by J. V. Jones
Straight to the blades it went. Jack’s mind formed the intent as it raced through the air. He molded the sorcery like a sculptor, and once it hit it was fully formed. It passed with his thoughts into the substance of the knife, and just as it did what it was made for, he pulled himself back from the blades. The knives became red-hot pokers. Both men screamed, opening their fists and dropping the blades to the floor.
Jack felt a wave of weakness sweep over him. Fighting it off, he pushed past both men toward the door. Neither Red Hair nor his friend had any desire to stop him. They were both holding up red, raw palms and looking wildly around for some way to cool them.
Jack stepped over the threshold and walked straight into Nivlet. Frallit had once said: “Never trust a skinny baker,” and it seemed that he was right. Jack punched Nivlet squarely in the face. Nivlet fell to the floor and Jack stepped over his body. “See to it those guards get some water for their burns.” He didn’t wait to hear the man’s reply; he turned his back and walked away.
Feeling strangely elated, Jack made his way from the lodge. He had done it! He had made sorcery do his bidding! It was exhilarating. He felt powerful, confident, ready to take on all comers. As he walked through the banquet hall, Jack swept all the remains of last night’s food from the table. Loaves, chickens, and fruit went flying into the air. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Finally he had done something right.
Footsteps again, either Nivlet or one of the injured guards. Time to move on. Jack’s smile fell from his face. It looked like he wouldn’t be seeing much of Annis after all, as he’d be going out the same way he came in: by the back door. Jack picked a particularly nasty-looking carving knife from the rushes, filled his tunic with bread and cheese and, as an afterthought, downed a cupful of ale in a toast to himself. Grimacing—sitting around all night had done little for the ale—Jack turned on his heel and slipped out into the dawn.
“Your Grace, may I present His Royal Highness King Kylock, Sovereign of the Four Kingdoms.” Baralis stepped back and let Kylock come forward to meet Catherine.
Kylock looked magnificent. Dressed in black silk and sable with spun gold at cuffs and collar he looked more than the king he was. Tall and fine-limbed he carried himself with casual pride. His features were harder to judge; strangely shadowed despite the sunshine beaming down from the windows, they eluded both words and light.
He stretched out an elegant hand and Catherine raised her own to meet it. He brought her pale fingers to his lips. His breath was cool, cooler even than his lips. A tiny thrill passed through Catherine. She hadn’t intended to curtsy when she met him—the mistress of Bren bowed to no man—yet she knew how very becoming she looked from above: how enticingly the cleft of her bosom deepened, how full her bottom lip became when gilded with light.
“It is an honor to welcome you to our fine city, Your Majesty.”
“The honor,” said Kylock, “is mine.”
They stood in the great hall surrounded by courtiers. Garlands of summer roses decked the walls. The windows were glazed with stained glass and the sun’s rays shining upon them were converted to the colors of state. Royal blue, midnight blue, purple, and scarlet: colors her father had chosen. The colors of the cloth they had wound around his corpse. Catherine shivered despite the warmth of the sun.
Kylock still had hold of her hand. “Say the word if you are cold, my lady,” he said softly. “And I will burn a city to warm you.”
Catherine’s sharp intake of breath was not the only one. The courtiers who heard Kylock speak shifted uneasily in their places.
Baralis stepped in to fill the awkward silence. “Your Majesty must be tired after your long journey. If you will permit me, I will show you to your chambers.”
Kylock did not look at him. He did not take his eyes from Catherine. Still he had hold of her hand. His fingers pressed against her bone, stopping the blood from flowing to the tips. “You are right, my chancellor, I must rest. Today I have seen my future wife, and the sight has all but stolen my breath.” Abruptly he let her hand drop.
Catherine had willed him to let it go, but now that he had she felt lost. There was such power to him, and while he held her hand it was as if she was party to it. She spoke to hold him an instant longer. “My lord, I trust you will find your chambers to your liking. I saw to the furnishings myself.”
