The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Yes, miss.” The girl performed a hasty curtsy and was off, now eager to do her bidding.

  • • •

  An hour later Melli was nibbling on the last of the cheese while being laced into her gown.

  “Oh, miss,” cried the girl, “if you eat another morsel, the seams will surely rip.”

  “Well, don’t tie the laces so tight then, Nessa, for I intend to eat some more when I see the duke.”

  “Yes, Nessa,” came an amused, sardonic voice. “I will be feeding your lady with the game I caught earlier. ’Twas a large beast and will need plenty of belly.”

  It was the duke. Both women looked around, startled. Nessa immediately dropped to the floor in a low curtsy. Melli barely inclined her head.

  “Really, sir! Are all the men in Bren as bad mannered as you? For I pity the women if they are.” Melli turned to Nessa. “Get off the floor, girl, and finish my laces. His Grace won’t mind waiting, as he surely came hoping for a show.”

  Nessa reluctantly left the floor and finished her work on the dress. Melli could feel her hands shaking.

  The duke seemed not in the least offended by her words, and this rankled Melli further, as they were intended to do just that. He walked about the room with an air of proprietorship, pausing to stoke the fire and then pour himself a quarter glass of wine. Out of the corner of her eye, Melli noticed that whilst the glass reached his lips, the level of liquid never fell.

  “Nessa and I had an interesting little conversation about half an hour back,” he said. “She tells me you are quite the high lady with your orders and chastisements.”

  Nessa shot Melli a “forgive me” glance. Melli was not about to forgive anyone. First she turned to the duke. “Next time, instead of a lady’s maid, perhaps you could send a scribe to help me dress. He might not be able to improve my looks, but at least he can record what I have to say word for word.”

  And then to Nessa: “As for you, my girl, I’d be careful with that tongue of yours. Things that loose have a nasty habit of falling off.” Melli was seething.

  The duke’s face showed no emotion. “Leave us,” he said to Nessa. The girl almost raced from the room. When she had gone he held out his arm. “Come, I will accompany you to my chambers. The meat is growing cold.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I will be forced to carry you there.”

  Melli did not doubt that he could. He was a strong man; his arms bore the muscles of a soldier, not a duke. She was just about to issue a scathing reply when she caught herself: she’d been such a fool! Acting like a great lady with no thought of where it might lead. She was supposed to be the illegitimate daughter of a minor lord, yet here she was not only taking servants to task, but reprimanding the duke himself as well. He was already suspicious; a man of his standing never stooped to questioning maid servants without good cause. Melli cursed her stupidity! He had all but accused her of being a high-born lady, and instead of denying the charge, she had, by both words and attitude, practically admitted to it.

  She blamed her father. Maybor’s blood had long been thick with arrogance, it was no wonder that hers was, too.

  Determined to make no more mistakes, Melli quietly took the duke’s arm. He was surprised by her submission—a slight raising of his eyebrows gave him away—but he walked her out of the room without a word.

  The lodge was modestly named. It was huge. Built from pine and cedar timbers, it gave more of an impression of warmth than the palace. They walked along a high-ceilinged corridor that was painted with hunting murals, down a short flight of stairs, and then along a lengthy corridor that ended in a beautifully carved doorway. The duke opened the door and bid her enter his chambers.

  He did not stand on ceremony. He sat down at one end of a solid pine table and motioned that Melli should sit at the other. The duke had been right when he said the meat was getting cold, for a huge haunch of something lay steaming on a platter. One servant waited upon them. To calm her nerves, Melli took a deep draught of wine. It was a mistake, for the drink was fortified and stronger than she was used to. The duke noted her surprise. “Bring the lady some water,” he commanded the servant.

  Melli didn’t know why this annoyed her, but it did nonetheless. “Tell your man not to waste his time, I will take my wine as it comes.” She knew it was a mistake—coming so soon after her just-sworn resolution to be meek—but the duke’s arrogant demeanor brought out the devil in her.

