by J. V. Jones
Without a word of encouragement, Gamil came forward, knelt down, and began to pick up the glass around the archbishop’s feet. The sight of Gamil’s arched back was too tempting for Tavalisk to resist, and he raised his feet up off the ground and brought them to rest on his aide’s back. “All things considered, young Kylock has made a very shrewd move, bedding down with Tyren. On the other hand, of course, Tyren himself may not have been so shrewd. He’s got himself involved with a cause that is anything but noble: women and children being slaughtered, towns being razed to the ground. At some point the knights are going to question the integrity of their leader.”
“But the knights are sworn to obey Tyren, Your Eminence,” said the footstool. Gamil was forced to stay, kneeling down like a dog, until the archbishop removed his feet. “It’s one of the founding principles of Valdis.”
“If I needed a lesson in history, Gamil, I would call a scholar, not a servant.” The archbishop dug his heels into Gamil’s back. “Tyren has made mercenaries out of his knights, selling their services first to Bren and now to the kingdoms.” Tavalisk shook his head. “Founding principles aside, there’ll be people in Valdis who aren’t happy with the way things are going, and it won’t be long before they make their displeasure known. No one makes more noise than the morally self-righteous.”
“Perhaps Kylock has promised them converts, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop took his feet from his aide’s back. Gamil had actually said something intelligent. “You mean: ‘Fight for us and if we win, we’ll all follow Valdis’ fanaticism’?”
Gamil nodded and stood up. “Fanaticism is a strong word, though, Your Eminence. Valdis’ beliefs are, for the most part, almost identical to ours. They are just more zealous, that’s all.”
“Really, Gamil, theology and history in one day. I think you missed your calling.”
“I confess, Your Eminence, that scholarship has always interested me.”
“No, not a scholar, Gamil. I was thinking more of a town crier, as they’re famous for shouting out news that everyone already knows.” Tavalisk smiled sweetly at his aide. “Time you were on your way, Gamil. Try and find out if there’s any truth in the theory that Tyren is angling for religious control in the north. And send the letter on to the duke of Bren. Use your swiftest messenger. No, on second thoughts, tie it to a bird. Speed is of the essence.”
“A dove will not be large enough, Your Eminence.”
The archbishop sighed heavily. “I will follow you down later and put a compulsion on an eagle. It will ruin me for this evening, though. I’ll be far too tired to bless the seven sacred strangers.”
“Perhaps you could just bless two or three of them, instead.”
Gamil was becoming a little impertinent. The ritual of the seven sacred strangers had been performed in Rorn for hundreds of years. Once a year the city gates were closed from midday to midnight. When they were opened, the first seven foreigners to pass through them were blessed by the archbishop, bathed in holy water by nubile virgins, and then given seven gold pieces by the doddering old duke himself. It was more of a commercial than a religious ritual, as it was designed to promote Rorn as a city that welcomed foreign trade and foreign money.
Widely popular—probably due to the presence of the wet and scantily clad virgins—it was looked forward to for months. Every child ate seven cherries, every man drank seven glasses of wine, and every woman had seven bracelets jangling about her wrist. For Gamil to suggest that he should bless only two or three strangers was nothing short of blasphemy.
“Pay the old crow in the kitchens to put the compulsion on the bird, Gamil. I will not be doing it myself.” Public ceremonies were too important to miss, particularly now, when he needed the support of the masses more than ever. If war was coming, the people of Rorn must trust him enough to let him take the lead. Besides, using sorcery was always a risk: one could never tell when one’s drawing was being monitored. All in all, it was far better to have someone else do the job: the blame could be more easily shifted that way.
“Is there anything else, Your Eminence?”
The archbishop regarded his aide coolly. “Since you have treated me to so many lessons today, Gamil, I think it’s time I taught you one in return. It’s called the lesson of the presumptuous servant.”
