The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Jack took Maybor’s hand and placed it against his side. “Melli loved you very much.”

  “Did she?” Weak though Maybor was, there was an urgency in those two words that spoke of bright, rekindled hope. “Tell her I loved her more than she knew. Tell her I’m sorry I failed.”

  Jack shook his head. A hard lump was rising in his throat. “You didn’t fail.”

  “I failed all of my children. All of them.” Maybor’s voice was a thin line receding into the distance. “I was too selfish, too ambitious, to see them for . . . ” His last words were stolen by a series of choking coughs.

  Grift took Jack’s arm. “Go. I’ll be out later.”

  Jack and Tawl moved toward the door. The sound of Maybor’s coughing followed them out of the room.

  They waited outside the door in silence until the coughing tapered off. After a few minutes, Grift emerged. He looked tired and pale. “Lord Maybor’s sleeping now,” he said. “Come on, let’s find you both a drink.”

  Grift led them down into the tavern. Once again the room fell silent, but this time all eyes were on Grift.

  “He’s sleeping,” he said to the men, making a calming gesture with his hands.

  Hearing this, the men nodded and whispered and turned back to their business, more than a few of them calling for more ale.

  Grift led Jack and Tawl to a table near the door. Crayne and the other knights were sitting close by; they all had bowls filled with hot food in front of them and mugs full of beer in their hands.

  Seeing them settling down, Nabber left the knights’ table and came to sit at Tawl’s side. Grift seemed surprised to see the young pocket and rubbed the boy’s hair affectionately. “Well, I would never have thought I’d find you in the mountains, Nabber,” he said.

  “Never thought I’d find you here, either, Grift. Especially after you telling me that mountain girls were sour tempered and prone to the ghones.”

  Jack didn’t expect Grift to laugh, but he did. A warm, hearty laugh that brought back memories so sharp that Jack wanted to cry. All those winter nights spent in the servants’ hall listening to Grift holding court while marveling at how he held his ale. Everything had changed so much from those innocent days: Grift had changed, Tawl had changed, Maybor lay dying, and Melli was imprisoned in Bren. Anger pushed Jack’s memories back, squeezing them into a long gone past. Baralis had a lot to answer for.

  “Lord Maybor saved my life,” said Grift. He leant over the table, resting his chin in his cupped palm. “He dragged me out of Bren when I was so sick I could hardly walk. He could have left me in the wine cellar and gone under the wall on his own, but he didn’t.”

  Jack put an arm around Grift’s shoulders. Why was everyone who once looked so strong now so frail? “What happened to Bodger?”

  “I don’t know. They took him with the Lady Melliandra.” Grift shook his head. “He’s just a young one, really. Wouldn’t know what to do without me around to tell him.”

  “People find all sorts of strength inside themselves when they need to,” Jack said.

  “Aye, lad, you’re right there. Take Lord Maybor. The man’s been running a high fever these past couple of days, yet nothing was going to stop him from bringing us down that mountain. Determination alone kept him sitting on that horse. All the men resented him at first, but once they saw for themselves what he was made of, everything changed. They’d do anything for him now.”

  “Maybor wants us to take them to Bren,” said Tawl.

  “He feels he wronged them by withdrawing to the mountains. He wants to give them a chance to fight.”

  “What happened at the battle?” asked Jack. Someone had brought a flagon of ale and he began to pour it into four mugs.

  “Highwall was flanked then slaughtered. Besik led two-thirds of the men to the east; Maybor led a third to the south. It was chaos. Men being slaughtered, arrows flying, blood everywhere—I’ll never forget it till the end of my days.” Grift downed his ale. “The bloodshed wasn’t the worst thing, though.”

  “Why? What else happened?”

  “Kedrac sent men to slay his own father. He was commanding the kingdoms’ army, and as soon as he spotted Maybor on the field, he ordered the Royal Guard to go after him.”

  Baralis again. Setting father against son. There were so many tragedies, not just of cities and armies, but more intimate ones as well: ideals shattered, loves lost, families torn apart. Jack couldn’t begin to imagine how Maybor must have felt knowing his son wanted him dead. How had he survived the long weeks since the battle with such a betrayal lying heavy on his heart? Jack’s memory of Maybor was of a brash and vital man who always wanted the best for his children—even if they didn’t want it themselves. A father who showed his love through pride. How did such a man cope with the treachery of his firstborn son?

