by J. V. Jones
Gradually, as the hour passed, Kylock became resigned to his fate. Now that salvation was no longer possible, glorious damnation was all he had left.
Try as he might, Jack could not remember the route he had previously taken through the tunnels. He found the entrance quickly enough, and even thought to light a torch on the furnace flame, but once he was inside the confined, stagnant passageways, he lost all sense of direction. Every wall looked the same and every turning promised to be the one to take him upward.
Time was against him. Crope had almost certainly gone to tell his master that he still lived, and as soon as Baralis realized that Jack was no longer in the dungeon, he would head straight for Kylock’s chamber. Jack’s mind flashed back to the incident by the stairs: he didn’t want Baralis lying in wait for him ever again.
Finally, after taking yet another turning that ended in a brick wall, Jack forced himself to stop and think. How could he find his way to Kylock’s chamber? He had no choice but to use the tunnels; walking through the palace in daylight was as good as suicide, especially now with all the guards on alert. Taking a few long breaths to calm himself, Jack tried to replay his footsteps in his head. Nothing. His mind had been so full of Kylock at the time, so overwhelmed with the nearness of his presence . . .
That was it. He had to concentrate on Kylock—on the thread that lay between them. He had to reel himself in.
It wasn’t easy to concentrate with time ticking away in his head. Everything was a distraction: the confined space, the thick black smoke of the torch, the flickering shadows that all looked like Baralis. Seconds gave way to minutes, and worry gave way to desperation. Casting the torch to the floor, Jack stamped out the light.
The darkness was a relief. No more shadows, or endless passageways, or wrong turns on show. With nothing for his eyes to see, Jack’s other senses were forced into service. Sounds, smells, tastes, and textures began to take on the importance of visual cues. When he had first sensed Kylock’s presence last time, it had been in the dark. It was the same this time, too. The first thing Jack felt was a warm flush across his left temple. The warmth spread over his cheek and down the left side of his neck. Turning to face the warmth, Jack became aware of a rushing noise in his ears. The sound pulsed as he took a step forward, gradually increasing in intensity as he made his way along the corridor.
Before long, Jack forgot he was in the dark. He saw things with his skin. Blood bloomed to the surface, pointing the way like a needle in a compass. He never saw turnings approach, he just took them blindly, trusting in the shifting warmth of his face.
By the time he came to the second flight of stairs, he was as good as sleepwalking. Up and up he went, not caring about the dangers of misstepping, not interested in keeping track of his route. Not long now. Not long before the trail of blood warmth, blood pressure, and gut instinct led him straight to Kylock’s door.
“What was his physical state?” Baralis pulled on his robe. Already the drug was working, strengthening the body, clearing the mind, its artificial brilliance shaping a world full of edges.
“He looked fair pale, master. But his wits were about him and I never saw him limp.”
Crope was the picture of poorly concealed guilt. Baralis guessed that his servant had not told him the whole story of Jack’s miraculous return to life. No matter, there would be time for questioning later. Right now he had more immediate matters to attend to. “Is he armed?”
“No master. I took his sword and his knife from his belt—just like you told me.” Crope rolled his big thumbs round in circles. “He’s still wearing mail, though. I was going to take it off him, only I forgot.”
All thoughts deserted Baralis as the drug sank its barbs into his mind. His heartbeat raced and his vision blurred, and he was forced to reach for Crope’s bulk to keep himself standing. Seconds later the turn had passed. A thimble’s dose of the drug was all he had taken, but its potency was enough to make even such small amounts dangerous. In return for the physical risks, it bestowed temporary strength upon its taker. Enough for one tolerable drawing, no more. Normally Baralis would never take such a crude and potentially harmful potion, but the moment he learnt that Jack was not dead, he knew he had no other choice. The drawing of two nights back had left him physically and mentally weak, and right now he needed something, anything, that could give him a short burst of power. Subtle healings took time, and with Jack roaming the depths of the palace, time was the one thing he didn’t have.
