The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Mrs. Wadwell leaned forward and planted her plump lips on Jack’s cheek. Her massive bosom was squashed against his chest. “Farewell, lad, I’ll be sorry to see you go.” One firm bone-crushing squeeze and then she backed away, instantly changing from earth mother to general. “Now, when you leave, go by way of the back woods. Keep under cover whenever possible. Spring’s come early so there’s enough foliage to cast some decent shadows. After about half a league of heading due south, you’ll come to a brook, follow it upstream for about . . .” She paused, considering. “How far would you say, husband?”

  “No more than four leagues, wife.”

  “Right you are. After four leagues, you’ll come to a fork, follow the stream that leads up into the hills—you should be facing northeast by this time—and from there you should be able to make your own way. The woods are pretty much deserted, but keep your eye out for poachers, just in case.”

  Jack obediently nodded to all the instructions. The brandy had set his blood afire and the weight of all the food and supplies was making it difficult for him to stand. He didn’t have the heart to tell them they had given him too much to bear. He would have to lose some bundles later, when he was alone. Which was sad, because he valued their gifts. His legs would have it no other way, though. He knew they would give way if he asked too much of them; they were already trembling now, just standing with the weight.

  Dilburt took his hand and clasped it firmly. “Take care, lad. And remember my wife’s directions, no one knows the country round here like she does.”

  They led him to the door, checked that no one was outside, and then let him through. As they accompanied him to the back of the cottage, Jack noticed they were arm in arm. The sight of such casual, everyday affection affected him deeply. He had imagined such moments with Tarissa: moments where they linked arms without conscious thought, or where they exchanged kisses as easily as smiles. All gone now. He was alone, his dreams shattered like glass, leaving splinters to pierce his soul. How could she have done it? How could she have betrayed him so completely?

  There was no anger now, only sadness and, as Mrs. Wadwell had wisely guessed, confusion. Tarissa said that she loved him, and everyone, even Bodger and Grift, had told him it was wrong to hurt the one you love. So it was a lie. And amongst a catalog of falsehoods and deceit, it was still the one that hurt the most.

  “There you go, lad,” said Mrs. Wadwell, breaking into his thoughts. “The woods are over yonder. They’re quite a walk, but you’ll be all right once you reach those first set of trees.” She smiled at him kindly, her large face almost completely free of wrinkles.

  They had already said their good-byes, so the only thing left was to give his thanks. He turned to face the couple who were his enemies. Halcus was now at war with the kingdoms, yet these two people before him had shown him more kindness in the last day than anyone at home ever had. With the possible exception of an old lady pig farmer who lived just off Harvell’s eastern road. Certainly they proved to him that the Halcus were not the arrogant, godless people that everyone in the kingdoms believed them to be. The idea of war suddenly seemed appalling to Jack. It was easy to hate a country, yet hard to hate its people once you knew them. Mr. and Mrs. Wadwell were happy, good-hearted folks, and they didn’t deserve to be brought to their knees by Kylock.

  A deep weariness came over him, settling on his shoulders like an extra burden. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, he felt responsible for everything, not just the destruction of the garrison, not only the fate of the couple in front of him, but more. Much more.

  “Well,” he said softly. “I’ll be on my way.”

  “Aye, lad,” murmured Dilburt.

  “I want to thank you both for everything you have done for me. I’ll never forget your kindness.” Jack looked first at Dilburt and then his wife. “Never.”

  Mrs. Wadwell’s large handkerchief put in an appearance as the lady herself dabbed it around her eyes. “Go now, lad,” she said. “I’ll watch you till you’re safely to the trees.”

  Jack smiled briefly, sent a quick prayer to Borc to strengthen his step, and began the long walk to the woods.

  Twenty-seven

  Melli was beginning to wish that she’d never called for a mirror, as the face reflected in it was surely not her own. Who was this girl with the deathly pallor and eyes as large as pancakes?

  “Nessa,” she called. “Bring me some wine, as strong as it comes.” The duke would be here any minute and she would have some color in her cheeks by the time he arrived even if she had to drink herself silly to do so.