  No one spoke for a while after that. Tawl, Grift, Nabber, and Jack downed the last of their ale in silence. Words seemed far too slender to span all the tragedies of life.

  Maybor was very warm and his bones ached little now. Strange, but he could still feel the fingers that had been destroyed by the frost. In a way he felt them the most.

  All the things he had lost he felt the most.

  Melli, Kedrac, his two youngest boys: if he thought very hard he could conjure them up. If he thought even harder he could imagine their forgiveness.

  Sleep tugged him downward, though, and he knew it was time to go. With one last great effort, he turned his head so that it lay perfectly straight on the pillow—no one would catch him drooling like an invalid—and brought his hands to rest at either side of his body. Stately, he told himself. Like a king.

  With eyes already closed and strength drained by his exertions, the natural thing to do was to follow the darkened curve. A little bit frightened and very much tired, Maybor let his mind be carried off to sleep.

  Later, much later, when Jack was asleep in the tavern kitchen, his body pressed close to the stove, he was awakened by a strange noise. At first he thought it was the wolves howling, and then perhaps the wind. But as his senses came around, he realized that it was the sound of men singing. Low, throaty notes were followed by long pauses and hoarse cries. Someone was keeping a primitive beat, and above it all, one voice soared high and clear.

  Jack felt a wave of cold air roll over his body. It was a death song. The Highwall troops were singing for Maybor.

  He opened his eyes, and in the dimming light of a long-lit fire, he locked gazes with Tawl. The knight’s expression was solemn, his eyes midnight dark.

  “Jack,” he murmured, “you and I have a lot of fighting to do.”

  Jack nodded. He knew how Tawl was feeling, and felt exactly the same way, too: Baralis had finally taken one of their own.

  Thirty

  Jack awoke to a sinking sensation in his stomach. The events of the night before came back to him in a vivid rush. He remembered falling asleep to the sound of mourning, drifting off as the men of Highwall sang for Maybor’s soul. They keened until dawn; Jack knew it because he had heard them in his dreams.

  Now he awoke to a different sound, one that pulled at his senses with all the power of the past. It was the sound of the kitchen: scraping, chopping, pots rattling, brooms sweeping, fat sizzling, and chickens clucking. It was like being at Castle Harvell all over again. Jack opened his eyes. A large white-clad woman hovered over him.

  “About time, too,” she said. “Wake your friends up and get from under my feet. Sleeping by my oven, indeed! What was Master Tallyrod thinking? Haven’t I got enough to cope with already? There’s so many men sleeping in the tavern hall I swear I haven’t seen a floorboard in a week. And I know Ginty hasn’t. That girl’s so busy flirting with every man in a maroon coat that she’s just plain forgotten what a floor looks like.”

  Jack smiled up at the woman. “I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do to help?”

  “Take those men out from under my feet and I’ll be your friend for life. Might even treat you
to a nip of my special brew.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” He stood up and shook Tawl, Nabber, and Andris awake. The other knights were sleeping in the stables.

  The white-clad woman was as good as her word—better, even. By the time everyone had wiped the sleep from their eyes, buckled their belts, and rolled up their packs, the kitchen mistress had laid out a breakfast feast: warm bread, cold chicken, damp cheese, and special brew. Her one stipulation was that the feast be eaten in the hall. Jack had picked up his platter to follow the others when she put a hand on his arm.

  “Now, if you can just get rid of those maroons for me.”

  Jack laughed. The kitchen mistress’ kindness filled him with a simple joy. There were so many good people in the world, and so much more than vengeance worth fighting for.

  The kitchen mistress kissed Jack firmly on the cheek. “Hold on a minute while I find a little extra chicken for your plate.” She dashed off to the larder and came back wielding a pair of matching drumsticks, which she promptly deposited on Jack’s plate. “There. That should keep you going through the day.”

  Jack put down his plate and gave the woman a big hug. “I’ll be taking those maroons out of your way.”

