by J. V. Jones
Once, during the day, Tawl caught sight of Valdis’ banner in the distance. The yellow-and-black flag was at the head of a large company of knights. Tawl couldn’t make out too much detail, but he caught the flash of their steel armor and watched the dust rise as they passed.
The knights were not the only fighting men on the move. As they drew nearer to the city, the roads became blocked with troops wearing the blackened helms of Bren, soldiers dressed in the blue and the gold of the kingdoms, mercenaries with no colors to boast of, and peasants brandishing pitchforks and scythes.
As the day wore on and the hard facts of war pushed close in all directions, Tawl knew in his heart that he had made the right decision. His duty was to put an end to this. Oh, right now everyone was happy and festive, confident, excited, ready to do battle. But all that would change over the next few weeks. The scream of the siege engines and the blast of artillery would haunt every waking moment. Many would see their loved ones die, their sons maimed, their fathers bleeding to death for want of a surgeon, and their brothers scarred for life. Eventually people would begin to feel trapped inside the city as the streets and the lake began to stink of the dead. And if the siege went on long enough, starvation and disease would take more lives than a whole year’s worth of fighting.
And this one great city was just the start.
Baralis and Kylock would not stop at Bren. If they foiled the siege and routed the Highwall army, they would send their troops out and chase them back across the mountains. They would take Highwall, take Annis, and then they would turn their gaze to the south.
They had to be stopped. Larn had to be destroyed. The boy must be found.
Approaching the city walls, Tawl and Nabber bypassed a near-riot at the gate, as it had just been closed for the night and the gatekeepers could offer no guarantee that it would open again in the morning. Tawl looked at the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people waiting for entry: two-thirds of them were men wanting a fight. Baralis would let them in.
He and Nabber skirted the angry mob and made their way down into the drain channels. A few stragglers and beggars had made the drains their home, sleeping on their bundles, blankets pulled close, eyes carefully down as the two strangers passed. Tawl let Nabber lead the way. The boy waded down tunnels knee-deep in water, shuffled along ledges meant only for rats, and crawled into openings that were too dark to see. Tawl found it hard to keep up with him. Eventually, a glimmer of pale moonlight came into view ahead. It was the sluice gate.
Someone had gone to great trouble to fit it firmly in place. Tawl and Nabber went to work to loosen it. Half an hour later, they had worn away enough stone to free the metal grid from its hold.
Wet and exhausted, Tawl pulled himself out from the ditch. Spinning around, he offered a hand to Nabber. The boy grinned as he was hauled up. “We made it again, Tawl.”
“No one knows the back ways like you do, Nabber.” Tawl looked around. The street was a quiet one: no shops, taverns, or brothels to attract people into walking its length. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to Melli.”
Tawl’s heart soared as he made his way to the townhouse. He had so much he wanted to say to Melli, so much to share and explain. Yet more than anything else he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her. She was everything to him, and before he left the city to renew his quest, he would make sure the words were said.
As soon as they turned toward the square, Tawl knew there was something wrong. The house was dark. He raced across the square. The door had been kicked in. The hallway was destroyed. Tawl took the stairs four at a time. Melli’s clothes were gone. The room had been turned upside down. Frantic, Tawl searched amongst the wreckage. Where was she? What had happened to her? Why in Borc’s name had he left her alone?
“Tawl.” It was Nabber, standing in the doorway. “I think they got away.”
“Why?” Tawl was a madman desperate for meaning. He had to stop himself from shaking the answers out of Nabber. “What makes you say that?”
“There’s blood in the hallway, but there’s also blood outside the kitchen door. It looks like someone escaped.”
Tawl tried to calm himself. He grasped onto the possibility that Melli might be safe—it was the only way to keep his sanity. Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind to focus on what he could do to find her. “Where would they go?”
“I think Cravin’s got other places in the city.”
“Do you know where they are?”
Nabber began to shuffle his feet.
