The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  The pale fan of light was clearer now. Jack willed Kylock to speak again so he could focus in on his position. Nothing. The only sound in the room was the pumping of Jack’s heart. Then, from the center of the paleness, came the soft swish of silk on silk.

  Jack leapt forward. He felt his knife edge nick soft flesh before he landed hard on his shoulder. Rolling to his feet, he sprang into a defensive position, sweeping his knife wide to form an arc. Noise came from his left, a ragged breath or a softly mocking laugh. Jack cursed the darkness.

  Like an answer to a prayer, light slanted across the room. A thin line at first, it broadened into a band. Kylock was nowhere to be seen—standing in shadows that had darkened with the light. Jack felt a warm draft of air ripple over his back. Spinning around, he saw a black figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  Metal slivered along Jack’s tongue. All thoughts of caution were blasted from his mind by the pressure of power inside.

  “Jack. Crope’s got something for you. Crope forgot to give you the second letter.” The figure held out a hand. Something white gleamed between the fingers.

  Jack swallowed hard, pushing the power back. His head was flooded with pressure. Pain streaked along his forehead, meeting between his eyes. Blood poured down from his nostrils.

  “Another note from Lucy, Jack.” Crope waggled a folded piece of paper in front of him.

  Jack could just about make out the wax seal. Everything about the letter looked the same as the one he held in the cellar earlier. Two letters from his mother? A noise buzzed through Jack’s head. He ignored it. A rustle of fabric came from behind. He paid it no heed.

  The buzzing sound grew louder as he stepped toward the door. It was nothing—probably an effect of biting back the drawing.

  Crope’s shadow was a black strip running through the light. Jack moved onto it, raising his hand in readiness to accept the letter. The shadow cast by Crope’s arm caught his eye; it swayed in time to Crope’s movements, but one small part seemed to trail behind. A lace cuff, perhaps? Jack looked up. The sleeves of Crope’s undershirt were rolled above his elbows.

  Jack felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his spine.

  There was a hand behind the hand.

  Baralis.

  Jack pivoted, leaping back from the doorway and the light. Letting his body fall to the floor, he scrambled desperately into the shadows near the wall. As he moved, he called up the drawing—soft now, it was slow to build. Teeth clenched, fists clenched, Jack forced the power to come back. Thought played no part in his actions. Reflexes were all that he had.

  Movement came from the door. Crope’s shadow moved out of sight and was instantly replaced by another.

  “Come in and join the party, Baralis.”

  Kylock’s words were the last thing Jack heard before he let the drawing out.

  Baralis was ready for Jack’s assault. Whilst Crope stood distracting him at the door, Baralis had taken stock of the situation and formed a drawing ready to be sent.

  He stepped into the room.

  Air crackled and condensed. Baralis saw the thickening, felt the sharp pressure pain in his eardrums. His own drawing rose up like a mirror image, not even a split second behind.

  An instant was stretched to its limits. Directly ahead of him, Baralis saw Kylock step forward from the shadow. To the right, Jack was hunched against a wall. Baralis moved toward him. Even as he made himself a target, he fixed his own sights upon Jack. And he was quicker, better, and craftier than the baker’s boy would ever be.

  Baralis unleashed his power. With mouth open and tongue ringing, he watched in horror as Jack’s drawing flared wide. A sickening sensation rose up from his gut. Jack wasn’t targeting him—he had no target. He was blasting everything before him.

  Kylock!

  Baralis shifted his drawing in midcast, shaping a barrier to defend the king. Altering the nature of the sorcery at such an instant was dangerous beyond measure, but he had no choice. Without Kylock he had nothing. Baralis fashioned the shield, speeding it toward Kylock, using all his powers of mind and will to force it ahead of Jack’s blast. Something ripped inside his chest. Pain needled close to his heart.

  Baralis cursed Jack. He was a fool! Only an untrained simpleton would send such a crude and directionless drawing. He should have targeted it first. He should have aimed it straight at him!

  The first surge of Jack’s drawing hit. Baralis was thrashed by light and air. He was knocked back and his head smashed into the doorframe. On and on the power came. It was relentless—a solid block of force. There was not enough power left within him to shield himself as well as Kylock. What had happened two nights back had left him too weak. Drugs could only do so much, and he had nothing but the barest glimmer in reserve.

