by J. V. Jones
Tavalisk shooed the cat away from the offal and it hissed viciously at him. He went to kick the creature, but it leapt out of the way and he missed. He heard a noise behind him and was annoyed to see that Gamil had entered. “I did not hear you knock.”
“My apologies, Your Eminence. The door was open and I presumed—”
“It is not your place to presume, Gamil,” interrupted Tavalisk. “You must always knock before entering my private apartments, is that clear?”
“Quite clear, Your Eminence.”
“Good. Would you care for any offal?”
“No, thank you, Your Eminence. I have already eaten.”
Tavalisk poured himself a glass of wine in the hope that it would settle his stomach. He noticed his aide was reading the title of the book on his desk. “Marod is such a dreary scholar,” he said with an illustrating yawn. “Some foolish woman gave me it as a gift for blessing her spinning wheel.” The archbishop wasn’t ready to let Gamil in on his suspicions about Marod’s prophecies. “So, what news do you bring me this day?”
“Toolay has decided to ban the knights. It would seem that the last spate of violent protest was just too much for the authorities.”
“Good, I knew Toolay would follow our example.”
“Nine knights were slain on the streets of Marls last week. They were pulled from hiding and dragged into the street. They were hacked to death by the crowd. They used anything they could lay their hands on: blades, knives, shears.”
“How unpleasant. I suppose this incident will speed the sending of the dreaded Letter of Condemnation.” Tavalisk shuddered with mock fright.
“I think it has upset many people, Your Eminence.”
“Marls was ever a foolish city. No matter, as long as no one lays the blame at our door.” Tavalisk yawned widely. “Is there anything else?”
“I do have some news Your Eminence might be interested in.”
“What is that, Gamil?”
“A certain Lord Cravin entered the city last night.”
“And who pray tell is he?” Tavalisk poured honey into his wine.
“Lord Cravin is a very powerful man in Bren.”
“Is he really?” The archbishop licked his fingers clean of honey. “What’s he doing in Rorn?”
“Trade, I think. He has many business interests in the south.”
“How very interesting. I think I would like to meet this man. I am looking to make the acquaintance of someone from the fine city of Bren.”
“I will arrange a meeting, Your Eminence.”
“Good. Any news on our knight?”
“I think he must be nearing Bevlin’s home by now, Your Eminence.”
“Hmm. The knight is up to something. People like the Old Man and Bevlin don’t deal with trivialities. I must give the matter some deliberation. I can’t help thinking that it’s all connected somehow.”
“What’s all connected?”
“Our knight and his brethren, Bevlin, Baralis—” the archbishop raised his arms expansively “—everyone.”
“It is the first sign of derangement, Your Eminence, when one begins to see plots all around one.”
“Gamil, you will never realize the dangers and responsibilities that accompany the bearing of great power. There are plots all around, and the fact that I’m aware of them is a measure of my astuteness.” The archbishop drained his cup of honeyed wine. “You may go now, Gamil. I am not feeling too well and would like to be left alone. I think I caught something from those damned criminals this morning.”
“How very unfortunate.”
Tavalisk looked up, detecting a note of sarcasm in his aide’s voice, but Gamil had already turned his back and was walking from the room. The archbishop considered calling him back, and then, as his stomach began to rumble unpleasantly, decided against it. There would be other days to pay the man back for his impertinence.
Maybor was chilled to the bone. He had called another meeting with Traff and the man was late. Snow lay thick on the ground and he had to admit he’d never seen the middens looking so good. He drew his cloak close and stamped his feet to keep warm. He was beginning to wonder if the mercenary had just taken the money and run when he came into sight. Traff did not look very pleased.
“You picked a foul day to be outside.” Traff was ill-dressed for the cold, wearing the thinnest of cloaks.
“The stables are too risky. I will not meet there again.”
“What d’you want? I thought we’d agreed on the plan yesterday.”
