The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Tawl took Melli’s hand and they headed for the stairs behind him. They moved fast, anxious to get back to Crayne, eager to be gone from the palace. Gaining momentum as they traveled downward, they took the stairs two at a time, and by the time they reached the bottom all three of them were out of breath.

  Jack saw Crayne’s body before he smelled the sorcery. He pushed back the curtain and saw Crayne lying face-up in a pool of blood. He had no eyes, just hollow sockets filled with blood. Hervo was sitting, slumped, against the wall. His head was tipped forward, so Jack couldn’t see his face, but a stream of thick red mucus was dripping from his nose. His right fist was curled around an arrow, and his bow lay to the left of him; the string still quivering.

  Jack cursed his own stupidity. This was what he felt before when he held Melli’s hand. He should have guessed. Should have known.

  In the quarter-second it took him to realize all this, Tawl and Melli emerged from the staircase behind him and Baralis stepped out of the shadows in front.

  Too late. Jack could taste the drawing on Baralis’ lips. He could feel the power building.

  Time slowed, then thickened.

  He heard a voice screaming “GO!” and hardly recognized it as his own. He pushed something soft with all his might—Tawl, Melli—he didn’t know who, then dove in the opposite direction. As he moved through the air his mind worked with his gut to form a drawing. He could see Baralis’ power now. See it coming for him—scorching, crackling, dagger-smooth, dagger-sharp—blistering the air with its hot metal fury.

  Too late. There was no time, only hair-thin slices of seconds. Baralis had begun his drawing before he’d reached the last step. A nauseating pulse swelled through Jack’s body. The walls of his stomach snatched shut. He felt himself falling. Up came his hands to break his fall.

  And then Baralis’ drawing hit him full-on. A sizzling pain ripped through him. His limbs, his belly, and his face were slashed by scalding blades. His skin was slit open in a thousand needle cuts and white-hot fire raced toward his heart. Jack’s body convulsed. A mighty spasm tore through his chest and then there was nothing more.

  Too late.

  Thirty-three

  Tawl was racing for Baralis when Jack went down. Melli in one hand, sword in the other, Tawl tried to cross the distance between them. Still righting himself from Jack’s mighty push, Tawl’s feet only had time to make three steps forward before the drawing hit.

  The air roiled, whitened, then blasted into Jack. Tawl felt hot gusts whip over his face, burning his skin, sucking the air from his lungs, blinding him like a glance into the sun. There was a scintilla of an instant when he managed to step in front of Melli, but she had already taken the front of the blast and her scream was like a tear in his soul.

  Jack was a moving blaze of white light, his body convulsing on the floor, his limbs engulfed by crackling fire. Then everything stopped.

  There was a moment of pure calm. Jack’s body slumped against the stone flags. Baralis was a sliver of darkness standing over it. Melli’s head came to rest upon the back of Tawl’s shoulder. And Tawl, suddenly realizing that the hilt of his blade was searing his palm, released his hold on the weapon. The sword clattered to the floor, shattering the calm like a church bell at daybreak.

  Baralis collapsed. His body crumpled inward then downward and he landed in an angular heap, his cloak spreading out around him like a black fan. A huge giant of a man came running out of nowhere, sobbing and muttering to himself and shaking his head wildly. He ignored Tawl and Melli and made straight for Baralis’ side.

  “Come on, Tawl. Let’s go,” cried Melli.

  Tawl went to pick up his sword. He was going to finish off Baralis once and for all.

  “No!” screamed Melli. “Don’t go near him. You don’t know what he’s capable of—even now.” She tugged at his arm, and Tawl turned around to look at her. The skin on her face was red and wet, the result of the drawing. The fear in her eyes was as raw as an exposed nerve. “Please, Tawl. Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  Shouts sounded in the distance. Two armed guards came running down the far gallery, weapons held out before them. Tawl picked up his blade. It was still hot, but no longer burning. He glanced over to Jack’s body—his chest wasn’t moving, there was no sign of life. Melli was right: they had to get away before half the palace guards came after them. Jack couldn’t be helped now.

  It was so very hard to turn away, though. The idea of carrying Jack’s body back with him flashed through Tawl’s mind. Perhaps he wasn’t dead, just very still.