  Melli put down the mirror and took up a small silver vial containing fragrance. She dabbed it on her bosom and neck, sprinkled a little on the surrounding sheets, and finished by letting a single glistening drop fall upon her tongue. The bitter taste made her wince.

  While she wondered if it would be better for the duke to find her in bed, or on the bench by the window, Nessa returned with the wine. “His Grace is on his way, miss,” she cried. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

  “Well, hurry with the wine, girl,” snapped Melli. A second after the cup was placed in her hand, it was pressing against her lips. She drank all the wine except for the last drop, which, in a sudden burst of inspiration, she scooped up onto her fingertips and proceeded to rub into both of her cheeks. She knew she was behaving like an expectant courtesan, and at any other time, with any other man, she would never have deigned to primp and preen, but over the past few days she had found herself becoming more and more attracted to the duke, and she now found herself rather anxious to look pleasing for him.

  The trouble was she didn’t know how to. All her life she had paid little or no attention to her appearance. From as early as she could remember she had been hailed as a natural beauty; years of hearing this had caused her to scorn all the usual range of feminine embellishments. Powders, perfumes, and plucked eyebrows were mysteries to Melli. As were colored waxes, greased soot, and rouge.

  The door opened and in walked the duke. The first thing he did was sniff the air. Melli instantly realized she had overdone the perfume and quickly threw the heavily scented coverlet from her bed.

  “You smell like a cheap tavern wench,” he said.

  Melli felt the heat come to her cheeks. She shot a venom-filled glance at Nessa: it was the servant girl’s perfume she was wearing. Unable to think of a suitably withering retort to the duke’s insult, she settled for haughtily dismissing her maid. “Do not stand around gawking, girl. Leave us. And take this coverlet with you—I insist you wash it yourself. That should teach you not to spill perfume again.”

  The duke waited until Nessa had left the room before he crossed over to Melli’s bed. He took her hand and placed a brief kiss upon her wrist. His lips were cool and dry. “I have another gift for you,” he said, pulling a silk-wrapped object from his tunic.

  There was a small part of Melli that found the duke’s behavior rather perfunctory; it was as if he were performing a military maneuver: first the kiss, then the gift, then a little verbal sparring. The exact same scenario had been acted out the day before, when he had given her a scabbard in which to keep her knife. She turned over the package in her hand and wondered if her misgivings were grounded in good sense, or merely the folly of an idle mind. After all, she had been cooped up here on her own for five days now.

  “Open it,” he commanded.

  Melli unwrapped the silk to find a large glove inside. The leather was thick and brightly painted with scrolls and flourishes. “A falconer’s glove?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the duke, “and the falcon to go with it.” He clapped his hands together sharply, and a man entered the room. Upon his arm he carried a large, silent bird that wore a hood.

  “A gerfalcon,” said Melli, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.

  “Aye, miss,” replied the falconer, coming forward. “And a lady, too.”

  Melli knew that female gerfalcons were considered the most precio
us of all the hunting birds. “It is truly beautiful,” she said.

  The duke smiled at her softly. “Put on the glove.”

  Feeling a little nervous, Melli slipped on the glove. Her father’s eastern estate boasted a mews, but in the kingdoms falconry was an exclusively male sport and so she had never handled a hawk before.

  “I scented the glove, miss, so it will smell just like home.” The falconer brought his arm on a level with hers, tapped gently on the bird’s belly, and then drew his arm down. At the same time the duke took the underside of Melli’s arm and moved it forward. The gerfalcon took the cue and stepped neatly onto Melli’s glove. The bells strapped to the bird’s feet tinkled brightly.

  What struck Melli first was the sheer weight of the thing. The creature was dense and solid. The duke still held her arm near the elbow, and she was grateful for the support. She felt the bird’s talons grasping at her wrist through the leather, and she became a little afraid.

  “Easy, miss,” said the falconer. “Don’t fret, my beauty won’t hurt you.” He stroked the bird’s belly and whispered words of tender encouragement.