  “So be it,” he said, and waved his arm in dismissal. The servant left the room. He turned back to Melli. “Try the meat.” It was as good as an order.

  Melli hacked off a fair-sized portion of the crackled and roasted flesh. It was delicious: juicy, bloody, marbled with fat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted anything so wonderful.

  “Good?” prompted the duke. He sat back in his chair, regarding her as if she were a moth in a jar. A full cup of wine rested in his hand. The servant had not refilled it once.

  “It’s a little tough. What did you say it was?”

  “I didn’t. It was a young and fleet-footed buck.”

  “Tastes more like an old and slow-stepping stag.”

  The duke threw his head back and laughed. He slammed his cup on the table. “By Borc! You are an annoying wench!” He didn’t sound in the least bit annoyed; in fact, he sounded rather pleased. “Tell me, did you get that tongue of yours from your father or your mother?”

  A tiny warning sounded in Melli’s head. An innocent question? Or was he trying to catch her out? Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? “From my father, I think.”

  “Hmm, that was Lord Luff, wasn’t it?”

  Melli was growing nervous. “Yes.”

  “Strange. I met the man once. He didn’t strike me as being particularly quick witted.”

  He could be bluffing, but it was best not to put it to the test. “Aah, well my mother was no shrinking violet, either. I could have got it from her.”

  The duke’s demeanor visibly changed. He looked at her coldly. “You are lying,” he said.

  Try as she might, Melli could not stop the heat from rushing to her face. There was nothing for her to do but stand up and turn her reddening face to the fire. A second later she felt the duke’s hands upon her shoulders.

  “Look at me,” he ordered. He gripped her flesh so hard that Melli had no choice but to obey.

  Melli turned toward him. Her own guilt was clearly reflected in his flint gray eyes. He reached up and, for one moment, she thought he would hit her. Instead he took her chin in his hand. He smelled like the game he had hunted. Squeezing his fingers into her cheek, he said: “Tell me who your father is.” His voice was low and menacing, it allowed no space for falsehood or evasion.

  Panicking, knowing she had only seconds, Melli searched for a convincing lie. It was too late for backtracking.

  Annoyed at her hesitation, the duke dug his fingertips deeper into her cheeks. “Tell me,” he hissed.

  A knock sounded at the door. The duke did not take his eyes off Melli for an instant. “Do not disturb me,” he called.

  “Your Grace,” came a muffled voice, “there is important news. A messenger has come from the court.”

  The duke swore and pushed Melli back toward the fire. “Come,” he cried, voice harsh and impatient.

  Even as she struggled to find her footing, Melli breathed a sigh of relief. Her shin caught against the grate. It was red-hot and she pinned her lips together to keep from crying out. She hated him!

  In walked two men. Melli recognized one of them from the journey; the other still had his cloak and leathers on. Neither of them as much as glanced at her.

  “Your Grace, Kylock has invaded Halcus.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A week ago,” said the cloaked one. “Pigeons arrived at Bren today.”

  “What are his numbers?”

  “Two battalions, with another following.”

  The duke clenched his fists.
“That is no border-keeping force. The man means to take more than the River Nestor. Is there any news of the battle?”

  “No news yet, Your Grace. But Kylock had surprise on his side. The Halcus expected him to wait until full spring.”

  A small, dry laugh escaped from the duke’s throat. “Then the Halcus are fools.” He started to pace about the room. When he next spoke, it was more to himself than the two men. “Kylock has moved quickly, his father has barely been dead a month. There wasn’t enough time for him to train an army, yet the fact that the Halcus are badly undermanned will work in his favor.” He addressed the messenger. “Who in Bren knows about this?”

  “No one except the handlers, Lord Cravin, and myself, Your Grace.”

  The duke turned to the second man. “I want you to ride back to Bren tonight. No one is to know about this until I return.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said the man. He bowed and left the room.