• • •
Jack was learning the art of blocking everything out. He was aware of the sensations of pain, exhaustion, hunger, and thirst, but only dimly, as if he was experiencing them in a dream. In fact he felt almost drunk. But not in a light-headed, dizzy sort of way, more a heavy-headed, heavy-footed sort of way. The sensation reminded him of the times he’d been caught drinking by Master Frallit. Too much ale followed by a sound thrashing and an earful of insults did strange things to a boy’s mind. Not to mention his body.
Jack smiled to himself. He felt almost nostalgic about those beatings now. Castle Harvell existed in his memory as a safe and cherished haven where worries were purely childish and life was simple if a little dull.
Right about now dull seemed pretty appealing. The rain had started up again, lashing through the air in sharp, angry sheets. The wind whipped low around his ankles like a small and pesky dog, and the air was cold as spring could make it. A night for firesides, not adventures.
Jack had been walking for hours now. The two hills, for so long in front of him, were now casting shadows on his back. The ground underfoot was beginning to level off and, without recognizing as much as a bush or a tree, he knew he was drawing closer to the cottage.
It was dark. The trees, the hills, the clouds, and the rain all threw their pennies into the pit. He could see his feet beneath him, spot trees before he walked into them, but everything else was lost in darkness. Step after step he took blindly. Singing helped. Frallit had taught him many baking songs; some were bawdy ballads of master bakers slipping love potions into their pies, a few were actual recipes—the rhyme making them easier to remember—and others were slow, methodical tunes designed to knead bread by. Jack liked the kneading songs the best. Singing them now, whilst he was alone and in the dark, helped to keep his spirits up. They acted like a talisman, carrying with them all the good memories of the past.
I bake a little slowly, ’cos I’m not a clever man
I knead all morning and I sleep when I can
I’m up all night to keep the oven hot
But I always pause once a day
No matter what my masters say
And count my blessings for what I’ve got.
Jack’s steps matched the meter of the words, just as his hands once had. After ten verses, even the toughest dough would bake up to a fine crust. After eleven verses, Jack was usually overcome by a fit of yawning: it wasn’t the most lively of songs. But it was simple and honest, and love of baking was written into every line. For the moment it was just what he needed: something familiar and methodical to keep his mind from the pain and his feet stepping one in front of the other.
Abruptly the ground dipped under him. He threw out his leg to catch the firmness of earth. His foot encountered the wet slipperiness of mud and slid downward, throwing his body off balance. Grasping in the dark, he found nothing to break his fall. Roots and twigs tore at his legs and the mud carried him down the slope, sending him into the darkness beneath. A thorned branch slashed against his cheek. His knee crashed against something hard and jagged. Feet scrambling in the mud, he hurtled forward. Something white glimmered ahead. Rocks! was the last thought he had.
Twenty-nine
The rain stopping was what woke him. The constant pitter-patter was an accompaniment to his dream, and when it no longer beat against his cheek, the dream turned nasty, presenting him with a sudden, sharp drop. His body jerked convulsively and his eyes opened. Jack was looking at the sky. Gray, cloudy, close to the ground, it spoke of more rain to come.
He was lying on a bed of mud-covered rocks. His arms and legs were as stiff as broom handles. Raising up his hand, he cautiously felt
the back of his head, near his neck. “Aagh!” Something large and tender as a plover’s egg did not want to be touched. Gingerly, he felt around the lump. His hair was stiff and matted. It could be dried mud, he thought, but more likely it was blood. Bringing his hand forward, he grazed his fingers against his cheek. A neat line of scabbed flesh rose above his skin, two days worth of stubble surrounding it like thorns.
Jack sat up. Water, which had been pooling in the dip of his belly, ran down his thighs and onto the rocks. He now knew the meaning of being soaked to the bone. His clothes were plastered against his body, his fingers were swollen like sausages, and his feet were swimming in his shoes. As if the action of sitting up had forced his senses into action, Jack felt suddenly cold. He began to shiver, and try as he might he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
He had to get his blood pumping. Bracing his body, he forced himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness threatened to bring him straight down again, but Jack refused to give in to it.
