The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Jack lost his hold on the basket and the apples went careening to the ground. He’d come to the right place at exactly the right time. Bren had called him for so long, and now that he’d finally arrived it was no coincidence that Kylock, Baralis, and Melli were here, too.

  As if the very city itself were confirming Jack’s thoughts, a hundred separate bells began to chime. Chapels throughout the city were marking the wedding, each one bent on out-pealing the last. High and low they rang out their notes, no two of them ringing in time.

  The wedding feast had been torture to Kylock. Hundreds upon hundreds of people had touched him, holding out hands to be clasped and cheeks to be kissed and cups to be shared in toast. His whole body was tainted with their saliva and their sweat. Minuscule fragments of their skin clung to his sleeves, and his lungs were filled with their breath. He would have liked to burn them all for his suffering.

  But he wouldn’t. Oh no, he played the game, instead. The game of courtly manners, smiling and bowing and gracious to a fault. Promising positions and pensions and elevation to those who counted, whilst barely deigning to acknowledge those who did not.

  Through it all one thought had kept him going: tonight Catherine would be his. Just to look at her calmed him. Her face so pale and serene, her eyes so blue and pure: she was an angel, created for him alone. The only part of his body that was clean were his fingertips, for she had kissed them before they left the hall.

  Up to their chamber they walked, the lamp-holders stepping before them, the court watching quietly from below. Baralis waited at the top of the stairs, his eyes flashing a caution as he bowed his head toward the floor. Kylock paid him no heed. He stretched out his arm and his new wife rested her hand upon it.

  “My lord chancellor,” he said, “you have done your duty well. Your presence is no longer called for this night.” Beside him he felt Catherine shudder, her breast pushing gently against his arm.

  “As you wish, sire,” murmured Baralis as they passed.

  The double doors to the chamber were flung back as they reached the nobles’ quarters, and the heady scent of roses crept forth to meet them. Kylock turned to one of the servants who was holding back the door.

  “Get those flowers out of here. Now!”

  The servant darted forward to do his bidding. Kylock stepped into the room with Catherine. His eyes took in all the details of the chamber. Good. A tub full of scalding water steamed away in the corner. “Draw a screen around the bath,” he commanded to the servant whose arms were now full of roses. The man off-loaded his burden to another and began to pull the screen out from the wall.

  When the screen was in place, Kylock ordered the servants to leave. He and Catherine stood side by side until the double doors closed behind them. Kylock then turned to face his new wife. Catherine was radiant in the firelight: more than an angel now, she was a goddess. Her golden hair glowed like a halo and her skin was as smooth as a statue. She was a holy icon, and it was only fitting that he kneel at her feet.

  Catherine shifted nervously as Kylock stepped forward. Her hand fluttered up to her chest. Looking down at him, she saw to her amazement that he was lifting the hem of her dress. She couldn’t stop herself from shuddering. He was so solemn, so intent—like a man possessed. His neck arched further and he kissed the fabric of her satin bridal shoes. Even through the fabric she could feel the cool touch of his lips.

  Part of her was thrilled by the gesture—here was a king supplicating himself before her—yet part of her knew it was wrong. She felt out of her depth. Kylock was a stranger, an unknown entity who seemed intent on worshiping her. Uneasy, she took a step back.

  Her withdrawal seemed to break the spell. Up came Kylock’s head. His eyes took a moment to focus. There was a trace of spittle on his lips. “My love,” he said, so softly she had to strain to hear him. “I can hardly believe that soon you will be mine.”

  “Why soon?” Catherine said. “Why not take me now?” Reaching back, she pulled at the lacings of her dress. She wanted to be naked before him. She didn’t want to be worshiped, she wanted to be desired.

  Kylock raised up his hand. “Not now, my love. Not like this.” His voice had an edge to it, and Catherine let the laces fall. Satisfied, Kylock continued, “I must ready myself first.” He motioned toward the screen.

  Catherine hid her disappointment. She had hoped Kylock would be like Blayze: unable to resist her. Shrugging her shoulders, she said, “Very well, my lord. As you make ready, so will I.” She turned her back on him and walked over to the dressing table. By the time she had poured herself a cup of wine, he had disappeared behind the screen. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and downed her drink in one.