  Melli felt the duke holding her arm firm, stopping it from shaking. On his prompting she risked raising her other hand to touch the bird. The speckled feathers of its breast were soft beyond telling. It was a joy to feel the warm down beneath her fingertips. The creature’s heart was beating faster than her own. Growing more confident, she moved her arm nearer her face. The gerfalcon shifted for a moment, resettling its wings, and then gripped her wrist anew. This time Melli enjoyed the feeling.

  The falconer smiled at her. “You’re a natural, miss. I’ve never seen my beauty calmer.”

  Even though she knew the man was flattering her, Melli couldn’t help but feel pleased. “What’s her name?”

  “Well, miss, a hawk has two names. The first is given when she’s just a chick, newly taken from the nest. The second is given the day she’s ready for her master’s wrist.”

  “And is she ready?” asked Melli.

  The falconer nodded. “She brought down a crane for me, just two days past. You should have seen her fly, miss. Sweet and as sure as an angel, she was.”

  “So, Melliandra,” said the duke, “she needs a second name.”

  Melli caught the offer of his words. “You want me to name her?”

  “She is yours, you must call her what you will.”

  “But I know nothing about falconry. I couldn’t possibly take her.”

  “Once you are well enough,” said the duke, “we will ride down to the valley with our birds upon our wrists, and I will teach you everything you need to know.” He reached out and stroked the bird’s breast; as he did so, his fingers brushed against Melli’s. “Name her now and claim her as your own.”

  Melli was thrilled beyond words. This magnificent creature would soar upon her bidding. “I name her Aravella.” Tears prickled, fast and unexpected. After all these years she was still moved by the sound of her mother’s name.

  “Beautiful, miss. Beautiful,” said the falconer.

  “A name worthy of greatness,” said the duke.

  Melli looked up from the hawk and found herself staring into the duke’s eyes. She was overcome with feelings of sadness and joy. “Thank you,” she said. “In all my life, I have never received anything as precious as this.”

  “I would give you everything I own,” he said, “if you would only be my wife.”

  • • •

  Baralis was walking across one of the many deserted courtyards of the duke’s palace. He had just paid a man to travel to Bevlin’s cottage and tear the place apart, and was about to calculate how long it would be before he was in possession of the wiseman’s library when a sharp pain stabbed at his chest. The sensation was so sudden and so violent, it stopped him in his tracks.

  Closing his eyes, he sought out the blackness of self-awareness. His heart raced ahead of his thoughts; beating wildly it conveyed a silent warning in the rhythm of the blood. Words barely remembered amid so much else that had been said in Larn flashed across his mind like lightning:

  “Two days ago one of our seers spoke of you. He said that for now your greatest threat is a girl with a knife at her side.”

  Struggling to keep his feet, Baralis looked around the courtyard. A sandstone bench resting under a leafy trellis gave him something to aim for. By the time he made it there, he had calmed himself. A body heavy with the weight of foretelling slumped against the stone. Only it wasn’t foretelling, exactly—the seers of Larn had done that already—but more a sign that it was coming to pass. Somewhere, right now, someone’s fate was in the balance, and the racing of his heart meant the outcome would surely affect him directly.

  As he rubbed the sweat from his brow, he racked his brain trying to imagine who the girl with the knife could possibly be.

  • • •

  “Easy, boy. Easy,” whispered Maybor, running a hand over his dog’s bristling snout. Shark growled deep in her throat, a chilling sound that told of deadly intent. She had caught a whiff of the enemy and her hackles rose to the scent. All the baiting had paid off. Eager to attack the man sitting alone in the distance, she strained against the leash like the killer she was. “Good boy. Good boy.”

  Maybor had recently discovered that the combination of fine clothes on his back and a fine animal at his side turned heads, especially women’s. With this in mind he had taken to walking through the palace grounds each day, leading Shark on a fine leather leash. He enjoyed the admiring looks from the ladies and the envious glares from the lords. This afternoon, however, he had spotted something more interesting than a blushing maiden: Baralis secretly engaging the services of a journeyman. A messenger, judging from the leanness of his horse.