Tawl knew the pocket didn’t like being caught short of answers, so he spoke quickly to cover the silence. “Well, in that case we have to find Cravin himself.”
“He’ll most probably be at court at the moment,” said Nabber, visibly relieved at being able to contribute something useful, “what with the war and everything. That Lord Cravin strikes me as the sort who doesn’t like to be left out of the reckoning.”
Tawl nodded; Nabber was right. “You know a way into the palace. Go and find him, and demand to know what’s happened.” Tawl’s thoughts raced ahead. Cravin would be in a delicate position right now: Baralis may have discovered who owned the townhouse. “If he doesn’t appear talkative, threaten to tell the whole city that we used his house with his permission.” The way things were in the city at the moment it would mean a hanging, at least. “Have you got that?”
Nabber was all business. He nodded. “Anything else?”
“Find out the names and addresses of every building he owns in the city. And then meet me back here. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“It could take me a good many hours, Tawl. It’s quite tricky traveling around the palace when you don’t know where you’re going.”
Tawl didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come with you.”
“No. You’d only slow me down.” Nabber’s voice was surprisingly firm. “Besides, walking through the streets with the most wanted man in Bren on my arm is not my idea of keeping a low profile. No offense, mind.”
“None taken,” murmured Tawl. He stretched out his arm and touched Nabber on the cheek. He didn’t want to let the boy go, but it seemed he had no choice. Quickly he tried to find words that spoke of caution and love. When nothing seemed right, he said, “Whatever you do, Nabber, keep yourself safe.”
Nabber snorted. “That’s like telling a bear to eat honey. Don’t worry about me, Tawl, I’ll be back before you know it.” With that he was gone, running down the stairs and into the night.
A distant bell tolled out two hours past midnight. Two long sleepless hours for Jack. He couldn’t stop worrying—about Grift, about Melli, about the safeness of the wine cellar. A slim wooden bar, held most precariously in place, was all that stopped those outside from coming in. First thing tomorrow he would make it more secure. Second thing was to find a physician for Grift. Jack couldn’t stand by and watch the man slowly ebb away. He needed attention, and although getting help was a risk, both he and Melli agreed it was one they had to take.
Jack shifted his position on the pallet. With only a blanket between him and the wood, it was highly unlikely that he would get a good night’s rest. Not to mention the rats. Jack hated rats. Ever since Master Frallit had insisted on sending him to the granary the first day he came to work as an apprentice, he had disliked the fat, yet skinny-limbed, rodents. Even now, eight years on, Jack lay on his wooden pallet, intent on keeping his fingers and toes from hanging over the sides, in case the rats decided to chew on them.
The night was filled with noises. The rats scraped and scurried, the timbers creaked as they cooled, and thunder rolled in the distance, gathering momentum for a late summer storm.
Then came another noise. It sounded overhead. Footsteps. Jack felt the hair on his arms prickle a warning. He jumped up from the pallet, fumbling around for his knife. Silence. He moved toward the trapdoor. It was so dark he could barely make out the square outline above him. Footsteps again, this time directly over the door. Jack was scared. Hi
s heart pumped wildly as he drew his knife to his chest.
Suddenly there was a loud cracking noise. Wood splintered. The holding beam loosened. The trapdoor caved in, and a man jumped down into the cellar. He called something out, but the noise of the beam crashing to the floor drowned out the meaning of his words.
Jack sprang forward. The man was nothing but a dark silhouette. Jack felt his knife slice into the soft flesh of the man’s outer arm. Then a fist smashed into his stomach. He went reeling backward, falling against the crates he’d moved earlier. Even before he caught his breath, his attacker was on him again. Jack saw the glint of his teeth. The man’s free arm caught his wrist. His grip was like steel, and his fingers pushed for the bone.
Jack couldn’t take the pain any longer. At the same time he dropped his knife, he brought up his knees and smashed them into the man’s chest. His attacker wavered backward, but did not fall. Jack inhaled sharply. Any other man would have gone down.