  Well, it was obvious she was going to have to work a little harder to gain Kylock’s interest. He was no Blayze, that was for sure.

  Catherine cast her gaze upon the mirror. Her own beauty never failed to please her. Slowly, she took the pins from her hair, relishing the fall of every golden lock. Next she turned to her beauty box, dipping two fingers in to scoop up the rouge. She had deliberately not worn any cosmetics in Kylock’s presence, thinking that he would prefer his women unadorned. Now it seemed she would need all the help she could get. She would not have Kylock regarding her as a holy relic to be worshiped. She was a woman with a woman’s needs, and when he emerged from his bath he would see her for what she was.

  During the banquet she had been unable to drink or eat. Her excitement over her wedding night had drawn her stomach to a close. It had been many months since she had been with a man, and she missed the rough-soft excitement of passion. Kylock was darkly handsome with a mouth that was marked by a cruel downward twist and eyes that were deeply set and thickly lidded. Catherine had felt sure he would be aggressive, even rough, in his lovemaking. Now, when they were finally alone, the first thing he wanted to do was take a bath!

  Catherine smiled and poured herself another cup of wine. She would make sure that her feet were the last thing he’d want to kiss when he emerged from behind the screen. She rubbed the rouge into her cheeks and then her lips, turning them from pale pink to bloodred. Once finished she took up her cup. The wine was unwatered and went quickly to her head, making her feel wicked and lustful. For centuries people had said that the women of Bren were like cats in heat, so there was little point in denying it now.

  Rather merrily, Catherine tugged at the strings of her bodice. As the fabric cleaved apart, she turned to the mirror and paused to admire the high curves of her breasts. A flash of inspiration came to her, and she rubbed a spot of rouge into each nipple. Oh, yes, she thought, arching forward to admire her handiwork, Blayze would have loved this!

  What next? Catherine picked up a jar of scented oil and began dabbing behind her ears, at the base of her neck, and anywhere else that she fancied. As she finished her toilette, she listened for telltale signs of readiness from behind the screen. She could hear nothing at first, then her ears picked up the sound of water splashing . . . and something else. She couldn’t tell what. Slipping out of her underskirt and stockings, she walked over to the screen. Without her maiden’s belt she felt strangely light, not herself at all. Early this morning Bailor had passed her the key, and she had now been without the belt all day. Catherine almost missed it: the pressure and the chafing had delivered a subtle pleasure all their own.

  Coming to stand beside the screen, Catherine started to brush a stray hair from her face when she noticed there were still spots of rouge on her fingertips. Naked now, she went to wipe her hands upon a nearby tapestry. At the last moment she stopped herself, a chuckle of delight sounding deep within her throat. Instead of wiping the rouge on the tapestry, she rubbed it into her pubic hair instead. The blond down became a blushing pink. Catherine bit her lip; she wanted to laugh out loud at the sight of it.

  The faint rubbing sound that was coming from behind the screen put a stop to all her delight. There was something unnerving about it: here was a man on his wedding night, with his new br
ide waiting for him, yet he chose to spend their first hour alone together scrubbing himself in a tub. Catherine felt a cold chill skim down her spine: this wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal.

  She crept along the length of the screen until she came to the end. Then slowly she peeked her head around the corner of the screen.

  Steam rose up from water hot enough to scald most people. Kylock sat in the tub with his back toward Catherine. A series of red scratch marks ran from his flank to his waist; some still had flakes of dried blood attached to them. He was bent forward, intent on something set before him—Catherine couldn’t see what. She swung out a little farther. Now she saw what he was doing. He was scrubbing his hands with a small wooden brush. Back and forth the brush went, so quickly it was only a blur.

  Catherine watched for a moment thinking, Surely he will stop before he rubs all the skin from his bone. But he didn’t. He continued scrubbing with a terrible blind purpose. It was as if nothing else mattered.