  The meeting was near the stables. When Maybor had first come upon them, he had toyed with the idea of setting Shark loose. But there were too many stablemen around, any one of whom might have spotted him nearby. More importantly, one of them might have stepped in to save Baralis and taken an ax to the dog. Maybor was growing rather fond of Shark and hated the idea that she might get hurt. So he had stayed where he was, watching the two talk from a discreet and shady distance. He wasn’t in the least bit surprised when the meeting ended with the journeyman receiving a heavy purse; money was the only way Baralis could ever get a man to do his bidding. As he watched, the two parted and Baralis began to make his way back to the palace.

  Never one to take traditional routes, Baralis slipped down alleyways and slid under bridges, taking a path less peopled than any normal man might choose. Feeling rather pleased with himself, Maybor trailed him all the way. Shark stalked her prey well, never once letting Baralis from her sight. Eventually they had come to a fair-sized courtyard. Deserted at this time of year, it was probably a haven for romance in high summer. Trees and shrubs were beginning to show their green, and flower beds were hoed and ready for planting.

  Maybor was just about to follow Baralis across when the man suddenly doubled up on the spot. He clutched at his chest and then turned an unpleasant shade of puce. Maybor immediately sent a prayer to Borc, thanking him for sending a seizure to his enemy. Unfortunately, Baralis seemed to recover. He stumbled over to a bench and sat whilst he caught his breath.

  Shark’s head was moving from side to side, and when Maybor looked down he saw that she was wearing away at the leash. She chewed with chilling determination. Time and time again, she had ripped apart bags filled with the remains of Baralis’ undershirt. The man’s scent was burned upon her soul. Now the time had come to strike her prey.

  “Easy, boy. Easy.”

  Maybor looked quickly through the bushes to the place where Baralis was sitting. Deep in thought, the man didn’t look as if he’d be moving for some time. Maybor then whirled around and searched the surrounding masonry. Aha! Just the thing. Near the bottom of the wall was some fancy stonework: cherubs aimed bows at demons, whilst nymphs frolicked with lions. The arm of one of the cherubs was styled in
relief, jutting out from the wall at an angle, its elbow forming a shape that was as good a loop. Maybor threaded Shark’s leash through the stone and tied a fine soldier’s knot in the leather.

  Shark growled with anger and began to pull against the leash. Her whole body thrashed violently from side to side, but knot and stonework held.

  Maybor was careful to pick his distance before kneeling down by the dog, making sure that he was at least a leash-length away. Shark had worked herself up to an eye-bulging, muzzle-frothing frenzy. “Ssh. Easy now.” The dog calmed a little. “That’s a good boy.” Maybor risked bending forward a little. He took a deep breath and then hissed: “Kill, Shark, kill!”

  The words had a profound effect on the dog. Her ears pricked up, her hackles rose, and she began to chew with terrible intensity upon the leash. Her teeth tore at the leather as if it were silk.

  Maybor knew the time had come for him to make a quick exit. In less than two minutes, Shark would be free, and he couldn’t risk being here when she ripped out Baralis’ throat. He paused a second to admire the deadly slant of the creature’s teeth, briefly imagined them covered with blood, and then cut a hasty path toward the stables.

  • • •

  The duke had commanded the falconer to leave with the hawk. Melli was hardly aware of the man taking the bird from her wrist. Her head was reeling. Marry! She couldn’t believe her ears. Had the duke lost his senses? She risked a quick look at his face. Gray eyes met hers without a blink.

  “You think I jest, Melliandra?” His voice was as serious as his expression.

  The door closed with a discreet sweep and click. The falconer leaving with his bird.

  Melli stood up and walked over to the window. She needed time to think. However, the duke appeared to have a different plan, for she heard his footsteps behind her, and then felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm. Firm enough to draw her round.

  “Melliandra,” he said, “I am not a man who speaks lightly. I told you the other day how I felt about you. Could you not guess at that time that I would want to marry you?” His hand slid down the length of her arm and caught at her fingers.