  “Tawl! The guards!” Melli was frantic now. Blood and tears coated her cheeks. Her whole body was trembling. The front of her dress was scorched black, and as she pulled him forward, Tawl could see where the drawing had singed all the hairs on her arm.

  Tawl knew he had to get Melli to safety. More than his oath, she was half the bargain he had made with himself in the cold, green depths of Lake Ormon. Saving her was the first part of saving himself.

  There was no time to carry a body. It would slow them down too much. The guards were nearly on top of them, and by the sounds of things there were more on the way. Tawl clasped hold of Melli’s hand and they ran down the corridor, the guards chasing after them.

  Tears stung the raw flesh of Tawl’s cheeks as he ran. Hervo, Crayne, Jack: Baralis had taken them all. Friends, brothers, good men who had followed him into danger with no thought for themselves. Hervo and Crayne weren’t on a quest, they weren’t bound by an ancient prophecy; they had simply believed in him. The image of Crayne’s eyeless body flickered across Tawl’s thoughts. He felt a tight, angry pain in his chest. What had Baralis done to him?

  Anger burned into rage and, as Tawl sped along the corridors with Melli at his side, he knew that Baralis, Kylock, and Tyren all had to be destroyed.

  The guards were catching up. Any second now Tawl knew he would have to turn and fight. He could take two men on his own, but he was afraid that Melli might be injured in the fray. Tawl was just about to order her to run ahead, when, like a gift from the gods, Andris appeared before him. The tall fair-haired knight had two other men with him, their weapons were drawn, and after the briefest of acknowledgments, they stepped in to cut down the guards at their heels.

  The knights hacked at the guards with all the speed and enthusiasm of troops new to the battle. Tawl caught his breath for a moment. Melli was at his side, and although he was still holding her hand, he reached up and brushed her cheek with his sword arm. He couldn’t touch her enough.

  Smiling up at him, she said, “I’d almost given up hope.”

  He kissed her, then. Blistered lips on blistered lips, tear-wet noses touching, eyes open to see one another, frightened that if they closed them the other person might disappear. Tawl knew then that it wasn’t just about saving himself. It was about love as well. Melli was more than half a bargain: she was the woman he loved. And perhaps, Borc willing, at the end of everything there might be a way for them to be together. If it all turned out all right.

  “Where’s Crayne and the others?” It was Andris. He was wiping his blade against his leg. The two guards were down. One of the other knights, Gervhay, the youngest, had his bow strung, ready to pick off anyone who came down the corridor.

  Tawl looked down at the floor. The end was a long way off: too long to even think about. “They’re dead. Baralis killed them.”

  Andris nodded. Tawl knew he had been expecting just such an answer. “Thes ve esrl,” he said.

  Tawl, Gervhay, and Corvis repeated it. They were worthy.

  There was no time to mourn. Andris barked an order and everyone began to run down the corridor toward the tunnel entrance. Faces were grim, grips were tight, and when anyone crossed their path they were hewn down within seconds. Gervhay’s arrows never missed, Andris’ blade dealt only mortal blows, and Corvis’ long-knife found heart after beating heart. Blood covered them and dried on them, filling their nostrils with its life-stealing scent. Ev
erything was smeared red: the walls, the shadows, the guards, their sight. Nothing was untouched by the taint.

  Finally they reached the passage entrance. Their pursuers were all dead or dying, and Andris raised the curtain that covered the panel.

  That was when Tawl heard it.

  He was bringing up the rear, trailing behind the rest, spearing bodies with his sword, ensuring that no one was left alive to report which way they headed, when an unmistakable sound rang out in the distance.

  As soon as he heard the noise, he looked to Melli. Andris had just beckoned her forward and she was about to squeeze her body into the tunnel. She didn’t look up at the sound. None of them did.

  Tawl made a quick decision. He waited until all four of them were in the tunnel before approaching the entrance. “I want you to go on ahead. Get out of here. Go straight to the hideout and wait for me.”

  Andris shook his head. “No, Tawl. We go together.”

  “There’s something here I’ve got to look into. I’ll just be a few extra minutes, that’s all.”