He moved swiftly forward. Catherine panicked for a moment and took a step back—for some reason she had thought he meant to strike her. He bowed instead, dipping his head low and exposing the white flesh on the back of his neck. His nostrils quivered as if he were taking in her scent. “My lady’s thoughtfulness is matched only by her purity.”
Catherine dug her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from blushing. Purity? Such an odd word to use. She began to feel uncomfortable. Bowing her head, she murmured, “I trust I will not disappoint you.”
Kylock’s eyes met hers. Dark, they were, but the color escaped her. He smiled, showing even white teeth with a slight inward slant. “My lady will not disappoint me.” He moved away from her so quickly that she was unable to focus on his form until he was still once more.
Turning to Baralis, he said, “Chancellor, lead me to my chambers.” Baralis came to the king’s side and began to guide him from the hall.
Catherine watched the pair go. There was something strange about the two of them . . . they were matched in height and coloring. Even their very movements seemed the same. No footfalls sounded as they walked. Catherine shook her head slowly, unwilling to carry her thoughts further. Kylock and Baralis were from the same country, the same court; it was hardly unusual that they bore the same façade.
Overcome with a sudden desire to rest, Catherine dismissed her court with a wave of her hand. She was tired, drained, sharply aware of her vulnerability. Kylock was so much more than she had expected, and his presence had unnerved her. In eight days she would be his wife. Turning, she made her way to her chambers. Never in her life had she felt more alive than when King Kylock held her hand.
“The trout is coming along nicely, Grift. A few more minutes and it will be as fine as fish can be.”
“I’ve never cared for fish myself, Bodger. But it is good for a man’s plums.”
“His plums, Grift?”
“Aye, Bodger, his plums. A man will never have a problem with his hernies as long as he eats lots of fish.”
“Why’s that, Grift?”
“Fish increases a man’s power of suspension, if you get my drift, Bodger. Two trout a day and your plums will be so supple they’ll be bouncing off the floor.”
Bodger looked doubtful. “I’m not so sure that sounds like a benefit, Grift.”
“It’s not for me to decide what’s best, Bodger. I’m merely here to give you all the facts.” Grift nodded wisely and Bodger nodded back.
“Here, d’you think I should take a trout to Tawl, Grift?”
“No, Bodger. Best stay clear of him today, it being the Feast of Borc’s First Miracle and all. It’s the most holy of days for knights, and bringing Tawl a fish will only serve to salten the wound.”
“Aye, Grift. I think you’re right. I saw him earlier and he looked right through me. Lady Melliandra tried to comfort him, but he just sent her away.”
“You can hardly blame the man, Bodger. Every knight who was ever knighted lets his blood for Borc today. Tawl will be feeling the loss of his circles keenly.”
“How does the story go again, Grift?”
“Well, Borc, as you know, was a shepherd in the foothills of the Great Divide. One day he’s protecting his flock and along comes a pack of hunger-crazed wolves. They chase Borc and his flock right up to the Faldara Falls. Well, Borc has nowhere to go and so he pleads to God for guidance, and before the words have left his mouth the falls turn to ice. Every spit of water, every fish on the fin: all frozen in an instant. So Borc and his sheep cross the falls, and as soon as the wolves step onto the ice, everything melts and the predators go plunging to
their death.”
Bodger sighed impatiently. “Everyone knows that story, Bodger. It’s how Valdis fits in that I’m not clear on.”
“Right. Why didn’t you say so in the first place, then?” Grift downed a mouthful of ale and settled himself back on his chair. “Well, as you know Valdis was the first man to become a disciple of Borc’s. And when Borc traveled to the Far South in search of truth, Valdis stayed in the north to spread the word. Anyway, ten years to the day after the miracle at Faldara Falls, Valdis is preaching along its bank to an angry and disbelieving mob. They begin to shout at him, saying there was no miracle and that anyone who tried to cross the falls would surely die.
“Well, being flesh and blood like he was, Valdis knows there’s no way he can perform a miracle, so he does something else instead: the First Act of Faith. He jumps into the river and lets the current take him over the falls.