  “Aye, lad. Be sure to leave me a couple, though. A woman needs someone to cook for.”

  The main hall was cold. The men of Highwall had mourned until the embers had died in the hearth, and no one wanted to be the first to bring a new flame to the fire.

  Jack and Tawl ate in silence. The atmosphere in the room was subdued; the men were gaunt-faced, pale, tired. The rest of the knights came in from the stables, and Crayne came to sit at Jack’s side.

  “What happening?” he whispered.

  “Maybor’s dead. He asked us to use his troops.”

  Crayne glanced around the room. “These men are in no fit state to travel today. They’re exhausted.”

  Jack nodded. “They’ll have to follow us. It will take them a full day to get enough mounts together, and we can’t afford to wait that long.”

  Tawl looked up from his breakfast. “They can ride behind us to Bren. Once there, they can lie low on the eastern plains until we need them.”

  “Tyren’s camped outside the city,” said Crayne.

  “East or south?”

  “South, a full league from the gate.” Unblinking, Crayne looked straight into Tawl’s eyes.

  The two regarded each other for a long moment, and then Tawl’s hand came up to rest on Crayne’s shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was oddly strained. “How many men has he got with him?”

  Crayne shook his head. “I can’t be sure. Could be three hundred, could be more.”

  Suddenly Jack realized what had passed between them: by giving Tawl privileged information about Tyren’s camp, Crayne had denounced Tyren as his leader. His acceptance of Tawl was now complete.

  The two men carried on talking as if nothing had happened. When Jack glanced at Tawl next, the knight was looking at the Highwall troops with renewed interest. Jack got the distinct feeling he was doing a head count.

  Crayne and Tawl were now fighting men once more, discussing strategies, weaponry, and numbers. Deciding the best way to take Tyren’s camp.

  “Our priority is to get inside the palace,” Jack reminded them. Tawl had long had his own agenda with the knighthood, but since he’d taken the leap over the falls it had turned into a burning cause. Whatever it was, Jack couldn’t allow it to interfere with saving Melli and eliminating Kylock.

  Tawl gave Jack a pointed glance. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know what my priorities are.”

  Crayne and Andris exchanged looks.

  Nabber, whom no one had noticed wandering off, came bounding back to the table. “Grift’s upstairs, Tawl. He wants to talk to you and Jack.”

  Jack stood up, and after a moment Tawl followed him. Together they climbed the stairs. As they reached the top step, Tawl pulled Jack aside. “Look,” he said, “I know what we’ve got to do. I know what you’ve got to do, I know what I’ve got to do. Marod’s prophecy and my oath to the duke come first—don’t doubt that—but I just want you to know that I will try to rid the knighthood of Tyren. I haven’t got a choice. As long as there’s blood in my body I’ll do it.”

  “What happened at Lake Ormon, Tawl?” Jack spoke softly. He respected Tawl’s determination, but he needed to know the reason behind it.

  Tawl stared at the floor. His chest rose and fell many times before he spoke. “I found what I’ve spent the last six years searching for: a chance to make up for the past. I caused the death of my family, Jack. Two sisters, two beautiful golden-haired sisters and a chubby little baby who always looked up at the sound of my name.” Tawl’s voice began to break. “I abandoned them—just left them, just took off and left them.”

  He ran his hand over his face. A minute passed in silence as he tried to control his emotions, and when he finally spoke again his voice was altogether different from before. “They were helpless without me, Jack. Helpless. I should have known better. I was old enough to know better. I knew the hands I left them in weren’t safe.”

  A tight coil of self-accusation lay just below the knight’s words and Jack knew that he was out of his depth. Tawl’s pain was something he could neither begin to understand nor measure. Touching Tawl’s arm lightly, he said, “I won’t stop you from doing what you have to.”

  Tawl’s eyes were bright. A muscle in his cheek was pumping hard. “That’s all I’ll ever ask from you, Jack.”

  Jack smiled. He wished very much he had more to give. “Come on,” he said, laying a hand on Tawl’s back. “Let’s go and see Maybor one last time.”

  Grift was waiting for them outside the door. Seeing him in the harsh morning light, Jack was once again shocked at how much he had changed. The once portly guard was as lean as a pick. It was a day for touching and being touched, and Jack came forward and wrapped his arms around Grift’s shoulders.

