by J. V. Jones
The last words were taut with controlled fury. Not even a second passed before Kylock replied, “No. She won’t die. I won’t let her.”
“If you want her, take her now and be done with it. Just don’t lose sight of what she is.”
“And what is she, Baralis?”
“She is your only rival.”
Melli became aware of a splitting pain in her head. The urge to cough grew stronger, but she fought it.
“No, Baralis,” said Kylock softly. “She isn’t my rival, her child is.”
The tension in the room was unmistakable. The air grew close and heavy, like before a storm. Melli smelled something metal like sword steel. Her skin prickled as a wave of warm air passed over her.
There was silence for a moment, then Baralis said, “Very well, if you insist.”
“I do insist, Baralis.” Kylock moved near to the bed. Melli sensed his gaze upon her. “Oh, and she will stay here for the time being. The tower is no place for her to sleep.”
With light steps Baralis walked across the room. “She will need to be watched closely at all times.”
“The woman will do it.”
“As you wish.” Baralis’ voice was hard. “I will send her here to make arrangements.” With that Baralis left the room, closing the door behind him.
Melli didn’t know whether to be relieved or frightened. She knew Kylock was close to her, watching her. She felt something touch her cheek. Opening her eyes, she found herself looking straight into his.
A black band ringed his irises. “Aah, the mother-to-be awakens.” He was wearing gloves. His finger trailed from her cheek down beneath the sheets. Slowly it moved across her breast and down to her belly. He paused a moment and then poked her stomach as if testing a fruit for ripeness. Melli’s hand shot up to stop him. Kylock grabbed her wrist. He slammed it against the bed. “No. No, my love, this is not the way to repay a debt.”
Melli wanted desperately to cough. Her lungs felt full of dust. Kylock twisted her wrist so she couldn’t move her arm. “What do you want from me?” she cried.
Kylock shook his head slowly. “I don’t think it’s your place to ask questions,” he said. A tiny drop of spittle appeared at the corner of his lip. He dug his gloved fingers into the bones of her wrist.
A knock came upon the door.
“Who is it?” snapped Kylock.
“It’s Mistress Greal, sire. Lord Baralis bid me come.”
Mistress Greal. Melli started choking. Her head came off the pillow and she coughed and spluttered, unable to stop herself.
“Come.”
The door opened and a woman walked in. Melli’s eyes were full of tears. The woman looked different: smaller, and the lower part of her face was oddly misshapen. Then she spoke. There was no mistaking her thin, clawing voice. “I see the little bitch is pretending to be ill.” She stepped toward the bed. Kylock moved away. Grabbing a handful of hair, she yanked Melli upright and then thumped her hard in the back. “There. That should do it.”
Melli stopped coughing.
Kylock regarded Mistress Greal with distaste. He crossed the room toward the door. “See to it that she gets a bath,” he said.
“But—”
“Do it.”
Melli had the fleeting pleasure of seeing Mistress Greal flinch. The door slammed shut. Mistress Greal turned to face her. “So, landed on your feet again, have you?”
“What are you doing here?”
Mistress Greal snorted. “I ain’t answering to no slut.” She looked around the room with a proprietorial air. “They should have kept you in the tower. This place is too good for you. Fancy bed, carpets . . . you’d think you were a princess, not the biggest whore in Bren.”
Melli was trying hard to keep her sanity. It felt as if she’d woken up in the middle of a bad dream. Baralis, Kylock, and now Mistress Greal. Who next, she wondered, Fiscel and Captain Vanly?
She forced her mind to stay focused. “What do you know about the tower?”
“I picked it for you, that’s what. Nice and bare. No frills. No blankets, no candles—I made sure of that.” Mistress Greal smiled. She looked hideous; two of her front teeth were missing.
Realizing that Mistress Greal didn’t mind answering questions when they gave her a chance to show off her authority, Melli continued. “So Baralis left you in charge of my welfare?”