Whereas sitting up had made him realize how cold he was, standing up made him feel the pain. Chest, head, legs, knees, all ached with vicious delight. Jack had once heard a physician say that it was impossible to feel more than one source of pain at any given time. The man was a fool.
A peculiar dryness tickled at his throat, and when he recognized what it was he burst out laughing. He was thirsty! Here, surrounded by dripping rainwater, damp air, and wet clothes, with the rain newly stopped and more on its way, he was actually feeling thirsty. It was really quite ridiculous.
When the sound of his laughter died away, another sound took its place: water running then splashing against rocks. It was so loud, he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. It seemed his senses were coming alive in stages and hearing was obviously last on the list. Directly ahead lay a thick copse of trees. Turning around he noticed that the rocks to the far left were bubbling with falling water. He scrambled over toward them, feet slipping in the mud. A large boulder blocked his path to the water and he was forced to clamber over it.
What he saw on the other side made him stop dead.
It was the pool where Tarissa had taken him the day she said she loved him. The rocks, the waterfall, the glade. Destroyed by two days of torrential rain. The once clear water was brown with mud, clotted with twigs and leaves, and dead birds and vermin floated in it. The waterfall spilled more of the foul matter into the pool and sent what was already there churning around in spirals. The water stank. Gone were the daffodils; flattened and decaying, their remains were strewn across the ground. The rain had stripped the leaf buds from the willows, and the trees hung bare above the pool like skeletons.
Grass was trampled and thick with oozing mud. Worms and centipedes and other creatures of the soil lay glistening, struggling to right themselves, forced to the surface by the rain-soaked earth. They were everywhere he looked.
Jack’s mind flashed back to that one perfect day—the best of his life—when they sat by the pool and he’d washed Tarissa’s feet. She was so beautiful, so full of life, so much cleverer than he. That was the day she’d agreed to come away with him to Annis. Flinging her high atop his shoulders, he’d given her little choice. Jack smiled, remembering how hard she had kicked and screamed. There was no one like her. No one at all.
His memory receded and he was left looking at the wreckage of a once flawless scene. How could she have done it to him? Smiled and led him on, and said she loved him, and made love to him. And all the time, behind each word, each kiss, each tender look, there lay a snarl of lies. Melli was alive, and all three of them—Tarissa, Rovas, and Magra—had told him she was dead. They had kept him in the cottage, carefully steering his hate, like cattlemen with their sticks, toward the man they said had killed her. Like a fool, he had committed the murder for them.
The strength drained from Jack’s legs and he collapsed down upon the rocks. He stayed there, water splashing against his shoulders, head bowed down toward his chest, until the shivering became so intense that he was forced to move on.
• • •
Melli was just about to start on her second plate of eggs and bacon when a knock sounded upon the bedchamber door. “I’m dressing, come back later,” she called.
A second knock came, followed by a man’s voice. “I imagine dressing must be difficult without a dress, my lady.”
The voice was half-familiar, the tone was mocking. Whoever it was must know that she had no clothes in her bedchamber, only various nightgowns. Interest piqued, she put down her knife and spoon. “Who is it?”
“Tawl, duke’s champion.”
So, it was the man who was charged with protecting her. For days now she had been aware of his presence on the other side of the door. Sometimes when it opened, she would catch sight of him, always sitting on the floor, mending his clothes, or polishing his weapons, eyes gallantly averted lest he catch a glimpse of a lady undressed.
“Enter,” she said.
The door opened and in walked Tawl. Dressed plainly, his clothes were a poor disguise for the body beneath.
“You are alone?” he asked, scanning the room.
“Surely you must know that already, seeing as you monitor the door like my keeper.” Melli picked up a slice of bacon with her fingers and slipped it between her lips.
Tawl shrugged. “I watch the physicians come and go.”