  “Tawl, don’t leave me. Not now.” It was Melli, calling from the shadows of the passageway. She sounded afraid.

  He reached out a hand, feeling for her touch. “As Borc is my witness, I swear I won’t do anything foolish. I’ll be back by your side before the night is through.”

  Melli’s fingers clasped his. “I love you,” she said.

  Despite everything that had happened that night—despite the blood, the carnage, the loss of his friends—the moment Melli said those words Tawl felt a joy so intense he thought his heart would break. He reached up and kissed her hand. “I love you,” he said softly into the darkness. “I promise you I will return.”

  Letting go of her hand was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. His soul, his heart, his muscles, and his mind did not want to let her go, but he had just heard the sound of a baby crying and he knew he must follow his oath.

  “Ssh for Nanny Greal, my little one. Ssh for Nanny Greal.” Mistress Greal held the baby to her and rocked it gently against her bony breast. Every now and then she would make cooing noises and offer her finger up for sucking.

  Little Herbert—named after Mistress Greal and Madame Thornypurse’s father, Herbert Skinflynt Greal—had never cried before at night. He was so weak that he slept most of the time, and the few hours a day he was awake he was as quiet as a lamb. He was the tiniest baby Mistress Greal had ever seen. Even now, three weeks after his birth, he hardly weighed a thing. His fists were as light as dandelions and his precious little head felt like a pincushion in her hand. He was early, that was the problem. Pushed out before his time by his tart of a mother, Melli, who didn’t have the backbone to carry him to term.

  Herbert shifted in Mistress Greal’s arms, opened his blue eyes wide, and began to bellow at the top of his lungs.

  “Ssh, my little one. Ssh.” Mistress Greal rocked, cooed, squeezed, cradled and, when that didn’t work, panicked. It was the wee hours of the morning and sound could travel a long way in the stone-cold silence before dawn. Mistress Greal carried the baby across the room, opened the wardrobe, stepped inside, and drew the door shut behind her.

  The baby reacted to the changes in light and warmth by crying louder.

  Mistress Greal bounced little Herbert tenderly in her arms. “Ssh, Nanny Greal won’t hurt you. No, not Nanny Greal. Nanny Greal loves little Herby. Yes, she does. Yes, she does.” The words began to have a calming effect on the baby, and Mistress Greal carried on talking whilst he drifted off to sleep.

  Standing in the dark, back pressed up against her winter robes, legs aching from lack of movement, baby sucking on her thumb, Mistress Greal felt a protective tightening in her chest. Herby was hers now and no one could take him away.

  She hadn’t meant to love him. She had taken him purely for spite. Baralis had murdered her beloved niece, Corsella, and that meant he had to pay. Mistress Greal had simply taken something to use as a weapon against him. Little Herbert was more dangerous than any army: he was the true heir to Bren—he had the birthmark of the Hawk on his left ankle to prove it. All Mistress Greal had to do was let the word out that the baby was alive, well, and legitimate, and the good people of Bren would rebel against Kylock. They would take the duke’s son over a foreign tyrant any day of the week. Baralis would find himself thrown out of the city, and if things went right, hounded until death.

  That was the plan, anyway: revenge. But something had happened to Mistress Greal when she held the tiny newborn baby in her hands, and now Baralis and his schemes didn’t seem nearly so important.

  The baby was so frail, that was what had got her started. He needed care day and night, needed feeding through a dripping cloth and massaging with warm oil. He was helpless without her. All he could do was lie on his blanket and kick his tiny fists and feet. Mistress Greal had never been married, never had a child of her own, never knew what it felt like to have someone entirely dependent on her. The baby loved her, trusted her—she was the only person who mattered in its short and innocent life. The baby wasn’t weaseling, ungrateful, or money-grabbing; he wasn’t out to fleece her of her loot, or rob her of her business. He just wanted to feel her arms around him and suck on her thumb.

  Gradually, over the course of a few days, Mistress Greal found herself in the unheard-of situation of wanting to give: her time, love, money, protection. Nothing was too much when it came to keeping Herbert safe.