“Yesterday we agreed what to do about my daughter. That is only part of what concerns me.” Maybor was short-tempered.
“I’ve already told you I won’t act as your assassin as far as Baralis is concerned.”
“You have made that very clear. I need information from you. I didn’t pay you two hundred golds just so you could marry my daughter.”
“I gave you information,” snapped Traff.
“You told me about what Baralis has done. I want to know what he is planning to do. He is up to more than tracking down Melliandra. He has schemes afoot and I would know of them.”
“I’ve told you all I know. Baralis is not the sort to take hired hands into his confidence.”
“Do not lie to me. You know more. Need I remind you that Baralis is not a man to take treachery lightly. Who knows what he would do if he found out one of his men had been meeting with his enemy.” Maybor was pleased to note a change in Traff’s expression. The man obviously had good reason to be scared of Baralis.
“Look, I said I don’t know what he’s up to.” Traff hesitated. “But I have seen some things you might be interested in.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I know he’s been sending letters to Bren, to the duke there. I saw him give one to a messenger only last week.”
“Anything else?” Maybor wondered what business Baralis could have with the duke of Bren.
“Well, I think he’s planning a journey.” Traff’s nose was running unpleasantly and he wiped it on the corner of his cloak.
“Why d’you say that?”
“Well, just before noon this morning, I heard him telling Crope to get things ready for a little trip.”
“Where can he be going? He has no lands to speak of.”
“I can’t say, but it must be somewhere important to make a man travel in this weather.” Traff had a point; no sane man would journey with snow on the ground and more threatening to come.
“I want to be told the moment you know anything further.” Maybor decided to let the mercenary go; it was obvious he was going to get no more information out of him. He was beginning to regret the deal he had struck. The man was not nearly as useful as he hoped. There was, however, some consolation to be found in the fact that Traff would not be around to collect on the second half of the payment.
Maybor waited until Traff was out of sight and then made his way back to the castle. As he walked across the grounds he was interested to see activity in the great hall: servants seemed to be preparing it for some event. As he drew close he noticed the Royal Guard were in their ceremonial uniforms, musicians were carrying their instruments into the hall, and a small crowd had gathered. Maybor puzzled over the occasion. He had not been aware of any official ceremony. He caught the arm of a servant girl. “What is going on here?”
“I’m not sure, sir. The queen ordered us to make it ready. She has some kind of announcement to make.”
“When will this happen?” Maybor considered the girl for a moment. She was not unattractive, though her teeth were a little crooked. She was pleasingly awestruck at being addressed by him.
“Soon, I think, sir. The steward told us to make haste.” The girl seemed torn between dashing off and wanting to stay.
“What is your name, girl?” She would be worth a bedding, nothing more.
“Bonnie, sir.”
“Well, Bonnie, why don’t you come to my chambers after dark tonight? I am a lonely man in need of company.”
The girl was suitably flattered. She nodded coquettishly and then ran off to do her duties.
Maybor strolled toward the hall. He would ensure himself a good place to hear whatever the queen had to announce.
He watched as the hall was prepared for ceremony: banners were unfurled and hung, carpet was rolled out, candles were lit, and wood was polished to a fine gloss. Before long other courtiers started to arrive; they were dressed in their finest clothes, the rustle of silk competing with the murmur of voices. They split off into small groups and spoke in hushed tones about the queen’s intent. He spotted Baralis entering the hall. Something flashed at his throat and Maybor realized the man was wearing his chain of office. What mischief is this? he wondered.
Finally the horns sounded and the herald proclaimed the entrance of the queen. The crowd hushed and watched as the queen made her way through the hall. She was dressed finely in crimson silk, a golden diadem upon her head. Maybor caught her eye and she sent him a look he did not understand. Prince Kylock followed his mother. The boy was dark and handsome, dressed in raven black.