“And how do they look once they leave?” Melli was feeling a little mischievous.
“Relieved,” said Tawl dryly.
Melli laughed. “What brings you here? I thought you were supposed to watch me from a distance?”
“I’ve come to take you to Bren.”
“What?” Melli was taken by surprise. “I thought the physicians said I wouldn’t be fit to travel for another day or two yet.”
“They did.”
“But—”
“I’m going to take you now,” Tawl said, “regardless of what the physicians say.”
Melli was rather pleased; she was getting a little bored of being cooped up in her bedchamber like a rescued damsel. “Does the duke know of this?”
“He left for Bren earlier this morning. I told him, and only him, that you would join him there tonight.” Tawl came closer to the bed where Melli sat, cross-legged, with a plate of food in front of her. “Open your nightdress.”
Melli stared at him.
“I want to take a look at your knife wound.”
“How dare you suggest such a thing!” Melli was indignant. “Leave me this instant, or I will be forced to call the guards.”
Tawl didn’t move. “Lady,” he said, his voice betraying a measure of impatience, “I have no desire to see you naked, but I do need to see your wound to check for myself if you’re ready to travel. In my experience physicians tend to be overly cautious, but I’d like to make certain before I put you on a horse.” He folded his arms with infuriating calmness. “Now, either lift up your gown and show me your side, or sit there and shout for the guards until you’re blue in the face. For as far as I’m aware, there’s not one of them within earshot.”
Realizing her mouth was agape, Melli abruptly closed it. Bursting with anger, she could think of nothing to say. She glared at the man, muttered a few choice curses under her breath, and rolled onto her side. In her haste to get the matter over and done with, she ripped the ribbons from the seams. With a great show of indignant modesty, she pulled back barely enough of the gown to reveal the bandaged wound that lay just beneath her rib cage. “Go ahead,” she said. “Make your examination.”
Tawl came forward. Before he touched her, he blew on his hands to warm them. Melli strained her neck to see what he would do. A quick flash of silver streaked through the air. Only when she felt the bandage fall away from her skin did she realize he had drawn a knife. His touch was gentle, but firm. He placed one hand upon her rib cage and another below the wound. Slowly he pressed against her flesh, testing muscle first and then probing deeper, feeling for her organs. His expression was serious.
Melli noticed how finely his lips were shaped. He made a small noise in the back of his throat and then ran his thumb along the wound. A second later she felt his thumbs to either side of the injury.
He stood up. “Wait here,” he said.
She watched him walk into the next room and rummage around in a leather saddlebag. When he returned he was carrying a small blue jar. Uncorking the top and dipping in his fingers, he scooped out something that looked suspiciously like axle grease. Seeing her expression, Tawl smiled. “I make it myself,” he said. He warmed it between his fingers and then slapped it onto her skin. “The wound is healing cleanly, but there’s a lot of stiffness in the muscle beneath. There’s little chance the cut will reopen during the ride, but your side will give you some trouble.” He massaged the grease into her flesh, working it down to her muscles.
“So how did you learn all this? Were you one of those physicians who got sick of blood and guts and decided to turn to a peaceful life of fighting instead?” Melli was beginning to feel a little contrite. She was also quite enjoying the sensation of Tawl’s large hands pushing against her belly.
He ignored her attempt at humor. “No. When you’re on your own a lot you pick up things here and there.” He shrugged. “You learn how to patch things up until you make it to the nearest town.”
It wasn’t the answer she had expected. She was about to question him further, when he tapped her on the ribs.
“Lift up a moment,” he said. “I need to retie the bandage.”
She did as she was told. She felt his capable hands cupping the small of her back and threading the bandage beneath. He tied it more firmly than the physicians, and a fraction lower, too. He finished the job by tying the strangest knot she’d ever seen around her waist. With almost touching delicacy, he trimmed off the frayed ends and then flattened it out so it wouldn’t press against her.