  “You,” he said to the messenger, “will do me the favor of accompanying this lady back to her room. Your news has given me much to think on.”

  The man bowed and made his way toward Melli. He looked tired, but friendly, and he offered his arm. The duke didn’t even bother to look at her as she left.

  Nineteen

  Tavalisk was sorting through his morning communications. The letter from He Who Is Most Holy was hardly worth the parchment it was written on. His Holiness, Borc rot his spineless soul, was becoming nervous about events in the north. He had heard about the four-city force that had been sent out to protect southern trade, and he thought it might be perceived as—how did he put it? The archbishop skimmed the page: “as a hostile act, sure to inflame tensions that are already dangerously asmoulder.”

  Tavalisk dropped the letter. His Holiness should keep his nose out of world affairs and stick to what he knows best: praying and poetry. He should have had the courage to excommunicate the Knights of Valdis years ago. It was nothing short of a disgrace that they were allowed to worship the same God and the same savior. Let them invent a God of their own, he thought. Though they were welcome to the savior: Borc’s legend grew shoddier by the day.

  If he were in His Holiness’ position, he would have had the knights hounded as heretics throughout the entire continent. All their lands would be annexed, their business interests would be confiscated, and their leader would be burned at the stake. Tyren was such a greasy little individual he would take to the flame like a fatted calf.

  Tavalisk settled back in his chair and picked at the remains of his breakfast. Oh, to go back to those glorious days when He Who Is Most Holy had wielded real power. Armies marched on his orders and leaders waited upon his every word. Over the past four hundred years the Church had declined like a decrepit old man. His Holiness was the latest in a long line of weak-kneed, over-philosophizing, under-opinionated fools! Why, the only reason that he, Tavalisk, had power was that he had the guts to take it. Before him the archbishop’s seat at Rorn had been nothing but a heavily cushioned footstool. He had made it a throne.

  If Marod’s Book of Words was anything to go by, even the feeble remains of the Church were in danger. There was little doubt that the line The temples will fall, heralded the downfall of the Church. And, knowing that snake Baralis, it was likely to happen sooner rather than later.

  Despite the early hour, Tavalisk poured himself a small measure of brandy. He could not allow the northern empire to flourish. The Knights of Valdis would like nothing better than to destroy the Church as it existed and appoint themselves as leaders of the faith. Where would that leave him? On the streets, powerless. This was such an alarming thought that the archbishop downed his drink in one. At least he wouldn’t be penniless. A certain treasure-filled mansion, in a discreet street not a stone’s throw away from where he sat, was proof of that. But wealth without power was like food without salt: dull and unappetizing. No, he simply couldn’t allow it to happen. His Holiness was obviously going to be no help: he was so busy keeping a middle course that he was becoming as thin and predictable as the line he was treading. He would have to do it all himself.

  Indeed, that was his destiny. Tavalisk’s hands brushed against the cover of Marod as an idea occurred to him. Surely if he managed to save the Church, greater glory could be his. He would become the ultimate defender of the Faith. The clergy would be so grateful, his name so exalted, he could make a successful bid to take over His Holiness’ position.

  Tavalisk, in his excitement, took the Book of Words and brought it to his lips. Marod was a genius. The rewards for following his predictions were greater than he ever imagined. He could become leader of the Church!

  A knock at the door caused the archbishop to hastily place Marod on the table. It wouldn’t do for him to be caught kissing books—people might get the wrong idea and think he had returned to his scholarly past! “Enter,” he called.

  In walked Gamil. “Your Eminence, there is important news.”

  Tavalisk was still basking in the glow of future glories, so he felt inclined to deal benignly with his aide. “Is there, indeed? Then you’d better sit down and tell me what it is.”

  Never once in his ten years of devoted service had Gamil ever been asked to sit down in the archbishop’s presence. He looked decidedly wary. “Is Your Eminence feeling well?”

  “Never better.” The archbishop beamed. “Come along, Gamil. Don’t stand there all agape like a wife who’s just caught her husband bedding another woman. Tell me your news.”