It was the one thing Jack had, though. The one amazing thing. Not once, but twice it had turned in his favor. First the loaves and now himself. The baker’s boy had been dead—or as close enough as counted—yet now he lived; his body free of scars and wounds. A drawing must have been poised upon his tongue at the moment of his death and had leaked from his lips with his last breath and spittle.
Baralis cursed his own frailty. If he had been stronger, he would have been able to detect the subtle festering of time. He had been looking for the wrong thing: the mighty blast, the terrible sundering, the drawing that would shake a wall. Jack’s magic had been a delicate embroidery, unraveling its power over two nights and a day. It had passed Baralis by like a shadow at dusk.
Pulling himself up to his full height, Baralis tested the work of the drug. He wasn’t weak now; he could perceive the lines of force, feel the unnatural curvature of time. All his senses were heightened, and his thoughts were as sharp, clear, and deadly as a jagged spike of glass.
He turned to Crope. “Are you sure you came straight here from the cellar? You didn’t dawdle around the courtyard to look at the birds?” He needed to know how long Jack had been left on his own.
“No, master. I gave Jack the letter, and—”
“The letter?”
Already looking guilty, Crope now looked condemned. “The letter his mother asked to me to give him if Larn was ever destroyed.”
“What?”
“Lucy, the ashmaid. She asked me to keep a letter for Jack until—”
“What was in this letter?”
“Don’t know, master. Never looked.”
Baralis’ eyes narrowed. It was pointless speculating on the contents of the letter, but perhaps some use could be made of its existence. “What did this letter look like?”
“Like every other letter, master.”
“Was it sealed? Was it rolled, folded, or tied with string?”
“Folded, with a dark red seal.”
Baralis went over to his desk. He picked a faded parchment at random, folded it and, tipping the edge of his sealing block to the flame, dripped bloodred wax onto the crease. Holding it up toward Crope, he asked, “Is this what it looked like?”
Crope nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, master. Yes.”
“Good. Come with me.”
Jack had reached the end of the tunnels. A glimmer of light sliced through the cracks in the stone, marking the presence of torches on the other side. Jack had no way of knowing if he had taken the same route laid out by Nabber, so he sent a quick prayer to Borc as he placed his hands on the wall: No guards. Please.
A gentle push set the stone in motion. Warmth, light, and freshness flooded in through the breach. Jack was dazzled. Lulled into a half-dream by the warm shift of his blood in the darkness, it was like being forced out of bed in the middle of the night.
Straightaway, he knew it wasn’t the same entrance as before: there was no curtain to mask the movement of the stone. Jack stepped out into a corridor. His foot landed on something soft: a silken rug.
“Argh!”
Jack whipped around to see where the cry had come from, and he came face-to-face with a woman dressed in green satin. They stood and looked at each other for a moment, and then the woman took a screaming breath.
“Gua—”
Jack clamped his hand over her mouth. His senses felt as if they were on overload: for the past hour he had lived on the barest minimum of input, and now the real world seemed too brazen for him to bear.
Trembling, unsure of what to do, worried that someone would come, Jack dragged the kicking woman into the passage. Even as he brought his knife to her throat, he knew he couldn’t kill her. Grabbing at the fabric of her dress, he tore a strip good for gagging. The woman’s gray eyes were large with terror. There was something about the slant of her cheekbones that reminded him of Tarissa.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “I just want you to be quiet for a while.” He had balled a wad of fabric in his fist, ready to stuff into her mouth, but now he reduced the mass by half—he didn’t want to risk suffocating her.
As he worked, Jack was keenly aware of minutes passing. Once the gag was in place, he tied the woman’s hands behind her back, using the stiff ribbons from her hair. “I’m sorry about this,” he said, pulling the knot tight. “But I’ve got no time to do anything else.” The woman simply glared back at him.
