The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Tyren’s after gold as well as converts, Gamil.”

  “That may be true, Your Eminence. But Tyren has to make out he’s only after converts, or the knighthood wouldn’t stand behind him. The knights can’t kill men for personal gain, it’s against their deepest beliefs.”

  “Beliefs take second place to loyalty in the knighthood,” snapped Tavalisk. “Absolute obedience to one’s leader is the founding tenet of Valdis. The knights will do anything Tyren wants—including murder or torture—they have to. They have sworn an oath of loyalty. Oh, some knights may be stupid, and others may be rogues, but for the most part it’s blind, unquestioning faith that enables Tyren to get his way. Tyren knows this, of course, and uses it to his advantage at every turn.” The archbishop eyed Gamil sharply. “Tyren is one man who can count on the dedication and discretion of his underlings.”

  Gamil coughed nervously.

  Normally Tavalisk would feel pleased at delivering such a thinly veiled insult, but he was too worried to enjoy the embarrassed flush that rose up Gamil’s neck. Baralis’ decision to let Tyren have free reign over Helch troubled the archbishop. He could see why the man had done it: he had more pressing trouble in Annis and Bren, and he lacked the manpower to deal with all three cities, so he left the one he’d successfully conquered in the hands of someone who could manage it for him. Obviously Baralis wasn’t fussy about who his bedfellows were.

  Or did he have a choice? “Gamil, have you any reports about knights heading north toward Bren?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. There are reports of knights leaving Valdis every week now. All fully-armed and heading for Bren.”

  Then Baralis had given Tyren Helch in return for the knights’ support in the siege. Having discovered the truth behind the strange relationship, Tavalisk began to feel a lot better: he hated things he couldn’t understand. But the concept of tit for tat was one he was very familiar with.

  Now he only had one thing to worry about: why was the main part of Kylock’s army heading for Annis, when it was so obviously needed in Bren?

  “So the wiseman Bevlin is dead now?”

  Tawl bowed his head. “Yes.” He intended to say no more, but Bevlin’s letter had changed things. Freed him—not from guilt, but from blame. “He died by my own hand. I held the blade, Larn directed my actions.”

  Behind him, Tawl heard Melli take a quick breath. There was silence for a minute, perhaps longer.

  Jack looked at him during the silence, his gaze never faltering. Finally he said, “So now we are on our own.”

  Once again Tawl was surprised by Jack. All morning he and Jack had talked, yet still he couldn’t take the boy’s measure. One minute he would be mature, grave, even, like now. The next he would be full of wonder, excited, and sometimes naïve. But then he was just a boy, after all—nineteen, no more—so what did Tawl expect?

  Slowly, through tales told and experiences exchanged, they were coming to know each other. Tawl had just finished his story. He told Jack about how, nearly six years ago now, Bevlin had sent him to look for a boy out of a prophecy. He went on to tell him the prophecy, and Bevlin’s interpretation of it. He told him about Larn, and why the island had to be destroyed.

  Jack surprised him for the first time by telling Tawl that he had heard of Larn. He recounted a story of his own, one told by a man named Stillfox, which involved a girl born on the isle. Tawl was pleased that the boy had knowledge of Larn: just like the fact that they both knew Melli independently of each other, it drew the circle closer.

  The most difficult part for Jack was revealing his own story. There was no mistaking his reluctance when he finally admitted he could use sorcery. He told how he was forced to leave Castle Harvell, how he met up with Melli and they were both captured by Baralis. How they escaped, and how, during the cold Halcus winter, they had been separated. He skipped over the following months, murmuring that he was taken in by a Halcus family. From the look on the boy’s face when he spoke, Tawl guessed there was more to the tale. He didn’t press Jack for details, though, remembering Bevlin’s words: “There is much in all of us that bears no questioning.”

  The wiseman had been wise in so many different ways.

  Jack went on to tell how he was taken in by a sorcerer in Annis and was learning how to curb his powers, when he heard that Melli was in danger in Bren.

