by J. V. Jones
She looked into his eyes and said nothing.
“Swear it.”
Never had she seen him like this. His whole body was shaking. His grip bit into her chin. The look on his face was almost frightening. Melli realized he needed her to say the words.
“I swear it,” she said. And as she spoke, Melli knew she meant it—she would keep herself safe until he returned, no matter what it took.
Hearing her words, Tawl visibly relaxed. He let her go.
“Tawl, are you ready?” It was Nabber, coming up from behind. “Dawn’s just around the corner, and we have to slip out of the city before it gets light.”
Tawl gave Melli one final, searching look and then turned away. Grabbing hold of his pack, he said, “I’m ready, Nabber. What about you, Jack?”
Jack hadn’t said much since they’d been woken two hours earlier by Highwall’s predawn attack. In fact, he hadn’t said much yesterday, either, and last night, when everyone else tapped into a barrel and turned the eve of their parting into a festive affair, Jack had drunk the least and was the first to go to his bed.
Melli came over and stood beside him. He must be in turmoil, she thought. Yesterday he learnt that he alone could put an end to the empire that Kylock and Baralis were creating. Melli couldn’t begin to imagine what such a responsibility would feel like. She chided herself for indulging in self-pity when others, most particularly the man before her, had much more to bear than she. All she had to do was keep herself safe and give birth to a healthy baby. Jack had to end a war.
“It hardly seems like we’ve only been together three days,” she said, smiling gently.
He nodded. “Better three than none.” He caught and held her gaze, and they both knew there was nothing more to say.
Nabber coughed tactfully. “Here you go, Melli,” he said, offering her his newly lightened sack. “Kept a little back, just like you said.”
Melli smiled. By the time she looked up, Jack and Tawl had moved beneath the trapdoor. They were loaded down with supplies, bedrolls slung over their shoulders, packs around their waists. And weapons, so many weapons: knives slipped beneath tunics and swords hung over belts. Tawl even had a shortbow at his back.
Jack went up first, then Nabber, and last of all went Tawl. Bodger lifted the remaining supplies up to them. Grift was sitting on a pallet against the wall. He was still weak, but he was getting better. Tawl had spent much precious time this morning demonstrating to Melli how to care for his wound.
Maybor was not in the least bit sorry to see them go. He had no faith in anything they were doing, but he wasn’t above encouraging them to leave anyway. Melli looked for a moment at her father. She loved him, but he was wrong about this.
Grift shouted out some last-minute advice for the journey, then everyone said good-bye. Hearing Tawl say farewell, Melli suddenly lost her composure. She scrambled over the crates, up toward the trapdoor. “Tawl,” she cried, hating herself for her weakness. “Tawl!”
Tawl crouched down by the opening. He reached out for her and lifted her up with one mighty pull. “Swear you will come back,” she said.
“I swear that as long as there is breath in my body and blood in my veins I will make it back to your side.” It was an oath and was spoken as one.
They looked at each other for only a moment, then Tawl laid a single kiss on her forehead. Nothing else was said. Gently he lowered her into the waiting arms of Maybor. The last thing Melli saw of him was the glint of his sword as he walked across the courtyard.
“Master, there be someone here to see you.”
“Tell whoever it is to go away, you dithering fool. I am far too weary to see anyone this day.”
“But he’s a cripple, master. He’s got a stick to help him walk.”
Baralis was well aware of Crope’s weakness for cripples: the huge servant carried a three-legged rat on his person at all times. “Very well,” he relented. “At least tell me who it is.”
“He says his name is Skaythe, master. Says he’s Blayze’s brother.”
Baralis sipped his holk. He was sitting in a comfortable, high-backed chair close to the fire. He was dressed, for no matter how weak he was, he always took care to present an appearance of strength. His journey to Larn had left him drained of all physical energy, but his mind was as active as ever. So Blayze’s brother wanted to see him. Baralis motioned to Crope to bring him forth. His curiosity had been aroused.
In walked a man who was a long way from being a cripple. He had a stick, yes, and his left leg was stiff about the knee, but Blayze’s brother moved like no doddering invalid. He was confident, stood well, and had an arrogant manner about himself. He strode up to Baralis and offered his arm to be clasped.
Baralis shook him away. He had no desire to show his hands to a stranger. Skaythe sat without being invited, resting his stick against the desk. It was long and straight, with a swelling about a hand’s length below the top. The swelling was ribbed, obviously for gripping, but above the knot of wood jutted a spike of polished steel. The walking stick was a barely disguised lance.
Baralis regarded the man to whom the stick belonged. He was like Blayze, yet older, smaller, harder. “Speak your business swiftly, then leave.”
“My business is your business, Lord Baralis.” Skaythe smiled, showing sharp, uneven teeth. He waited a moment before he explained himself, making a show of settling down in his chair. “The man who murdered Catherine also murdered my brother. You want him found. I want him found. I say we work together to achieve what neither of us can do alone.”
Baralis ill-liked anyone pointing out his failings, but he bit the retort right off his tongue and swilled it down with a little sour wine. He could use this man. “What do you want from me?” he asked.
“Money, information”—Skaythe shrugged—“access to your special skills.”