  Looking up from his hands to the slant of his cheek, Catherine realized that his jaw was moving. She could neither see his lips nor hear the words, but the muscles in his cheek kept working and his jaw jerked up and down.

  Catherine withdrew back behind the screen. She had seen enough. The sight of Kylock muttering to himself while he rubbed his hands raw had changed her mood entirely. There was something very wrong with her new husband: it almost seemed as if he wasn’t quite sane. Catherine shook her head. No. She wouldn’t think such thoughts. After all, only two days back, Kylock had learned of his mother’s death. All of Bren was talking about it.

  By all accounts she had died horribly, at the hand of a Halcus raiding party, raped and dismembered, her body wrapped in an Annis banner. No wonder Kylock was acting strangely: the news must have upset him deeply. In less than a year he had lost both his parents, and Catherine knew just how difficult a loss that was to bear. No. Her new husband wasn’t crazed or demented, he was simply a man who didn’t know how to deal with his grief.

  Having come to this conclusion, Catherine felt a lot better. It was her duty, as a wife, to help her husband through this difficult time. She knew from experience that whenever Blayze was worried about an upcoming fight, or angry with his brother, that nothing took his mind off his troubles more than a night of fiery passion.

  Whilst she was thinking, Catherine had poured herself a third cup of wine. She took a hearty gulp and then called out, “Kylock, my husband, your wife grows weary with the wait.” She listened for a moment, and then heard the sound of water splashing from behind the screen. Her cry had obviously broken his trance.

  Her smile was smug as she glanced one last time toward the mirror: tonight was going to be glorious. In her mind, she was already creating a fantasy where Kylock, weak from many hours of glorious lovemaking, broke down and wept in her arms.

  Passion first, though, grief later. Crossing over to the bed, she blew out the surrounding candles one by one until she was happy with the light. In one hand she held her wine cup, in the other the jar of scented oil. Giggling, she began to sprinkle the oil upon the bed. When that was done to her satisfaction, she finished the last of her wine and slipped gaily between the sheets.

  Encouraging sounds came from behind the screen: sounds of footsteps and drying and dressing.

  Catherine began propping pillows up to support her neck and back. She tried several poses, thrusting out her chest, squaring her shoulders, spreading her hair out like a fan on the pillows. Nothing seemed quite right. She wanted to delight and surprise Kylock when he emerged from his bath. Judging from the increased activity behind the screen, she didn’t have much longer to decide. If only her head was a little clearer; she had drunk too much wine by far, much more than was proper for a lady on her wedding night. Still, it made her feel so delightfully uninhibited.

  Sucking on her thumb, Catherine came up with a plan: she would pose for him under the covers. Above he would simply see her face looking maidenly and modest, whilst below, she would be spread-eagled and waiting. It was perfect!

  Smiling, Catherine adjusted the covers and then waited, a little impatiently, for Kylock to appear.

  Kylock was not as clean as he would have liked to be for Catherine. Even now, with his mother new in the grave, he still couldn’t rid himself of the stench of her. She clung to him from whatever hell she had been damned to: the smell, the taint, the sin. Queen Arinalda was a whore who had died a whore’s death, and he would not allow himself to be dragged down with her. Tonight he would finally be rid of her—death alone was not nearly enough. He needed to be embraced by Catherine’s purity to banish the last traces of his mother’s lust.

  He was a bastard, and that could never be changed, but his union with Catherine would give him his own private legitimacy. He would be born anew in the sanctity of her womb.

  Eager now, Kylock ran the cloth over his hair, rubbing out the last of the wetness. On his instructions, a clean robe had been laid out in the corner over a chair. He ran the fabric between his scalded fingers. Good, it was silk.

  In less than a minute he was ready to face his new wife. He was anxious, excited, his breath coming light and fast. Stepping out from behind the screen, he looked around the room. Everything had changed: the light was dimmer, more intimate, the cloying smell of perfume filled the air, and Catherine was no longer standing. She was already in bed, waiting for him.

  She smiled as he approached. “Today you laid Halcus at my feet, my lord, and I haven’t yet repaid you.”