  Gamil did not sit. “I’ve just received word that our four-city force has had an unfriendly exchange with the knights.”

  “Were there any casualties?” asked Tavalisk, rubbing his hands together in glee.

  “Yes, Your Eminence. On both sides. Two of our men lost their lives and twenty of the knights. Valdis was outnumbered five to one.”

  “Excellent! Excellent!” Tavalisk poured brandy into two glasses, one of which he handed to his aide. “News like this is worth celebrating. Marls, Camlee, and Toolay have now stuck their heads up so high that there’s no going back. Mark my words, Gamil, this will be the start of open conflict between the south and Valdis. Tyren is probably seething as we speak.”

  Gamil looked at the drink the archbishop had just given him as if it were poison. “Forming the four-city force was a very clever idea, Your Eminence.”

  “Not just clever, Gamil, brilliant.” Tavalisk made an encouraging gesture with his hand, prompting his aide to drink up. “So, tell me, how did this altercation happen?”

  “Our scouts spotted a small group of knights traveling just north of Camlee. They hurried back to the camp, telling the other soldiers that they’d been fired at by the knights. Apparently, all the men in the camp were so bored with sitting around whittling wood all day and guarding the odd cargo train, that they seized upon this information as a good excuse to go and slice some skin. By all accounts there was quite a bloodbath. The heads of the dead knights were mounted on stakes by the roadside. No one passing from the north to the south can fail to see them.”

  Tavalisk smiled widely. His Holiness certainly had cause to worry: there was nothing more inflammatory than a head on a stake. Everything was coming together beautifully, the battle lines were being drawn and the time was fast approaching when everyone who counted would be forced to choose their side. The events that had just occurred north of Camlee had practically forced the south into declaring their position. They could hardly oppose the knights without opposing Bren, and by implication, the kingdoms as well.

  Or could they? At this point, the south might argue that their quarrel was exclusively with the knights. Tavalisk rubbed his chin. Perhaps matters required a little more help. “Gamil, were the knights guarding any cargo at the time of the attack?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. Several wagonloads of fine cloth bound for Bren.”

  “Perfect. It couldn’t be better.” The archbishop’s mind raced across the possibilities and reached for the best like a cherry-picker at t
he tree. “I think it’s time we started a rumor, Gamil.”

  “Another plague, Your Eminence?”

  “No. Something more subtle than a plague.” Tavalisk stood up and walked over to the window. “We know that Catherine of Bren is due to be married soon to King Kylock.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do all brides need?”

  “A groom.”

  “No, you fool! They need a wedding dress. What if the cargo that we seized had contained the cloth that was due to be made into Catherine’s bridal gown?”

  “But the duke of Bren would know otherwise, Your Eminence.”

  “That doesn’t matter, Gamil. Don’t you see? If we claim to have seized their beloved Catherine’s wedding dress, it will be a humiliation for Bren regardless of whether it’s true or not. It’s as good as burning their flag. Once word gets out, it will look as if the south is opposed to the knights and Bren. The seized wedding dress will become a thrown gauntlet.”

  “I will start the rumor today, Your Eminence.”

  “Knowing you as I do, Gamil, I’m sure half the city will know about it by sundown.” The archbishop waved a negligent dismissal. He felt too pleased with himself to bother issuing a menial task or an insult. Besides, Gamil needed to conserve all his energy for his tongue.

  • • •

  “So how big is the garrison?” Jack’s voice was blunt. In reality he was scared. He was just beginning to realize the immensity and danger of the task he had sworn to do.

  He and Rovas were sitting face-to-face across the kitchen table. The women had left them alone, muttering about herbs to be gathered.

  “There’s over twenty score of soldiers stationed there full-time,” said Rovas. “The number increases depending on the time of year and where the trouble spots are. At this point, everyone’s eyes are to the west. Kylock’s invasion has taken them all by surprise.”