Baralis leant forward imperceptibly. He breathed in deeply and let the air tarry in his lungs. Things were growing more interesting by the moment. Skaythe was a user of sorcery. That could prove very useful, indeed. Skirting around the subject, Baralis said, “So you want to track the knight down?”
“No one knows the city of Bren like I do. Next time you get a tip,” Skaythe emphasized the word to illustrate that he knew very well how such a tip might be procured, “you might come to me first. I won’t blunder in and let everyone get away like the Royal Guard did.”
Baralis arched an eyebrow. Skaythe obviously thought a lot of himself. “What if I were to tell you that the knight plans on leaving Bren and heading south?”
“Then I will head south, too.” Skaythe was unruffled. Idly his hands toyed around the knot of his stick. “I know the south well enough. I ride faster than any man you care to pit me against. No one in Bren can match me with a knife, and I’ve yet to miss a target I set my sights upon.”
This was turning into a most fortunate meeting. Skaythe was just the sort of man he needed: driven, skilled, deadly, and, most of all, expendable. Baralis decided to test the man a little. “What would you say if I told you there was another man I wanted killed? One who will be traveling with the knight.”
“I would say it will cost you more than my expenses.”
Baralis smiled, showing teeth more deadly than Skaythe’s would ever be. “Then you have a deal, my friend.”
Skaythe’s face betrayed no emotion. “If I am to leave the city, I will require two hundred golds minimum. I may need to change horse, give bribes, pay for intelligence, not to mention the usual traveling expenses.”
“Not to mention them,” agreed Baralis, nodding faintly.
“I will, of course, require more the farther south you send me.”
Baralis continued nodding. “Of course.”
Judging from the sun, which was straining for attention behind a bank of high clouds, it was close to midday. All morning they had crawled through mud on their elbows and bellies, now they were crawling through burnt chaff. Jack smiled grimly. The mud had been a lot smoother.
They had left the city just as dawn was breaking. The Highwall army was attacking the southwestern wall, and they left to the southeast. Already the bodies had begun to pile up. The gates had obviously been closed last night, and people waiting until morning to gain entrance to Bren had been slaughtered where they stood.
Tawl insisted they hit the soft and bloody ground straightaway, else risk being picked out by a keen-eyed marksman. Nabber had taken to the mud like a leech, slithering along chin down, nose up, bedroll trailing behind him like a disobedient child. Tawl’s movements were silent, efficient—he had obviously done this sort of thing before. His face was dark and easy to read; it said: Do not talk to me, do not bother me, I have my own problems to deal with.
Seeing him with Melli earlier, Jack could guess what those problems were. Tawl had to physically wrench himself away from Melli this morning. The parting had been more than difficult; it had been devastating. And the haunted look in the knight’s normally light blue eyes told that although his body was here, on the burnt grainfields of rural Bren, his soul was in the city with the woman he loved.
Jack did not trouble him. So in silence the three crept through the smoking fields. Ash and burnt chaff stole into their lungs with the air, and dry and blackened stalks scraped against cheek and shin. Everything was dead: grass scorched to the pith, field mice charred to the bone, and thousands upon thousands of insects reduced to tiny filigrees—like snowdrops, only black.
Occasionally they would come across roads. There were still some people wandering their lengths, poor dazed souls who had nowhere to go now that the city had shut down for the siege.
Sometimes they caught sight of Highwall soldiers; they carried torches and were busily burning what little of the countryside was left: barns, villages, farms. It seemed to Jack that there was little difference between Kylock burning the fields and Highwall burning the buildings. Ashes from one looked pretty much like the other.
The sun managed to push past a cloud for an instant, flooding the fields with light. Jack swung round for a moment and looked back at the city. Its walls shone like hammered silver. Highwall would not find it easy to break Bren.
Jack was surprised by how near they still were. They’d been on the move for six hours now, yet they were still close to the city. Or was it that the walls were so tall and substantial that it just seemed that way?
Shrugging, Jack moved on. After a while, Tawl raised his hand. It was a sign for them to stop. More Highwall soldiers? wondered Jack. Tawl beckoned them forward, and Jack and Nabber came level with him. All three of them lay belly-flat on the ground.
“This is the last of the grain fields,” hissed Tawl. “Up ahead is open country. Nothing but grazing land. It’s going to be harder to keep ourselves hidden. If we spot anyone now, the chances are that they’ll be mercenaries or stragglers hoping to reach Bren. If anyone asks, we’re traders from Lanholt, leaving the city, yet afraid to travel west because of Highwall. I’ll do the talking. Right?”
“What if we see any soldiers from the Wall?” asked Nabber.
“Up to three and we kill them. More than that and we run.” Tawl looked at Jack, and Jack nodded. “Now, there’s a small thicket of bushes directly ahead. I say we make it as far as there, then take a break for a while. I for one intend to pick all this cursed dry grass from my tunic and have myself a decent drink. Are you with me?”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting around a small puddle that might once have been a pond, eating honeycakes and sipping on Cravin’s best brandy. Yesterday Tawl had put Nabber in charge of provisions, and the boy obviously had no liking for traditional traveling fair, for there was no drybread or drymeat on the menu, just items that were well-honeyed or sugared or both. And cheese.