Jack stepped out into the well-lit corridors of the palace and dragged the stone-clad panel shut. Glancing to either side, he made a brief scan of the passageway. It was no more than thirty paces long, with two doors leading off to the right. The rug trailed to an end just beyond the second door, but in the opposite direction it ran straight along until another, more elaborate, rug intercepted it at right angles. Jack felt for the telltale pull in his blood. Weaker now, the incident with the woman and the bright light in the corridor had disturbed the fine balance of his senses.
What was left was just enough to confirm his best guess: Kylock’s chamber lay the way of the elaborately woven rug.
Jack’s heart beat fast as he raced along the passage. Kylock was very close now.
Reaching the corner, he slowed down his pace, bringing his body close against the wall. With breath wheezing in his throat and knife shaking in his hand, Jack stuck his head around the corner. Another corridor, a little longer than the last, with only one door to mark its length. A magnificent double door, torches to either side, guards to the side of the torches. An entrance fit for a king.
Jack’s glance raked over the two guards. Both men had swords at their waists and halberds in their hands. It wasn’t going to be an easy fight.
Or was it?
Closing his eyes, Jack tried to concentrate on the metal of their weapons. His thoughts skimmed through the air to the space around the door. He felt the quick buzz of loaded particles, perceived the unique vibration of the steel. It was like being in Stillfox’s cottage all over again: feeling the substance, entering the substance, changing its nature from within. Jack’s thoughts fell into vibration with the metal, and slowly he slipped inside. He tried to draw on his power to warm the metal, but there was no feeling of anger, no sudden rage to use as a spark. Without the push of strong emotions, he had nothing with which to kindle the flame.
In his mind, Jack searched for the old image of Rovas touching Tarissa. It came to him as quickly as always—the smuggler’s hand reaching out to encircle Tarissa’s waist—but this time it didn’t ring true. He saw it for what it was: a false product of his own hate. Tarissa would never willingly submit to Rovas’ caresses—he knew that now. Time and distance had allowed him to see things more clearly. Tarissa had never been out to snare him: her love had been true. He should have known that the day he left her, when she’d gone down on her knees and begged to come with him. . . .
Jack shook his head. He had been such a fool.
Shame at his own pride swelled like heat within his body. He couldn’t be angry with Tarissa and he wouldn’t use her image like a firelighter uses a spark.
There were other things to get angry about.
Baralis lying in wait to kill him.
Kylock’s forces slaughtering thirty women, then leaving their bodies to rot in a ditch.
Melli locked up in a room for half a year, her baby torn away at birth.
The power began to flow through Jack. His stomach contracted and his skull grew tight around his brain. With saliva running like molten metal on his tongue, Jack switched his thoughts to the enemies’ blades.
The air around the weapons shimmered, then the cool silver of the steel flared to hot red. There was no transition, no gradual change, the shift happened in less than a blink of an eye. The guards screamed, both dropping their halberds immediately. Burnt hands dropped down to belt buckles as swords burnt into thighs.
Jack stopped the power. The stench of hot metal, burnt flesh, and scorched fabric wafted up his nose on a wave of warm air. Dazed for a moment, he leant against the wall for support. One of the guards began to run down the corridor in Jack’s direction. Jack forced his protesting body into action and leapt out into the man’s path.
The guard was an easy target: defenseless, injured, and unprepared, he barely had time to register Jack’s blade before it slipped through his ribs to his heart. Jack freed his knife and let the man drop to the floor. The second guard had witnessed the scene and now took flight in the opposite direction. Jack raced after him. Seconds later he pulled the guard down, tackling his legs from behind. A quick thrust into the back of his lungs finished him off.
Jack stood up. He was sweating and heaving like a madman. He felt mad, too: scared out of his wits and exuberant in one.
Looking down the length of the corridor, he decided not to waste time hiding the bodies. Anyone could come along at any moment, and he had to get to Kylock before someone raised the alarm.
As he walked the few steps to the towering double doors, Jack wiped the blood from his knife. He tried to stop his hand from trembling, but although his body obeyed him in most things, it wouldn’t obey him in this. So it was a shaking right hand he raised to the latch, and arms weak at the elbows that pushed against the door.