The horns quieted and the queen turned to face the gathered nobles. She stood and waited, letting the tension of the crowd grow. The room was silent. The voice of the queen rang out. “I have brought you here today to share my good news.” She paused for dramatic effect. “King Lesketh and I have made plans to arrange the betrothal of our son, Prince Kylock.” The crowd murmured with anticipation. Maybor could hardly believe what he was hearing. Betrothal so soon after his daughter had been rejected?
The queen continued: “We have arranged a historic match for our son, one that will serve to increase the prestige of our beloved country. Prince Kylock will wed Catherine of Bren.” The crowd erupted in excitement, preventing the queen from speaking any further.
Bren, thought Maybor. The second time that day he’d heard its name. There was not coincidence; Baralis was behind this. With the noise of the crowd sounding in his ears, Maybor realized the extent of Baralis’ cunning. It had all been for this—the attempted poisonings, abducting Melliandra—all so Kylock would marry his choice for bride. Baralis had wasted little time moving in on the queen. What seductive words had he used to persuade her to agree to this . . . or had he blackmailed her?
The queen was speaking again, but Maybor was not listening. What a fool he had been; he’d let Baralis steal the jewel of kingship from under his very nose. It should have been his daughter who was proclaimed this day as bride, he who stood poised to take his place as father to king and country. He had lost everything.
He thought the queen owed him more than this. It was a slap in his face for her to accede to Baralis’ choice. She had not even kept her promise to inform him first—he was hearing it along with the court and the servants.
Why Bren? he wondered. Surely it was madness to join with a power as mighty as Bren. The Four Kingdoms would undoubtedly come off worse in any alliance with that dukedom, or did Baralis think himself clever enough to manipulate their politics as well?
Maybor shifted his concentration back to the queen: “And finally I would like to announce that Prince Kylock’s envoy to the court of Bren will be King’s Chancellor, Lord Baralis.” Maybor flinched at her words. Was there no escape from the man?
The queen and Prince Kylock withdrew to great cheering from the crowd. Maybor doubted how genuine the acclaim was. As the queen passed by, she put her arm out to him. “Tomorrow in my chambers,” she whispered softly, and then was gone.
Twenty-nine
Tawl awoke refreshed—sunlight shone down upon his face. The shutters were ajar; he could not remember opening them. The room was freezing and he jumped out of bed to shut them. He stole a quick look outside. It was a day of rare beauty: the sun shone from a bright blue sky and dazzled the resting snow.
He felt strangely at peace. It had been the right thing to do—visit Bevlin. He felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The days which had stretched out bleakly before him now seemed to offer hope and promise. Tawl felt full of confidence, all things seemed possible—he would find the boy.
He remembered, a little guiltily, his lie to the wiseman. Today he would tell the truth about where he was heading and why. Larn seemed to have lost the power to intimidate him. It would be good to tell Bevlin about his trip there, and maybe together they could come up with a way to stop the atrocities that occurred on the island.
Tawl lathered up his soap stone and shaved. There was no mirror so he trusted to the feel of his hands. Once finished he splashed his face with water and laughed at the shock of its coldness. He went to his pack and picked out his new tunic to wear. He would honor his host by wearing his best.
It was still quite early. If he were lucky he could sneak quietly into the kitchen and make breakfast before Bevlin and the boy were awake—he had a vivid memory of the wiseman’s cooking and decided it was best if he prepared the food the remaining time they were there. Besides, he fancied something a little more appetizing than greased duck.
Tawl opened the door and winced at the loud creak it made—so much for his plan of a surprise breakfast. He walked into the kitchen. Bevlin was not up. With disappointment, he realized the fire was out and would have to be lit anew before any cooking could take place. There was a stack of firewood in the corner of the room. As he made his way over to it he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and looked.
Blood: dark and congealed. Tawl grew very still. Bevlin lay on the wooden bench, his robes stained with blood. Tawl forced himself forward, dread surging within him. He laid his hands on the wiseman: he was cold and stiff. Long dead. No, mouthed Tawl. No.