  Baralis was a murderer: he had killed the baby’s father and half-sister. To try and take him on was more than foolish, it was suicide. She would only put herself and the baby at risk. The best thing she could do would be to steal away from the palace, leave the city, travel back to the kingdoms, and never let a living person know the true identity of her baby. Mistress Greal brushed Herbert’s baby curls with her hand. Tomorrow she would go and see her sister and make arrangements to liquidate her assets. Tonight had proven that it was much too dangerous to keep the baby in the palace. He couldn’t be blamed for crying, but he couldn’t be stopped, either. It was time to take him far away from danger.

  Mistress Greal pushed her elbow against the wardrobe door and stepped out once more into the light and warmth of her chamber. It was very late now and she wanted to get a few hours sleep before dawn.

  Just as she was about to lay Herbert down in the shallow chest that had become his crib, the bones in Mistress Greal’s wrist snapped into a cramp. The sharp pain caused her to release her grip on Herbert’s legs and sent the baby’s bottom thumping down onto the blanketed base of the chest. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to wake up the baby and set him off in an indignant bawl.

  Mistress Greal was frantic. “Ssh. Ssh,” she cried, picking him up again and rocking him to and fro. “Come on, my little Herbert. Ssh for Nanny Greal.”

  Tawl was about to give up, when he heard the baby crying again. Very close now. He stopped in his tracks and tried to pinpoint the sound. Ahead, to the left and down a level. Checking the corridors to either side for guards, he made his way forward.

  As far as he could tell he was no longer in the main part of the nobles’ quarters; there were fewer lit torches on the walls, no hanging tapestries, and no stationed guards. Occasionally he would hear footsteps sounding in the distance, but no one appeared to be heading his way. Tawl was grateful for the opportunity to catch his breath, but he was taking no chances, and paused constantly to check his back. Dim light was a definite advantage, and he had taken to extinguishing the odd torch here and there to add to the gloom.

  Coming upon a short flight of stairs, he headed downward. The crying had stopped now, but Tawl guessed he was very close to the source, and when the stairs ended in a circular gallery, he made straight for the door on the left.

  Putting his ear to the wood, he heard a woman’s voice. She was speaking in the peculiar, singsong tones that mothers use on their babies. Tawl took a settling breath. He knew it was quite possible that the baby within might be someone oth
er than Melli’s, but he had to know for sure. He had sworn an oath to the duke to protect his wife and his heirs, and if there was even a remote possibility that his son still lived, then Tawl was honor-bound to protect him.

  Gently, Tawl tested the door. It was bolted on the other side. He hadn’t wanted to go barging in, but there was nothing else for it. Pivoting on one leg, he aimed a kick at the center of the door.

  The door swung back. The woman screamed. The baby started to cry.

  Raising his sword arm in a gesture of no contest, Tawl entered the room. Immediately the woman sprang at him. She had a knife in her hand and stabbed straight at his chest. Tawl brought down his arm to block the blow and caught the full impact of the blade just below his shoulder. Pain shot along his upper arm, bringing sharp tears to his eyes. Anger made him lash out with his fist, and he clipped the woman’s lower jaw. She went reeling backward, flaying out her arms to break her fall. She landed in the corner by the baby.

  Tawl immediately rushed to her aid. The woman still had hold of her knife and stabbed at the air between them. “Keep away from me and my baby,” she cried.

  Tawl backed away. His arm was bleeding badly and he clamped his palm over the wound. “Your baby?” The woman looked far too old to be the mother of a young child.

  “My daughter’s baby,” replied the woman. “Now get out of here before I call the guard.”

  Ignoring the threat, Tawl peered into the chest. The baby was tiny, no more than a newborn. Its little hands were curled into fists and it was crying with a sort of amazed abandon, as if it were surprised by how much noise it could make. Tawl raised the tip of his sword toward the woman. “Make it stop crying.”

  As the woman scrambled up, he cut across the room and closed the door. Tearing off a strip of fabric from his tunic, he attempted to bind his wound. It wasn’t easy; there was a lot of blood and he had to use his left hand to tie the knot. He fastened it as tight as he could bear, and then pushed his fist into the center of the bloody rag. The pain forced his eyes closed for an instant before subsiding to a biting ache.