Everyone ate in silence. Nabber had produced a pair of tweezers from his pack and was pulling burnt stalks from his britches with all the finesse of a court dandy. Tawl simply took off his tunic and beat it against the nearest tree trunk. Jack hadn’t begun his extraction yet. He was still trying to keep up with everything. In fact, that was what he had been doing for the past three days: just trying his best to keep up.
Even now he couldn’t take it all in. According to Tawl, he was the one named in an ancient prophecy, the one who was supposed to bring an end to the war and the suffering at Larn. Three weeks earlier in Annis, he had learned of another prophecy that he guessed he was part of. He had deliberately not thought about the baking master’s verse since then, but now, having met up with Tawl, everything was becoming harder to ignore or deny. Jack felt as if ancient forces were ganging up on him, shaping his fate, controlling his movements, forcing him to see himself in a new and terrifying light.
For the past two days he had been in a sort of dazed shock. It was as if some invisible force had punched him in the gut and was now dragging him south for the kill. His whole body was still reeling from the blow. He couldn’t even think straight. He tried to remember the exact wording of Tawl’s prophecy, but the details eluded him. Something about two houses and a fool knowing the truth. Jack would have liked to ask Tawl to tell it to him one more time, but he didn’t want to admit that he’d forgotten something so important.
Everything had happened so fast. There was too much to take in. Jack glanced quickly at Tawl. The knight was now leaning against a tree, restringing his bow to suit the weather. Jack found it hard to believe that the man standing opposite had spent five years of his life searching for him. It was the sort of thing that legends were made of. He didn’t feel worthy of such a search. He was just a baker’s boy from Castle Harvell, not a savior of the world, not a skilled and fearless hero.
Larn must be destroyed, said Tawl. Kylock must be displaced.
How in Borc’s name was he supposed to do such things? Why should the responsibility have fallen to him? Surely there must be others better equipped than he? Highwall had an army. The knights had their brethren. Kylock had Baralis, and Larn had its seers. He had no one.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had Tawl and Nabber, but he didn’t want the responsibility anyway. Give him a battalion of troops and an armory of blades and he still wouldn’t want to be the one.
Tawl and Melli had treated him exactly the same: they just assumed he’d be willing to do what they said. No one had asked if he wanted to go to Larn, it was just taken for granted he would. But why should he? Oh, he’d heard all about the seers, and he had to admit that being bound to a rock for life didn’t sound too appealing, but the practice had been going on for hundreds of years now, so why should everyone suddenly decide that he was the one to stop it? He had no connection with the island. The seers of Larn weren’t his responsibility. Surely the obligation of destroying the place should fall upon someone who had once been involved with the island, or had a grudge to bear. Like Tawl.
Jack brushed his hair from his face. He felt tired and confused. It was all so overwhelming. There was so much to consider and so much that was unexplained.
What was he supposed to do once they reached their destination? How could he possibly destroy Larn? Yes, he could manage a few tricks with air and metal, but he couldn’t bring about an earthquake or a tidal wave, or anything else that was liable to make an entire island disappear.
And what if he didn’t succeed? What would become of Melli back in Bren? Jack didn’t know anything about prophecies, but Tawl seemed quite adamant about the need for Larn to be destroyed before Melli’s child could take its rightful place. Jack suddenly felt like running all the way back home to Castle Harvell. There was too much responsibility for him to bear. Too much at stake, too little information to go on. The truth was, he was just plain scared. Tawl and Melli had put their faith in him, and he wasn’t at all sure if he was worthy of it.
But for all his doubts, Jack never once questioned that he was the one in the prophecy. In a way he had known it long before he met Tawl. Not about the prophecy, of course, but about his connection with Kylock and Baralis and the war. For month
s now he’d felt as if he had some part to play in everything, and all along he’d been traveling toward Bren. It was no coincidence that Tawl had found him when he got there. No coincidence at all.
Jack became aware that Tawl was no longer leaning against the tree; the knight was standing behind him. Reaching forward, he rested a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“You’re not alone,” he said.
Jack spun round to meet his gaze. He had a bitter reply ready, but when he saw Tawl’s face, the words died on his lips. He wasn’t the only person to be given no choice—the man before him had no choice, either. Not in a million years would Tawl choose to leave Melli. He did so because he had to.
Suddenly the knight’s words meant more than one thing: they meant many things, and all of them bound him and Tawl closer together. He wasn’t alone, and it just might prove to be more than a comfort: it might be his only advantage.
“Come on, Jack,” said Tawl, offering Jack a hand up. “Let’s get a good start on the rest of the day. He was glad to see that the boy returned his smile. He had been watching Jack for some time now, and it wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking about. That was why he came over: to give him what reassurance he could. Fancy words failed him, of course; they always did. So he offered his hand instead, and said the only thing that really meant anything: “You’re not alone.”
Tawl had lived long enough to know the value of those words. Many years before, Tyren had changed his life by saying the very same thing to him.
Time has little meaning to the imprisoned, the tormented, and the grieving. Days and nights are just shadows in the greater darkness of existence.