The scent of blood was heavy in the air. He gathered the dead man in his arms and drew him to his chest, desperately trying to warm the cold flesh. Bevlin was so light, so frail. Tawl hugged the wiseman’s body close like a baby and rocked him back and forth. Tears coursed down his cheeks and onto the wiseman’s back. No, No, No, he murmured his body racked with sobs. Tawl knew only one thing: he had done this. It was a certainty that suffered no questioning. His demons dragged him down into oblivion, the weight of his guilt speeding the descent.
It was a beautiful day in the marshlands. The rushes were green and in season and butterflies danced in the air. Tawl was glad to be coming home. Three years he’d been gone. Three years and two circles. His arm still throbbed from the branding. He knew it was foolish not to bandage the wound, but pride wouldn’t allow it. He wanted everyone to know he was a knight of Valdis, newly honored with the second circle.
Soon he would go to the far south in search of treasures. If he were lucky, he’d find gold. If he were blessed, he’d find merit in the eyes of God. The future was his and he was eager to be started.
His horse topped a rise and he saw his old village ahead of him. Excitement not anticipated stirred within his blood: he was coming home. Nothing had changed: old Hawker’s barn was still threatening to collapse, the village green was unkempt as ever. Boys continued to hang around the edge of the village, looking for a fight or a girl.
Tawl spurred his horse forward, women turned to look at him—not many people had horses in the marshes. He acknowledged their glances with a gracious incline of his head—just like he’d been taught at Valdis. His fine cloak drew glances and the villagers could see their reflections in the shine of his boots. No one seemed particularly friendly. Perhaps they didn’t recognize him.
Picking a careful path through the bog, he made his way home. His heart was light with joy. He had such presents for his sisters: a dress of silk for Sarah and a bracelet of beads for Anna. For the youngest there was a toy boat that actually sailed. He could imagine their faces. There would be surprise then delight. A hundred sweet kisses would be his. Tawl smiled, suddenly feeling a tightness in his throat—he’d been away too long.
Strange, the lay of the land seemed different. The cottage should be in view by now. Tawl galloped forward, mud splashing on his boots. Something black ca
ught his eye. He pulled at the reins. The ground was burnt. There were the charred remains of rafters and walls. A stone fireplace was all that was left standing.
Tawl felt his stomach churn with horror. It was his cottage. The remains looked long burnt. He turned the horse and raced back into the village. He stopped the first woman he saw. “What happened to the cottage by the bog?”
The woman patted her lips, a sign of warding in the marshlands. “Burned to the ground it did. The blaze took three of them. Poor mites, all alone.”
Tawl’s world shifted out of focus. He wrapped the reins around his fist. “Who died?”
The woman looked at his hands—the strain of the leather had drawn blood. “You all right, young man?”
“Who died?”
“Two sisters, and a young’un,” said the woman. “Beautiful girls they were. The eldest brother deserted them, left them to fend for themselves.” She gave Tawl a hard look. “You’re him, ain’t you? Same golden hair.” She shook her head sadly.
Tawl’s throat was so tight he could barely speak. “I left them with their father,” he said quietly, more to himself than the woman.
“Oh, that good-for-nothing scoundrel. He hung around town for a couple of weeks after you left. Then he was off, back to Lanholt. Never seen him since.” The woman held a hand out to Tawl. “Nay, lad, don’t take on. I’m sorry I spoke sharply.”
“How did it happen?”
“Nobody’s quite sure, but the magistrate thought it was caused by one of the girls, probably the youngest, putting a skin filled with goose fat on the fire. Seems they had no money for fuel and had taken to burning whatever they could find for heat. Course the thing flared up on them.” The woman motioned to Tawl’s hands. The blood now dripped over the horse. “Put the reins down, lad.”
“When did it happen?” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Nearly three years back now, only a month or two after you left. I remember now, you ran off to be a knight.”