  Lastly, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke about his feelings toward Kylock. “I feel we are connected in some way,” he said. “Whenever I hear his name, something pulls against my blood. All along I felt as if I had to head to Bren, yet it seems only right that I didn’t arrive until Kylock was here, too.”

  Tawl had nodded. The picture grew clearer with every word Jack said. Their lives were laced with connections: Melli, Baralis, Larn, Bren, and Kylock. Even Bodger and Grift. Hundreds of leagues apart they had been, yet they drew closer with every breath.

  All through the telling, Melli had sat quietly on a pallet. Sometimes Nabber was there, sometimes not. Bodger was in the small cellar watching over Grift, who was still sleeping, and Maybor, despite everyone’s protests, had gone out.

  Now there were only three of them: it was time to talk of tomorrow. Tawl felt a light pressure on his shoulder. Melli’s hand brushed against his cheek.

  “You two must leave,” she said softly, relieving Tawl of the burden of saying it himself. “Highwall’s armies are due here any day now, and once they arrive it will be difficult to escape from the city.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the strain from her voice. “Besides, with a full-blown siege to attend to, Baralis’ attentions will be diverted elsewhere. He won’t have time to search for me.”

  Tawl almost believed her. But he knew Baralis: give him a thousand diversions and he would still track Melli down. “We will leave tomorrow.” As he spoke, he raised his hand and linked fingers with Melli. He never missed an opportunity to touch her. “Time is running out. Already it might be too late. Kylock is getting more powerful by the day; he has the Four Kingdoms, Bren, and Halcus in his pocket. Annis may be next.” Tawl shook his head. “If you and your baby are ever to be safe, Kylock and Baralis must be stopped.”

  “I know,” said Melli. “I want you to go.” She withdrew her hand, bringing it to rest on her belly. “I am carrying the only living heir to Bren. And it is your duty, Tawl, to see that the baby takes its rightful place.” Her words were formal, prepared. While he and Jack had been talking, she had obviously been planning this. Tawl was touched by her bravery. Even now, when she had the most to lose, she was making it easy for him to go.

  “How far is Larn?” asked Jack.

  “A few weeks away.” It was much more than that, but Tawl wished so hard it was less that it didn’t feel like a lie.

  “We’ll need supplies and horses.”

  “We’ll get them once we’re clear of the city.” Tawl looked quickly to Melli, unsure of how she would take such talk. He should not have doubted her strength, for straightaway she said:

  “Nabber should have enough cash on him to purchase a battleship.”

  “Nabber will stay with you,” Tawl replied.

  Melli shook her head. “No. The boy is lost without you, Tawl. He’ll just moon around until you get back. Let him go with you.” There was fierce determination in her deep blue eyes.

  And no end of steel in her soul. “Very well,” he said. “Nabber will come with us. Now, you must promise me something.” He didn’t wait for her assent. “Bodger knows the secret way out of the city. When the Highwall army has settled in, I want you to send Bodger with a message, telling them who you are, whose baby you are carrying, and requesting safe haven. If they agree, I want you to leave the city straightaway and make for the Highwall camp.” Tawl looked Melli directly in the eyes. “Unless you promise me this, I will not leave your side.”

  Melli nodded once. “Better the enemy than Baralis,” she said, echoing Tawl’s thoughts exactly.

  “Highwall isn’t the enemy,” said Jack. Tawl and
Melli both looked at him. “They don’t want Bren for themselves, they just want to send Kylock cowering back to the kingdoms. If Melli comes to them carrying Bren’s heir, then they’ll welcome her with open arms. Even if they conquer the city, they know they can never rule it. They’ll just be creating another empire. Putting Melli’s child in its rightful place will be the only way to stabilize the north once Kylock has been beaten. Bren must have a strong, unchallenged leadership if the north is ever to know peace.”

  Tawl and Melli exchanged glances. What Jack said was absolutely true: the northern allies did need Melli. Tawl began to feel more hopeful. Melli could easily slip under the wall and into the enemy camp. “I didn’t realize you were a politician, Jack,” he said.

  “Neither did I.”

  All three of them laughed—their first that day.