“Naturally everyone thinks he’s a goner, he’d likely be crushed by the rocks the minute he hits the falls. So the mob walks home to their wives and children and promptly forget all about him. But somehow Valdis survived—how, no one knows for sure, though most say it was God’s reward for his faith—and he makes his way back to the village. The villagers are so overcome by the sight of him that they fall to their knees and pledge themselves to Borc. Valdis kisses each and every one of them on the forehead, and then leaves, telling them it is their duty to go forth and spread the word.” Grift drained his cup, indicating the end of the story.
“Valdis was a very brave man, Grift,” said Bodger softly.
“Aye, Bodger, and the knighthood he started was supposed to carry on his ideals.”
“Poor Tawl. It must distress him to see the way the knighthood has fallen.”
“If you ask me, Bodger, he’s lucky to be out of it.”
“If you could have seen his face this morning, Grift, you’d know that’s the last of his thoughts. He just sat in his windowseat and looked out toward the south.”
“The city of Valdis lies to the south, Bodger.”
“Aye. And Tawl’s heart lies with it this day.”
Baralis closed the door behind himself. He thought for a moment and then drew the bolt. Kylock was in the palace now, and somehow his presence changed everything.
The boy had grown in many ways since Baralis had last seen him. Indeed, he was no longer a boy at all. A man. A king. A ruler of men. Oh, how his presence dominated the great hall! How everyone strained to hear his every word, and how they all breathed a sigh of relief as he left. There was no doubt about it: Kylock was born to be an emperor. He was begot for it. But he was so young, so inexperienced, so bright with all the ruthlessness of youth. He had to be molded, his decisions gently guided, his policies shaped to curves of greater subtlety.
Seeing Kylock this morning had been like seeing a different person. He would be no willingly manipulated half-man. He was whole, vibrant, and ready to take control. Baralis permitted himself the smallest of smiles. Well, not quite whole. The sparkling drug named ivysh had already seen to that. Ivysh stopped sorcery from flowing through the body, and while Kylock continued to be addicted to it he would be unable to draw upon the source. The fact that the new king was still taking it was no longer in doubt. He reeked of it: his hair, his clothes, his breath. The side effects he covered up well, though.
Ivysh promoted madness in some, paranoia in others, and destructive delusions in all. Men in Hanatta took it to bring themselves closer to God. Women in Hanatta took it to forget about the cruelty of their men, and children in Hanatta were given ivysh-coated rags to suck on when they cried too much. Baralis had tasted it only once, in the mouth of his teacher’s young niece. He never tried it again: self-control was not something he relinquished lightly.
The fact that Kylock managed to take the drug and still retain the semblance of sanity was nothing short of remarkable. Five years he had taken it. Baralis could not begin to guess at the long-term effects of its use. Yet despite everything Kylock appeared to be faring well. A remarkable young man, indeed.
Baralis felt a trace of paternal pride. He worked quickly to suppress it: now was not the time for self-congratulation. There were things he must do, tasks he had been putting off for several days now, while he gave his body a chance to recover from the incident with Maybor at the tavern.
Baralis sat by his fire and Crope came to pour him some holk. “Ready my potions, Crope. I have a long journey to make.” The drawings he had performed at the Brimming Bucket had left him badly weakened, and only now did he have the strength to forsake himself. Baralis drank his holk slowly, putting off the final moment for as long as possible. He hated leaving his body. When mind was separated from flesh, when the soul pulled away from the body that fed it, and when the heart pumped blood around an empty shell, time was of the essence—and dangers as terrible as insentience and madness lurked in dark spaces waiting to strike.
Taking a deep breath, Baralis began his preparations: the powder, the leaf, the blood. He inhaled the mixture deeply and then fell back into the waiting arms of Crope.
The terrible lightness never failed to shock. Baralis kept his thoughts weighty, lest his mind rise high above the firmament never to return. His body screamed in protest, but already he was too far away to acknowledge the loss. Up and up he went, through layers of clouds and thinning bands of air pressure, the rotation of the world bending his ascent. Strange how he felt the cold. Heat, wind, and water left him unaffected, but the cold had a power all its own.