With knife gone, Jack tried to back away to give himself time and space. He sprung to the side, arms ahead of him searching for something, anything, to put between him and the dark shadow that was his attacker. Jack’s palm brushed against a wine barrel—only half full, thanks to Maybor—and hauling it up, he flung it in the man’s direction. He heard it crash against the cobbles, but it was too dark to see where it landed.
Just as he put his arm out to feel for a second barrel, something sharp jabbed against his forehead. He lost his footing and fell against the wall. Warm blood trickled down his cheek. Then a blade pressed against his throat.
“Stop!”
Light filled the room. Melli came rushing forward.
Jack looked into the face of his attacker. Blue eyes, golden hair: it was the man he’d helped escape. Before either of them could take a breath, a drop of Jack’s blood dripped from his chin onto the man’s bare arm. It landed directly on the gash that Jack had opened only seconds before.
The two bloods met. There was a perceptible hiss, like a candle snuffed out by hand.
Both men were locked together. Neither moved. Neither breathed. Their bodies were as stiff as statues.
Lightning flashed, forking straight down the space where the trapdoor had been. Thunder rolled after it and the whole building shook, and by the time the cellar was still once more, the whole nature of the night had changed.
Still Jack stared into the blue eyes of the stranger. He knew this man. He had seen him in his dreams.
The man’s eyes were all the colors that blue could ever be. Deep with unreadable emotions, light with unquestionable faith. In a movement so fast that Jack could not follow it, the man withdrew his blade from Jack’s throat. Bringing up his bloody arm, he pressed it against the gash on Jack’s forehead.
Jack felt his whole body respond. His own blood seemed to pull upward toward the stranger’s. He felt a rushing sound in his ears. A film of clouded matter seemed to fall from his eyes and his memories, leaving sharpness and clarity behind. Every dream, every thought, every hope he’d ever had crystallized in an instant, and something new was born.
His heart beat in time with the stranger’s. They fell into a world where only they existed: the wine cellar, the trapdoor, Melli and her lantern were so many shadows cast upon them. The space between them was charged with energy, it crackled with every intake of breath.
Still the stranger looked at him. His gaze did not waver.
Jack felt his body being renewed. Skin, membranes, senses were changing, reshaping, making themselves anew. Hours passed in the space of seconds. A lifetime of memories were relived in one blink of the stranger’s eye. Jack remembered his mother as she had been before her illness: beautiful, clever, fingernails caked with soot. He remembered Baralis probing his mind, searching for answers that he’d very nearly found. He saw Kylock as a young boy, slamming a sack containing two kittens against the study wall. He traveled back to the hunting lodge and spied the old crusty book lying at the bottom of a chest, and when he took it in his hands, the letter from the king fluttered to the floor once more. He recalled Falk’s words, “Don’t be bitter, Jack,” and he heard Tarissa say, “I love you.”
Just as quickly, everything passed, and he and the golden-haired stranger were alone in the present.
“You are the one I’ve searched for,” Tawl said.
“Yes,” replied Jack. “I know.”
And as he spoke, the glass cocoon surrounding them shattered, sending out sharp-edged splinters to puncture the night.
Baralis awoke with a start. His heart had missed two beats. The darkness disorientated him and his dreams lingered on past his waking. For the first time in years he knew what it was to be completely afraid. Something was out there. Something that could destroy him.
His hands shook as he felt for flint and tallow. The spark was slow in coming, and the flame it produced was strangely subdued. The air it burnt in had changed imperceptibly. It was thinner, it tasted bitter, and something akin to sorcery, but not quite sorcery, hung upon it like smoke.
Perhaps, if he hadn’t felt something very similar only the day before, he might not have recognized it. But he had, and he did, so he well knew who was responsible for the change in the very fabric of the night. It was Jack, the baker’s boy.