Mistress Greal almost simpered. “Yes, he did. Told me anything I saw fit to do, just go ahead and do it. He didn’t want nothing to do with you. Can’t say as I blame him, either.”
Melli sat back against the headboard. The picture was becoming clearer now: Mistress Greal had been the one supervising her imprisonment, not Baralis. He had washed his hands of her. Melli felt a tiny spark of disappointment, then told herself she hadn’t. Quickly, she moved on. “Baralis must trust you a lot.”
Mistress Greal was helping herself to a glass of wine. The bones around her wrist jutted out at odd angles. “He owes me, does Lord Baralis.”
“Owes you for what?”
Mistress Greal whipped around. “Getting a little nosy, ain’t you?”
Melli tried a different approach. “You must have done him a great service to be given such responsibility.”
“D’you think me a fool, missy? I’ve been managing young girls since before you were born. I know every trick a slut like you can pull, and flattery is just the first of them.”
As she spoke, Mistress Greal’s grip slipped on her wine cup, and wine went spilling down the front of her dress. She shot Melli a venomous look. Coming toward the bed, she held out the cup in front of her. The damage to her wrist was plain to see. “So you want to know what I did to get here, do you?” She leant over the bed and thrust her wrist under Melli’s nose. “Well, take a good look at that, missy. That should tell you all you need to know.”
Melli refused to be frightened by her. She pushed the wrist away. “An unhappy client, perhaps?”
Mistress Greal slapped Melli with her good hand. Melli’s head snapped back. Her skull hit the headboard. The impact wasn’t great, but the pain it produced was dizzying. Slowly, she brought up her hand to feel the back of her head. She winced as her fingers touched the sore spot. Her hair was stiff with blood.
“Your father did this to me.” Mistress Greal thrust the wrist back into Melli’s face. “And my teeth. Robbed me of my good hand and my looks he did, and that’s something I’m never going to forget.”
Melli hid her surprise. Her father must have found out what went on in Duvitt! She felt a moment of pure, spiteful pleasure. He must have given the old witch quite a blow to take out her teeth.
“So you’ve been extracting what petty vengeance you can through me?” she said.
Mistress Greal waggled a bony finger. “I wouldn’t say finding the most wanted woman in Bren is such a petty thing. Would you?”
“You found us?”
“Your father was wenching in my sister’s establishment. Can’t take his ale, you know.”
“He got away, didn’t he?” said Melli casually, trying not to betray the importance of the question.
“That old bastard’s got the luck of the devil.”
Melli’s whole body relaxed. Up until now she hadn’t realized just how tense she had been. All her muscles ached, her head was pounding, and her heart was beating wildly against her ribs. Somehow none of it mattered anymore. She was all right, her baby was still alive, and Maybor had managed to get away.
“A scalding bath will soon knock that smile from your face, missy,” said Mistress Greal on her way to the door.
“Bring out your hottest tub, woman,” said Melli. “It’ll take more than boiling water to kill Maybor’s daughter.”
“Tawl, go back to Bren,” said Jack. “I’ll go to Larn on my own.”
They were in the stables. The new horses were saddled and ready. Nabber was wiping the sleep from his eyes. The tavern-keeper’s handsome son had just returned with the supplies Tawl had asked for, and
now, just when they were ready to leave, Jack came out with this.
Every day Tawl learned more about Jack, and every day he realized he’d underestimated him once more.
Tawl shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. He knew a genuine offer when he heard one, and he also knew the sound of fear well hidden. Jack couldn’t be aware of what he was volunteering to do. Or could he? Tawl didn’t want to underestimate him again.
Catching hold of Jack’s arm, Tawl guided him into the dark area beneath the hayloft. “Jack, I can’t let you go to Larn on your own.”
“Do you know what I’m supposed to do when I get there?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t help me.” Jack spoke calmly. “So you might as well return to Bren and try to rescue Melli.”
His words sounded rational, but Tawl doubted if Jack actually believed them. He didn’t. “It’s not as simple as that. Larn is no place for a man to go on his own.”
“You went on your own.”