Before he knew it he was there. The temple at Larn lay below him: a stone rectangle on an island that was shaped like a pear. Down through slate and rock and wood he traveled, into the chamber they had prepared for his mooring. Four men, a table, four candles, and a bowl.
“Welcome Baralis,” said the first of the four.
Baralis took a moment to still himself. If he’d had breath he would be breathless. This time he did not make the mistake of shaping himself a form—he would not waste his energy on a trifle to please the priests. “I have come in search of answers.”
“You have come to the right place, but what will you give us in return?”
“Not my soul, if that is what you think.”
“You have no soul, Baralis. You survive on ambition alone.”
Baralis flexed his will and all four candles went out. “I will listen to no condemnation from Larn.”
The eldest of the four spoke quickly. “Say what you want, Baralis.”
They already knew why he’d come, he was sure of it. They just liked to play their games. “The duke’s newly bereaved wife is with child. I need to know if it is a boy or a girl.”
The four were silent for a moment, exchanging whatever secret messages they needed to exchange. After a moment the youngest priest spoke up. “Ill tidings for you, I’d say, Baralis.”
“A boy, then.” It was as direct an answer as he was ever likely to get from Larn. He moved quickly along: it was never wise to give the priests too long to think. “When will Annis and Highwall move against Bren?”
The youngest tut-tutted. “Now, now, Baralis. A favor for a favor first.”
Baralis was prepared for this. If there was one thing Larn was famous for, it was always extracting its price. He spoke slowly, relishing every word. “I know the identity of the one whom you fear.”
No one breathed for the longest moment. Then the eldest whispered, “Go on.”
“A baker’s boy from Castle Harvell is the one who can destroy you. Jack is his name, and he used to be my scribe.”
“Where is he now?” hissed the youngest.
Baralis was beginning to enjoy himself. He wished he had shoulders to shrug. “Somewhere west of Bren—Helch, Annis, who knows?”
“What makes you so sure of what you say?”
“Aah, my friend, do I ask you how the seers spin their tales?” Baralis wasn’t about to tell them of Marod’s prophecy—let them figure that one out on their own. Marod spoke of many things that wer
e no concern of Larn’s.
“And what of the knight who seeks the boy called Jack?”
“I believe he is still in Bren. ’Twould be near impossible for him to smuggle a pregnant woman and her aging father out of the city.” Baralis couldn’t resist a jibe. “But surely you know that already?”
“We cannot force our seers to see.”
“You would if you could.” Baralis changed the timbre of his thoughts. He was tired of trading jibes, and time was running out. “Tell me what you know of Highwall’s plans.”
“Their plans are no longer their own. Their troops will not leave their city until the marriage has taken place.”
“Why will they wait until then?”
“Because the one who pays the piper picks the tune.”
Tavalisk. Rorn’s scheming archbishop was financing the buildup to war. Yet what benefit would he gain by waiting? Baralis felt himself wavering. The blood-pull of his body called him back.
“Going so soon, Baralis?” taunted the youngest.
“A proposition before you do,” said the eldest. “Track down and destroy the knight and the boy, and we will direct your hand in the war.”
The words I agree sounded over half a continent as Baralis succumbed to the cravings of his flesh.
Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle like a dog’s. It was damp and cool with a light breeze blowing, but nothing could explain the sensation he’d just felt. It was as if a dark shadow had passed over him.
Jack pulled his new cloak close. The sky was growing dimmer by the minute. It was dusk, and from where he stood, at the side of the road leading up to the mountains, Jack could see all of Annis below him. He had decided not to return to Stillfox. There was too much risk: the city would be crawling with people looking for him. The road leading to the herbalist’s village was too busy—a hundred people might recognize him. In fact, walking to the city in the first place had been nothing short of foolish. According to Stillfox, his likeness was posted all over Annis.