Yesterday morning at dawn, a drawing had taken place at a house in the south of the city. Baralis knew of it before the reports came in, and at once he recognized the aftermath. His former scribe had helped Melliandra escape from his clutches. The drawing was almost an exact copy of one that had happened nearly a year earlier now, just outside a disused hunting lodge in the heart of Harvell forest. Almost, but not quite. The result was the same—a blast of thickened air—but the technique was subtly different. It was more sophisticated, more controlled, designed from start to finish. The first drawing had been the work of a dangerous amateur. The second was the work of someone who had been taught how to wield power properly. Still a little unsure of himself, still lacking in timing and subtlety, but a definite improvement nonetheless.
And now, a day later, this had happened.
Baralis reached for a package of his pain-killing drug. He emptied the powder on his tongue, swallowing it dry.
Truth be known, he didn’t really know what had happened. It wasn’t sorcery, it wasn’t foretelling; it was something minutely different from both, but infinitely more dangerous than either.
Baralis stretched his mind to encompass all possibilities. What did he know about Jack? Larn had told him the knight was searching for a boy. He knew in his soul that the boy was none other than Jack, apprentice baker and blind scribe. Yesterday had proven that Jack had somehow caught up with Melliandra. . . . Baralis curled his hands into fists—that was it! Melliandra was the link. First protected by the knight, now protected by Jack.
What if the knight had stolen back into the city? What if the two had met, here, tonight?
Baralis’ thoughts raced on unchecked. And if they had met, then Marod’s prophecy was one step closer to coming to pass. The northern empire, his empire—first dreamt of, then forged by him alone—was in danger. Indeed, the very fact that both Jack and the knight had aligned themselves with Melliandra and, presumably, the claim of her unborn child, showed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the two men were meant to oppose him.
And Larn. They were also meant to oppose Larn. The powers that be on the island already knew it. The seers were probably babbling on about it even now.
Leaning back amongst his pillows, Baralis relaxed, letting the painkiller run its course. He noticed the candle began to burn more brightly.
Larn would help him track and kill the two—they had as much interest in destroying Jack and the knight as he. Yet destroying only two of them was not enough: Melliandra had to be killed, as well. Only then would the future empire be safe.
Feeling calmer, Baralis began to drift off into a light sleep. Tomorrow he would journey to Larn.
Tawl stepped forward and clasped the hand of the boy he
’d been searching for. No, no longer a boy. A man. Tall, well-built, with sensitive hazel eyes and chestnut hair that fell in a mane down his back.
His grip was as firm as his gaze.
Tawl felt as if the earth had changed beneath his feet and the air that he breathed was somehow thicker and sweeter. Emotions crowded upon him, then dispersed leaving nothing at all. By turns he was elated, confused, frightened, content, then drained.
He and the boy had been transformed. They both felt it. Their bloods had met and mingled, and the bond that was forged had changed everything. Six years ago, Bevlin said, “You will know him when you find him.” The wiseman had been right. When the boy’s blood dripped into his, it had been like a message from God. Something holy, a communion, passed between them and now they were forever linked in purpose.
And to think, seconds earlier, he had nearly killed him.
Just over an hour ago, Nabber had returned from the palace. He had talked with Cravin, been forced to resort to threats, and had eventually gotten the man to confirm that Melli and her party had managed to escape the search party. Cravin went on to admit that he had two more places in the city, which he had mentioned to Maybor last time they met. The first was a disused stables situated close to the east wall, and the second was a wine cellar that lay underneath a butcher’s courtyard. Tawl had sent Nabber to check out the stables, while he saw to the wine cellar himself.
Finding the trapdoor barred, he had simply smashed it in, using a nearby butcher’s block to break it. When he jumped down into the cellar and found himself in the pitch-black, being jumped by a stranger, he’d had no choice but to defend himself. He had been surprised by the strength and quickness of his opponent, but Tawl had yet to meet the man who could beat him one-on-one.