  With the very last finger of power that was left to him, Baralis secured the shield around Kylock, protecting his own creation, gritting himself for the blow.

  Jack was hardly aware of what was happening. In the space of two seconds, a world of change had raced by. The drawing flowed through him, fast and terrible and filled with light. Kylock was in the center of the room, standing upright against the blast. Baralis was pinned against the doorframe. Jack could sense him trying to shield himself. He perceived the lines of power, intertwining cords, like ligaments, that cut across the room. Somehow Kylock was still protected by Baralis’ power—the mesh was still intact.

  In that instant, Jack realized that he had been wrong about one important thing. He would never be able to destroy Kylock without destroying Baralis first. The man would not give up his one chance for glory lightly. It was time to kill the master of the beast. All that was left—all that Jack had in body and soul—he directed toward Baralis.

  His spine cracked like a whip as he forced the drawing to bend. Fighting against the broad blade of power, Jack whittled it down it to an arrow-point of light. And sent it straight for Baralis.

  A sharp schism ripped through the air. Baralis’ body was lifted up and thrown against the wall. Bones cracked, skull cracked, blood shot from ears and mouth. A terrible scream sounded. Jack saw the lines of power fade to light traces in the dark. The mesh that had been Kylock’s protection was less than an arm’s length from Baralis’ chest when it withered into shade.

  Air gusted around the room like a gale. Jack couldn’t breathe. A convulsion tore through his belly—a void that sucked him in. Weakened beyond telling, he capped the power’s flow. The light and air closed in on itself, thinning, fading, and then dying to nothing. A soft hiss sounded as it went.

  Baralis slumped to the floor, his body landing in a heap of unnatural angles, jagged with broken bones.

  Jack felt himself falling, only he was already on the floor. Down and down he went, his body collapsing around him, pulled under by the void. Pain washed over him, blurring his vision to darkness and weighing his eyelids down. The last thing he saw was Baralis raising a shaking hand toward Kylock. His mouth worked for a moment and then two tortured words came out:

  “My son.”

  The hand dropped to the floor as Jack let in the dark.

  Thirty-seven

  Jack blinked into waking. There was no coming round period, no time to take stock before his eyes were open.

  Kylock was standing above him, a letter in his hand. “Aah, awake at last I see. Tell me, were your dreams all you expected?” He looked calm, but there was a hint of madness in his voice and an artificial gleam in the corner of his eye.

  Jack tried to rally his thoughts, tried to recall all that had happened to bring him here. Baralis. His gaze shot to the wall by the door: Baralis’ body was nowhere to be seen. How much time had passed? How long had he lain here vulnerable to Kylock’s scrutiny?

  Kylock made a short clicking sound in his throat. “So you’re Lesketh’s bastard, eh?”

  Jack raised his arm to his tunic. Pain shot from his shoulder to his stomach.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” Kylock curled the letter up in his fis
t. “Such a touching little note from mother to son.” His voice rose higher as he spoke. Abruptly he turned on his heel.

  Pulling himself into a sitting position, Jack tested the power inside. There was nothing left: the drawing that had destroyed Baralis had used up all his strength. Cautiously, he felt for his knife.

  Two noises distracted him at the same time. The first was a dragging noise, the sound of something being scraped across the floor. It came from the other room, and Jack knew without a doubt it was Crope hauling Baralis’ body away. The second noise came from Kylock himself: a low, hacking laugh, almost a cough.

  Kylock’s shoulders were shaking. His knuckles were white where he gripped the letter. His fingertips were raw flesh and blood. “And I—I am Baralis’ bastard. Whilst the king took his pleasures where he found them, my mother whored with his chancellor.” Kylock’s laugh was bitter now. He swung around to face Jack, his eyes very bright. “Baralis. Who would have thought it? Who would have guessed?”

  Jack felt his skin crawling. Slowly, gradually, power was building within Kylock.

  “You have what is mine!” he cried. “Your father should have been my father. Your face should have been mine.” Spittle flew from his lips. The two tendons on the side of his neck were raised like cords of rope. “My hands, my lips, my teeth—all yours.”