  “He died without pain, you know. Just slipped away in his sleep.” A huge tear slid down Grift’s cheek. “He was a brave man. Some will try and tell you he was vain, others will say he was a devil, but don’t ever listen to them. You go to the Lady Melliandra and tell her her father was a hero. That’s the truth, and every man under this roof will tell you the same.”

  “I know, Grift. I know.”

  Grift opened the door to Maybor’s room and let them in. The sheets had been changed on the pallet, and Maybor’s body rested on top of them, his arms folded over his chest, a red silk robe draped across his torso. His face had lost its color, but his hair was still shiny and the skin on his cheeks looked newly shaved.

  “Here.” Grift handed Jack a small cloth bag. “That’s the rings and the torc he wore for battle. He wants them to go to the villagers to help pay for the horses and the lodgings. He signed them a note, too. Promising payment in full from his son.”

  Jack slipped the bag into his tunic. “Do you think Kedrac will honor it?”

  “I doubt it, but that’s not important. Maybor died believing he would, and that’s what counts.”

  “But surely after what happened at the battle—”

  “No. Maybor was adamant his son would honor his memory—by leaving this note he’s offering Kedrac a chance to be forgiven. He doesn’t want his son to go through life thinking his father went to his grave hating him.” There was more than a touch of pride in Grift’s voice, and Jack realized that the castle guard must have grown close to Maybor. “I know Kedrac,” he continued, “and he may be headstrong and impressionable now, but one day he’ll be sorry for what he did. And by giving him a chance to pay the villagers and the tavern-keeper, Maybor is offering him a way to make amends when that day comes.”

  Jack tried to think of a suitable reply, but he searched for words in vain. He had little to say on the subject of fathers.

  Strangely it was Tawl who spoke. His voice hadn’t recovered from his confession on the stairs, and his tone was rough and low. “Maybor wa
s a good man to think of his son. Not all fathers would care enough to spare their sons from guilt.”

  Tawl’s face was grim. Jack wondered what else lay in his past besides the death of his sisters. Why weren’t his father and mother there to help him? Why were there always so many layers of grief and pain hidden within families?

  Grift came forward to usher them from the room. “You’ll be leaving today?”

  “Yes,” said Jack. “We’ll meet next in Bren.”

  Grift nodded. He seemed very old to Jack all of a sudden. Old and small. “May Borc bless your journey,” he said.

  “And yours, Grift.”

  Just as he walked through the doorway, Tawl turned and said, “I want to be able to give Melli something of her father’s.”

  Without a word, Grift moved over to Maybor’s body and cut off a lock of his hair. He bound it with a strip of silk from his tunic and handed it to Tawl. Silver hair, red silk—it was Maybor through and through.

  Baralis was worried about Skaythe. The man had not responded to his sending. It had been over a week now since their last communication, and Baralis was beginning to think that something had happened to him.

  After all, no one could ignore him for that long. Certainly not a man like Skaythe.

  Measuring a thumbnail of the mind-freeing drug into the palm of his hand, Baralis swallowed it dry. Only when the bitter taste of the drug had gone from his tongue did he see fit to take a sip of wine. Such small acts of willpower had helped make him who he was today.

  Baralis raised his hand, and Crope, who was busy sealing the shutter cracks with carded wool, came over and saw to the fire. By the time the flame was high, Baralis was ready with the compound. Blood, leaf, and drug moved within a copper bowl, swirling in time with the motion of his palms. From his heavily cushioned chair, he inhaled the toxic fumes. As always there was a brief instant when his body fought him tooth and nail. The physical world detested relinquishing its mastery to the dark.

  Baralis’ thoughts shifted out of place. His point of consciousness rose above his body, as insubstantial and weightless as pollen on the breeze. Up and up he went, passing through stone as if it were water, and water as if it were air. He skimmed the great lake to gain momentum and circled the city to catch the scent. Skaythe’s responses to his sending had left a trail, a trace of sorcery that could be followed like a thread through a maze. Baralis sniffed him out, then tracked him down: Skaythe would not ignore him tonight.