  Three sharp raps sounded on the trapdoor. “Let me in,” came Maybor’s voice. “It’s as wet as a middens after a banquet out here.”

  Jack scooted up and drew back the door brace. Maybor made a dignified entrance into the cellar, lowering himself like an avenging angel into hell.

  “Highwall’s army has just been spotted on the rise,” he said. “The war begins today.”

  The rain stopped only when the night came. It had poured heavily all day, cleaning the slate before the start of war.

  Baralis stood in a protected alcove high atop the duke’s palace and looked south toward the rapidly growing encampment of the enemy. A thousand campfires flickered in the darkness, each one marking a small part of the whole.

  Tents and siege engines were being erected in the lee of the hill. Now, since the rain had stopped, Baralis could hear the sound of timber being sawn and bolts being hammered. The rise served to conceal their activities well, but Baralis could guess what constructions they were preparing: battering rams with roofs of hardened leather to protect troops from hot oil and fire; assault towers borne on rollers, built to match the exact height of Bren’s own walls; timber galleries with iron roofs, beneath which teams of miners would begin digging tunnels under the wall. Other items such as trebuchets, catapults, and scaling ladders would be already built, brought whole and in working order across the mountains.

  Baralis knew all this, but he was not afraid. The duke of Bren had spent a lifetime fortifying the city and the palace in countless minute and unassuming ways. The crenelations were shuttered with iron, not wood. The curtain wall was now the thickest in the north, two horses in width and splayed at the base to send dropped missiles ricocheting into the enemy. Even the gatetowers had been built anew, accommodating all the latest designs in portcullises, together with much-needed additional height. A heavy stone dropped from Bren’s gatehouse would hit the ground with enough force to smash a battering ram.

  The newly deceased duke had made so many modifications that Baralis had lost count of them.

  At the very worst, if Highwall did succeed in breaching both the curtain wall and the inner wall, the palace would be secure. For, despite its dainty name, the duke’s palace was the best protected fortress in the Known Lands. None could match its rounded towers, or its intricate network of portcullises, traps, and murder holes. Even its position, perched high above the Great Lake, was second to none. The only viable approach was to the south.

  Yes, thought Baralis, bringing a crooked finger to rest against the stone, even if the city of Bren did fall, it would take an act of God to break the palace.

  Food would be the biggest problem of the siege. This past week people had been flooding into the city. Farmers and freeholders brought their own grain and livestock with them, but mercenaries and opportunists traveled light. At the moment the city was well stocked with provisions, however after weeks, perhaps months, of being held captive things would begin to look very different. With no way to get supplies into the city, the bloated populace would start eating whatever they could lay their hands on: dogs, horses, rats.

  Baralis shrugged. Even then, starvation wasn’t really a worry. Hunger made men desperate, and desperate men won wars.

  Withdrawing from the battlements, Baralis didn’t pause to look back. Highwall’s campsites didn’t frighten him, but a certain baker’s boy from Castle Harvell did. It was time to journey to Larn. Today an army had arrived. Last night an adversary had been born.

  Swiftly, he traveled downward. He could always find his way in the dark. Shadowed walkways were his mistresses and unlit stairwells were his friends. Dusky corridors, galleries, and hallways ushered him through the night, and before he knew it the very palace itself had seduced him back to his chambers.

  Crope was waiting, crucible in hand, fire stoked up to a blaze. He drew chair to hearth and brought silk slippers to replace leather long gone damp. Master and servant had known each other for over twenty-five years, and at times such as this there was little need of words.

  Baralis slumped in his chair. He made the exact same incision, on the exact same spot, that he had done so many times before. The skin was thickened by constant scarring, but blood came quickly to the surface nonetheless.

  The potion’s vapors propelled him upward and his willpower pushed him ahead.

  Tonight the journey was not an easy one. The overworld was troubled by unfamiliar currents. Distortions pulled at what little there was of him, spiraling him upward to meet the cold glitter of the stars. He had to fight it all the way. By he time he arrived at Larn he was weary to the very bones he’d left behind.

  The four waited. They always did.