“Follow me. We must get to the nobles’ quarters at once.” Baralis felt the waves of sorcery roll over him, raising the hairs on his flesh, drying the saliva on his teeth.
“But Jack was in the cellar.”
“Well, he isn’t there now.” And he wasn’t escaping, either. He was above them, drawing his special brand of sorcery close to the very heart. Jack had come for Kylock. Every nerve cell in Baralis’ body confirmed it.
Marod’s prophecy was unraveling before him.
Master and servant began to retrace their steps. Already halfway down to the kitchens, it would cost them precious minutes to make their way up through the palace. Baralis cursed his own stupidity—he should have gone straight to Kylock’s chamber from the start. He just hadn’t thought. He had assumed that Jack would try to escape, and had planned to lure him into staying by sending Crope ahead with a little something to catch his eye.
Reaching into his robe, Baralis pulled out the fake letter. Just as he was about to crumple it in his fist, he stopped himself. Perhaps a use might be found for his hasty decoy after all. Even if it only managed to distract Jack’s thoughts for a quarter-instant, it was well worth the keeping.
Jack found himself in a small hallway with a flight of steps leading up to a second set of doors. The place was quiet and cool with a torch burning low, and Jack took a moment to calm himself on the stairs.
Strange, but his sense of being led had gone; his blood was no longer pulling him forward and his skin rested slack upon the bone. It was as if their job was done.
On his own now, Jack climbed the stairs, took the second door, and entered Kylock’s chambers. A dimly lit reception room met his eyes. Everything looked perfect, as if no one had ever stepped upon the silken carpets, or sat upon the cushioned chairs. Even the papers and charts on the desk looked as if they had never been touched. Everything was placed in neat stacks. There was something about the room, some tiny little discrepancy, that jarred at Jack’s senses. Only as he crossed over to the door on the far side did he realize what it was.
All the furniture—the chests, the chairs, the benches, and tables—was arranged in lines to form a grid. The armrest of one chair was perfectly aligned with the armrest of another chair on the far side of the room. Table edges mirrored each other, chests were
turned lengthwise and placed equal distances apart. Jack had the distinct feeling that if he had a measuring line upon him, he’d find all the lengths and angles exactly the same.
A cold chill ran over his cheeks, and he moved quickly on. A pair of doors waited on the far side of the room, and he picked one at random. The handle was cool as he turned it, so cool it raised goosebumps upon his hand and forearm.
Darkness enveloped him as he stepped inside the room. It clung, it seeped, it shrouded. The door clicked shut behind him.
“Who dares disturb me unannounced?”
For a brief moment, Jack thought the voice was Baralis’: the rich and beautifully modulated timbre, the undertone of power. But there was a filigree of difference—a subtle thread of wildness that marked it all its own.
“Name yourself.” There was no fear in the voice, simply authority used to being obeyed.
Jack tried to pinpoint the source. The darkness seemed to be created from more than lack of light, it had texture and thickness and movement. Jack imagined himself breathing it in: black smoke curling down to his lungs.
“Are you a demon come to try me? Step forward and take your chance.”
Jack was unnerved by Kylock’s calmness. He had expected many things, but never relaxed encouragement. His grip on his knife wavered—sweat oiling the shift. Realizing Kylock had him at a disadvantage, Jack tried hard to search for forms in the darkness. Spots of light danced before his eyes. When they cleared, he thought he saw a half-circle of pale light straight ahead.
“Come. I am not afraid.”
Jack was. Power lay in this room. Raw terrible power. As he stepped forward, he began to shape a drawing. It was difficult to know what to focus on, or how much power to use, or where to aim the blow. He might miscalculate and miss Kylock altogether, leaving himself open to an attack.
Better by far to use a knife. Instinct warned him to keep something in reserve, though, to hold his power close in case Kylock lashed out.