  Kylock started to return the smile, then he noticed that Catherine herself had changed: her lips and cheeks were painted red. Whore’s red. He felt a tiny muscle beginning to pump at his temple’s edge. In all his dreams of rebirth Catherine had never looked like this. He took a step closer. The smell of perfume grew stronger, and underneath it was another smell: the smell of wine. The place stank like a brothel. Slowly, Kylock began to shake his head. This was not right.

  Catherine smiled up at him, as brazen as a tavern wench. “Come now, husband,” she said. “Your wife is waiting to pleasure you.”

  The candles cast their light on Kylock’s back, sending his shadow out before him. Catherine fell under it as he walked toward the bed.

  Throwing the covers from her body, she whispered, “I am ready, my lord. Take me now.”

  Kylock looked down upon his bride. She lay open-legged upon the bed, her back arching upwards, her hips thrust toward him.

  The world began to dim for Kylock. The pressure point on his temple stretched across his forehead, becoming a tight band of pain. His vision blurred. His breathing stopped. His body became as rigid as a board. Terrible pressure built within his skull: something was pressing against his brain.

  Catherine paled. She said, “My lord, what is wrong?”

  Kylock’s stomach churned bile into his throat. He gazed upon Catherine’s naked body. The nipples were grotesquely bright, redder even than her lips.

  He took a deep breath. “No,” he murmured. “No.”

  And then he saw her sex. It was smeared with the same foul redness. She had prepared herself like a trollop. She was no blushing, inexperienced maiden. She was a craven, licentious whore.

  Just like his mother.

  Kylock snapped. His tenuous link with sanity was severed in an instant. Catherine screamed. He punched her in the mouth to quiet her. Her head went reeling back into the pillows. Kylock sprang onto the bed. Everything smelled of her: the awful cloying stench of decay. He had to be rid of it. Catherine reached up with her hand, raking her nails across his cheek. Dark, terrible anger rose within Kylock, and he took Catherine’s neck in his hand. Blood ran from her nose. It was the same color as her lips, her nipples, her sex.

  He slammed her neck back against the headboard. Something cracked. Catherine’s body stiffened for an instant and then slumped back against the sheets. Kylock dropped his hold and her head fell against the pillow at an unnatural angle. There was blood on the headboard, and blood seeping o
n either side of the pillow.

  The pressure in Kylock’s head was too much for him to bear. He felt a sickening contraction in his stomach. His bride lay still beneath him. “No!” he screamed. And as the word left his lips something real and metal to the taste came with it.

  Baralis was in his chambers when he felt it. He was massaging oil into his hands when he felt a wave of warm air that stopped him dead. Sorcery! Here, within the palace. He shot from his chair. Every hair on his body prickled a warning, all his senses were intent upon perceiving the source. The salty glaze upon his eyes evaporated in an instant, causing him to blink repeatedly to water them once more. His tongue rested in the base of his mouth, and as he inhaled he drew in the aftertaste of the force. It was known and yet unknown to him. Familiar to a point and then entirely alien.

  It was something new. Something dangerous. And it made Baralis afraid.

  “Crope,” he called. “Crope!”

  As he waited for his servant to appear, Baralis paced around the room, a hound on the scent. The waves were coming from the east of him—that meant the nobles’ quarters . . . “Borc, no,” he whispered under his breath. It meant Catherine’s chamber, as well.

  Crope entered the room. “Come with me,” Baralis ordered, making his way to the door. A cold feeling of dread settled within his stomach. There was no time to lose; he had to know what had happened. Down corridors he sped, robe flapping behind him, Crope padding at his heels. The waves of the drawing grew stronger with every step. They led him straight to Catherine’s door. The two guards who watched the hallway crossed their spears as Baralis approached.

  Baralis had no time to deal with them. He shaped a compulsion, part soporific, part delusion. A deep instinct within warned him not to use too much of himself. Borc only knew what he might find behind the door. The faces of both guards slackened, muscles falling limp. Crope came forward, grabbed both guards, and guided them toward the floor. Baralis nodded to him. “Good.” The huge servant came and stood by his side, and together they stepped toward the doorway.