  Jack flinched. He backed against the wall. His mouth felt as dry as parchment. Kylock was losing control. Desperate for the knife now, Jack spread out his search. Nothing. He risked a sideways glance—the knife gleamed to the right of his hand, just beyond his reach.

  Moving in close, Kylock began shaking his head. “You think you’re going to walk out of this room and take your proof to the world. Show me up for what I am. Well, I swear to you that’s not going to happen. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  As Kylock spoke, Jack became aware of heat building on his cheeks. At first he thought it was a blood-flush, like the ones that had led him to Kylock, but it didn’t stop at simple warming. It began to burn. Terror bubbled in Jack’s throat. His every instinct warned him to run away, yet he was too terrified to move.

  “King’s son.” Kylock was a finger-length from his face now. “Mother a common servant who made her money whoring on the side.”

  Listening to Kylock’s words, something snapped inside Jack. His mother wasn’t a whore—he knew that now—and this monster before him had no right to say it. Springing up, Jack went straight for Kylock’s throat. A wall of blistering heat knocked him back. His nose and forehead were scorched; he smelled the quick singeing of his hair. And his hands. Falling back against the wall, his hands blazed with pain. Red and throbbing, he brought them to his face. His eyes were aching and he could barely see the burns on his palms.

  “Those should have been my hands,” said Kylock.

  Anger whipped through Jack. He was sick of listening to the ravings of a madman. “I don’t care,” he cried. “I don’t want what you’ve got. I don’t give a damn about being a king.”

  Even as he spoke, Jack felt the linings of his nose and throat drying out. Air scorched his lungs. The blazing wave of moments earlier had gone, only to be replaced by a steady buildup of heat. Everything was hot to the touch: the floor, the walls, his clothes. The chain mail next to his skin was a blistering, scorching sheath.

  Kylock’s eyes grew blank. The air surrounding him rippled. Something sparked in his fist: the letter. A lick of flame ran up his arm. He didn’t even flinch.

  Jack felt the buildup of terrible pressure. The heat was unbearable—the skin on his face was being seared like a piece of meat. He had to stop Kylock. Raising the palms of his hands to face him, he cried, “Look, these are a baker’s hands, not a king’s.”

  The terrible bright blankness left Kylock’s eyes for an instant. The heat wavered.

  Jack edged to the side, his sights set on the knife.

  Kylock began shaking his head. “No, king’s son,” he said, speaking very softly. “You’ll never have what is mine.”

  Jack lunged for the knife. Heat blasted against him. His skin was on fire, the air was sucked from his lungs. Still he went on. His fingers touched the hilt. Railing against instinct, he clasped the red-hot metal in the palm of his hands. Pain ripped through his mind. A second, maybe two, was lost to him as he spiraled down toward a fiery hell. The smell of his own burnt flesh brought him round.

  Flames. He was surrounded by flames. The silk rug on the floor was ablaze. Wall hangings and furnishings caught light as he watched. Panicking, terrified, breathing in smoke, Jack fought to keep his mind intact. Strangely it was the pain throbbing in his hand that kept him focused. It throbbed in time with his heart. It was as if Larn was behind each agonizing pulse—slapping him on the cheek to keep him conscious.

  Jack felt himself growing stronger. He knew he had never been abandoned by his father. He knew who his mother was and where she had come from, and what she had planned a decade to do. After a lifetime of lies and evasions, the truth was his at last. And there had to be power in that.

  Forcing himself to his feet, he ran through the flames toward Kylock. The blaze blinded, the smoke choked, the scorching heat shredded his flesh. A warm breath of air buffeted his body, and then he came face-to-face with Kylock. Surprise flitted across Kylock’s face. A dark glimmer in his eyes might have been fear, but by the time Jack had blinked away the smoke-tears it was gone.

  Time stretched to a fine film like oil over water. Flames formed a hissing, crackling ring around the two men. Jack could feel the fire’s heat on his back. Kylock was surrounded by a halo of golden light; it spilled over his shoulders and down along his torso. It flickered like candlelight upon his face. Never had he looked more like Baralis.