“Yes. And look what it did to me. I murdered the one man who could have helped us.” Tawl’s voice hardened as he spoke. “I can’t let you go there alone, Jack. I’m coming with you.”
A cow lowed gently from behind a wooden stall. Tawl looked at Jack. He was already working on his response. Tawl knew what it would be, but didn’t give him chance to say it. “Jack, you know what one of the last things Bevlin said to me was?”
Jack shook his head.
“He spoke of you and me. He said, ‘There is a link between you, and it is your destiny to help him fulfill his.’” Tawl felt his emotions respond to the words. He could clearly remember Bevlin saying them; his eyes sparkling, his voice strained, his chest rising up and down with the sheer force of the prophecy. For that was what it was: a prophecy, every bit as compelling as Marod’s verse. Jack was not the only one forced to live by the words of a dead man.
“But what about Melli, Tawl?” said Jack. “What will become of her?”
He had said the one thing that Tawl hoped he wouldn’t. It was so much easier to suppress his fears when he kept them all to himself. Now Jack had spoken them out loud, and like a floodgate opened, it let in the swell.
Tawl kicked the stall door. “I don’t know what will become of Melli!” he cried. “I don’t know. If I go back to Bren now, she might be dead by the time I get there. If I come with you, the risk is even greater. Don’t think for one second that I’m not considering Melli. She’s why I’m here today. She’s why I wake up every morning and breathe. She’s the only thing that matters, and right now I’d give anything to be by her side. But I can’t. I’ve got to go to Larn and follow the whole damn thing through to the end. Then, and only then, will Melli be truly safe.” Tawl was shaking by the time he’d finished. His skin was slick with sweat.
Jack couldn’t look at him. He stared at the floor instead. “I’m sorry, Tawl. I know how you feel about Melli.”
“Then why are we standing around wasting time? Let’s get on the horses and go.” Tawl knew he sounded harsh, but he had to leave. The stables were beginning to feel like a prison. “Come on, Nabber,” he called, walking over to his latest mount. “Let’s get you up here.”
Half an hour later they were out of the city. The sun was still up and shining, but to Tawl it made little difference what hour of the day it was. Melli was to the north and he was heading to the south. Everything else paled in comparison to that one irrefutable fact. He had to believe she would be all right until he returned, that somehow time itself would wait for him. It was the only way to keep his sanity and force his horse forward instead of back.
Kylock listened to what Lord Guthry said. The man was concerned about Highwall’s lakeborne advances. The siege army had built a huge raft for their largest trebuchet and had spent most of the day launching missiles at the north wall and the palace itself. The two north towers had been damaged and the domed ceiling, which was the palace’s greatest weakness, had taken several well-aimed hits.
At times like this Kylock never thought, he simply reacted. “Right, I want the carpenters up on the roof tonight. I want a wooden scaffold built over the dome. I want it strengthened with metal sheets, and I want ten score of archers up there while they work.
“As for the raft—”
“A storm’s predicted tomorrow, sire. The lake will be too rough for Highwall to man it.”
Kylock regarded Lord Guthry coolly. “Never, ever interrupt me,” he said. Lord Guthry began to speak, but Kylock waved a silencing arm. Apologies held no interest for him. “Now, I want the raft destroyed tonight. As I understand it, the problem is the raft is beyond our firing range—their trebuchet can fire twice the distance of ours. So, as soon as it goes dark, I want you to send out two divers under the lake. They will carry skins of lamp oil with them and they’ll set the raft alight. Is that understood?” Kylock knew it would be certain suicide for their divers. With his gaze he challenged Lord Guthry to criticize him.
The man didn’t have the guts for it. He walked over to the desk and poured himself a cup of wine. Kylock made a mental note of the cup he used and other surfaces he touched.
“Is there anything else, sire?” Guthry asked after draining his cup dry.
“Yes, I heard a report today that thousands of dead fish were floating on the surface of the lake.”
