden box and, ignoring the curious stares of the grooms, made a quick exit.
Maybor made his way across the courtyard. His meeting with Traff had proven most illuminating. He was just beginning to comprehend the true depth of Baralis’ scheming. There was far more at stake than he had imagined. Baralis had gone to great lengths to make sure Melliandra would not marry Prince Kylock. Perhaps, thought Maybor, he had a candidate of his own whom he would see marry the prince. It would certainly explain his eagerness to get Melliandra out of the picture.
Bevlin laid his hand gently upon the boy’s forehead: his fever was high. Sleep and the lacus would help to bring it down. He had stayed with Nabber for over an hour before the boy had finally dozed off, partly to reassure the boy and partly to give himself enough time to arrange his thoughts before speaking with Tawl.
The knight had changed so much since his last visit five years back. Bevlin knew a lot of that change was his responsibility. He had sent Tawl on an almost impossible task, and that undertaking had served to shape the man he had become. He wondered if he had been right to do such a thing, to rob a young man of his youth and his optimism. He supposed it would have happened eventually: no man could live in such a world as theirs and remain unchanged by it. Nevertheless, the wiseman had to question hi
s own judgment in setting one so inexperienced to such a thankless task.
When Tawl had ridden up to his door earlier that day, Bevlin had seen disillusion on the knight’s face, and something more . . . distrust. He took a deep breath and made his way to the kitchen, where he found Tawl sitting at the table as he had left him over an hour ago. The knight shot him a questioning glance and the wiseman found some relief in the fact that he was obviously concerned about the condition of the boy.
“He is asleep. Borc willing, he will be a little better when he wakes. He may sleep through the whole day tomorrow and into the next night. The lacus gives itself time to work.”
“He is a long way from home.” Tawl spoke quietly.
“So are you, my friend,” stated Bevlin simply. He came and sat opposite Tawl and poured them both a mug of ale. “I brew it myself and I admit it’s not very good, but I find bad ale warms a man just the same as good, though it may leave him with a worse hangover in the morning.” Bevlin saw Tawl smile politely at his jest, though the smile did not reach his eyes. The wiseman tried to maintain eye contact with the knight, but Tawl looked down, guarding his eyes. “So, you have come from Rorn?”
“I have not found the boy, if that’s what you mean.” Tawl spoke with unnecessary sharpness. “Though I suppose you know that already.”
“Do you want to give up the search? Just say and it will be so.”
“You tell me this too late, wiseman!” Tawl slammed down his mug. “There is only one honorable way out for me and you know it. I would rather cut off my own arm than admit defeat.”
Bevlin could well understand bitterness—he was a knight and would bring shame upon himself if he did not achieve what he set out to do, or die in the attempt. But there was more than that. It was not difficult to see that Tawl lived for his quest. Why then was he suddenly so bitter?”