  Baralis had neither time nor energy to mince words with Larn tonight. “I believe the knight has found the one he seeks. A boy named Jack—my former scribe. He has great powers at his disposal, and if Marod’s prophecy is to be believed, he will soon come here to destroy you.” Despite his fatigue, Baralis found much to relish in this statement. It was pleasing to see the four visibly distressed.

  A discreet inner dialogue passed between them. Finally the youngest shaped his thoughts to words. “Are you sure?”

  Baralis snapped back, “I am not a servant to be questioned.”

  “What do you want of us?” It was the eldest now, speaking to calm.

  In no mood to be calmed, Baralis carried on. “I want your help in tracking the boy down.” He thought a moment, then added, “And I want you to fulfill your promise about the war. You said you would help Bren’s cause. What aid can you give?”

  “We will set our seers to work on the boy,” said the eldest, his voice edged with reprimand. “And as for the war, Baralis, your memory is woefully short. Last time we met, did we not tell you that Highwall wouldn’t attack until after the wedding?”

  “One prophecy does not a transaction make.”

  “We give you information as we receive it ourselves. For now I can tell you that Annis will not fall under Kylock’s first siege, and that Highwall’s army is planning to dig a mine beneath the northeast wall directly towards the palace. They will break ground tomorrow.”

  At last something specific he could use! Nothing was as dangerous in a siege as a well-constructed mine. Once dug, then set alight, it could collapse entire buildings. Baralis was well pleased. No one could have guessed that Highwall would try and mine straight for the palace. “Anything else?”

  The eldest spoke in thoughts, not words, but even so he managed a fair copy of an indignant snort. “You would have the blood of our seers if you could. There is no more. Be content with what you have.” The eldest was about to speak further when he was distracted by another of the four. They exchanged their secrets, and then the eldest continued. “Today one of our seers spoke of the girl, Melliandra. Soon she will be yours.” The elder lowered his tone. “Is that enough for you, Baralis?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Then leave us. I will contact you when we know more about the boy named Jack.”

  Baralis didn’t care to be dismissed like a disobedient squire, but he let the matter drop. He’d just heard that the one thing he wanted most would soon be his. S
peeding back to his body, leaving no farewells in his wake, Baralis risked a glance toward the heavens: the broad arc of the firmament had never seemed more like a crown.

  Eleven

  No, Nabber. Keep some for the journey.” Melli pushed Nabber’s sack back toward him. “I can’t take it all.” She turned away quickly, glad of the darkness of the cellar. No one would see her eyes heavy with tears.

  Everyone was being so kind, so thoughtful. Jack and Tawl were speaking in hushed voices, pausing every now and then to squeeze her hand and ask if she would be all right. She felt like she was at a funeral. And it seemed suspiciously like her own.

  It was early morning. As yet there was no light coming in from the cracks around the trapdoor, but there were plenty of unsettling sounds. Sounds of battle. The first missiles were being flung against the south wall. The blasts were jarring, fierce; from time to time the entire cellar rattled and creaked. Melli’s nerves were on edge. She wanted Jack and Tawl to go, to leave right now, so that she could compose herself and find some peace. The noise of battle she could bear, but the terrible guilt-laden atmosphere created by the three who were leaving was more than she could stand.

  In the shadows, she wiped her eyes. Turning around, she said to Tawl, “Look, you really should go now. You’ve already left it far too late as it is. First light is less than an hour away. Come, get your things together.” She knew she sounded angry, but the anger in her voice was the only thing that stopped it from breaking.

  Tawl looked at her gently.

  Melli couldn’t bear it. “Tawl, I am neither an invalid nor a holy relic. Please ease my mind by leaving now.” Tears welled bright despite herself. Once again she turned to the shadows.

  Tawl was one step behind her. This time he didn’t take her hand. This time he kissed her lips, instead. It was no holy kiss, no invalid’s kiss. It was a kiss between lovers—their very first—and it was passion, not concern, that parted lips. Tawl’s arms came up around her shoulders and he held her very tight. Too soon he pulled away. Cradling her chin in his large and capable hands, he said, “Swear to me that you will be here when I return.”