  Watching him, Jack felt a hard block of fear rise in his throat. There was no doubting Kylock was Baralis’ son.

  Baralis. Even now that he had killed the man, Jack could only guess at the full range of Baralis’ powers. Focusing his gaze on Kylock’s face, Jack wondered if the son was capable of more. Kylock’s eyes were sharp with madness—Baralis’ brilliance was there, but it had been distorted into something new and monstrous. As Jack watched, Kylock’s lips curved into a smile. Yes, he could do much worse.

  Jack shuddered.

  The pain pulsed hot in his hand. Larn again, pushing, reminding, keeping him on track. The reflex reaction of the pain caused him to raise his hand. The knife came up with it.

  Kylock’s gaze flicked to the blade. He raised his arm to defend himself. Jack moved ahead of him. Driven to madness by the pain of his burns, he had developed a madman’s reflexes. The moment Kylock’s arm came up to his heart, Jack raised the dagger to his throat. Blind panic registered on Kylock’s face. For the briefest instant he looked as shocked as a child who had been slapped for no reason.

  And then the knife went in. Kylock’s mouth fell open. Jack flinched, expecting sorcery. Quickly, he worked to turn the blade within the muscle of Kylock’s neck, seeking to sever the windpipe. Kylock fought him all the way.

  Jack smelled the metal tang of sorcery. He saw Kylock’s lips move. Within the wet redness of his mouth, Kylock’s tongue began to vibrate.

  The pain in Jack’s arm and hand was unbearable. His eyes were stinging with sweat and smoke. Kylock’s body tensed. Panicking, Jack fumbled with the knife for what seemed like an eternity. Blood gushed over Jack’s fist and down Kylock’s chest. Jack’s knife hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Finally the blade scraped against the elastic wall of Kylock’s windpipe.

  In that instant Kylock’s mouth opened wide. The air thickened around his lips. The odor of hot metal sharpened into a stench.

  With one razor-quick movement, Jack sliced Kylock’s windpipe in two.

  A soft hiss escaped from Kylock’s lips. He blinked once, his eyes revealing a raw, animal terror, and then the light disappeared from his face.

  Jack couldn’t stop shaking. His grip on the knife was so tight, his knuckles were as white as bone. He took a deep g
ulp of air, and as he did so, he breathed in what remained of Kylock’s last breath.

  The breath was the final link between them. Jack felt it settling within his lungs, sending messages to his blood. It was rich with the promise of sorcery, heavy with the remains of the man. Breathing it in, Jack realized the full wrath of Kylock’s last drawing, shivered at the knowledge of all it could have destroyed. No one in this palace would have escaped alive. The power was as thick and black as tar. Yet there were other things besides destruction borne upon the sorcery-tainted air. Jack felt the force of Kylock’s will, the breadth of his genius, and the dark depths of his madness. He saw the full tragedy of a brilliant mind ruined by drugs, manipulation, and lies. Baralis’ creature entirely, Kylock had been lured into a delusional state where his emerging insanity was encouraged and his sadism overlooked.

  Jack knew all this in an instant, and much, much more. There was little triumph here, only the end of a life that had been doomed from the start.

  Tired beyond measure, Jack exhaled. He didn’t want Kylock’s breath in him a moment longer. The truths it had shown him were too disturbing. They left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Baralis had turned his own son into a monster.

  Jack yanked out the blade and blood gushed from the wound. Kylock’s eyes were closed. His muscles stiffened, then relaxed. The blackened letter dropped into the flames by his feet. Jack made no attempt to retrieve it.

  Kylock fell. The blaze closed in to take him.

  Jack turned. There was nowhere to go. Shoulder-height flames circled the room. There were no walls, there was no door: everything was red and white. Thick smoke rolled from under flames, hot and acrid; Jack didn’t want to take it in, but he had no choice. He had to breathe.

  Pain had taken his sanity, now the smoke took his consciousness. In and out he drifted, the flames flickering higher and nearer each time he opened his eyes. He felt himself swaying, ready to fall. The heat was too intense; he couldn’t fight it. All he wanted to do was collapse by Kylock’s side.