Lord Guthry nodded. He was a large man with a red face and graying hair. He had been the late duke’s closest military advisor. “Aye. I saw that with my own eyes this morning. Mighty strange it is.”
“I don’t think there’s anything strange about it at all,” said Kylock softly. “I think Highwall’s poisoning the lake.”
“You could be right, sire.” Lord Guthry was a man who tended toward caution. “The best thing we can do is warn everyone not to draw from the wells for a few days, just in case. It will give the poison chance to dissipate. There’s no possible way that Highwall could have poisoned the entire lake. If they’ve done anything at all, it’s to the water around the shore.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Kylock said. He thought for a moment, then added: “I only want the warning passed on to the military. There’s no need to panic everyone in the city.”
“But the women. The children—”
Kylock’s hand was on the desk. With one quick movement he overturned it. The wine jug and cups went crashing to the floor. Papers floated slowly down.
Lord Guthry took a step back. The color drained from his face.
Kylock took a quick breath. His gaze flicked over the cups on the floor. No longer could he tell which one belonged to his guest. All of them would have to go. When he spoke, his voice was calm. “Just do as I say. Women and children never won a war.”
Oh, how Lord Guthry wanted to speak; the words practically pushed against his lips. But he didn’t say anything. He simply bowed and took his leave.
Only when the door shut behind him did Kylock see fit to remove his gloves. With the desk overturned the chamber was in disorder. It disturbed him, and he had to turn his back on the chaos of cups and papers to think clearly. More and more these days, everything had to be perfect for him to concentrate; one fleck of ash on the grate, one curtain fold amiss, and his mind would go no further than the fault.
People disturbed him more than ever, too. All of them were dirty, disgusting. Fingers that picked noses, raised glasses; hands that held sexual organs to piss with, minutes later were cupping the salt. The smell of sex, sweat, and urine could be detected on every palm.
His chambers reeked of Guthry’s breath. Of his last meal and his last drink and the slow decay of his teeth. Kylock could hardly bear it. Never again would he let that man enter his private domain.
Catherine was to have stopped all this. Beautiful, innocent Catherine. Only she wasn’t innocent. She was a whore, just like every other woman. And she had died a whore’s death, and with her went his last hope of salvation.
Or so he had thought until last night.
&n
bsp; He had visited Melliandra out of curiosity. She was due to die the next day, and he thought it would be interesting to see fear in her eyes. And indeed it had been. She was more beautiful than he remembered, her eyes large with terror, her bottom lip trembling while she pretended to be brave. But then he had ripped the clothes from her back and everything changed.
The fire glowed on her skin, accentuating her belly’s curve. Like a holy statue she was surrounded by light. Her breasts heavy with pregnancy, her stomach swelling with the new life beneath—she was a symbol of the only thing that was good in women: their ability to renew life.
As long as Melliandra was with child, she was beyond all womanly vices. Pure like an angel, she had been cleansed by a force of nature. When she gave birth to her baby, she would give birth to him, as well. Once her womb had been purified by the passage of new life, he would take her and be made anew. Melliandra had been sent to him as his savior, and he would use her to wash the sins of his mother away.
Catherine had failed him. His mother’s death had left him strangely unmoved. Now more than ever he needed someone to sacrifice herself for him. Life was crowding too close; it teemed, it reeked, it drove him forward into oblivion. He had to start again. His very being must be freshly shaped.
Melliandra would be the vessel in which he cleansed his soul. Her child’s life would be short—not even a full step in the dance of fate—but it would live long enough to do what it was conceived for: to clear a sacred path for the king.
Seventeen
If there was anything in life worse than traveling, Nabber couldn’t think of it. He had a lot of time to try, too. For nearly nine weeks now he’d sat on the back of Tawl’s horse, spending his mornings wishing for midday and spending his days wishing for dark. And never had there been a less profitable, less comfortable, and less interesting thing to do.
Tawl set a hard pace—especially after Toolay—and it was up every morning before dawn, riding long hard hours until noon, then half a day more until dusk. It was enough to kill a man.
