by J. V. Jones
Drifting . . . further and further away. Peace lay ahead. Peace, relief, and truth.
“Jack!”
A dark shadow broke through the flames. For one brief moment, Jack’s heart thrilled: it was Tawl, come to carry him from the temple. But no, this wasn’t Larn. And as the figure came closer, he realized it couldn’t be Tawl. Yellow and black, the colors of Valdis—Tawl would never dress as a knight.
“Jack!”
The figure hovered outside the ring of flames. Other figures joined him, all wearing yellow and black. There was shouting and moving and beating of cloaks.
Jack felt himself falling. The flames leapt up to meet him; hot little fingers eager to burn.
He never hit the floor. Hands broke his fall, gentle hands that cupped him like a baby and carried him through the blaze. With eyes that could barely see, through tears that wouldn’t stop coming, Jack looked up into the face of the person who held him. That was when he knew it was Tawl. Tawl wearing the knight’s colors, surrounded by other knights, shouting out commands, his voice filled with urgency, his blue eyes more fierce than Jack had ever seen them. Tawl. Together they went through the flames, and together they emerged into a world bright with hope, light, and laughter far on the other side.
“You—” Jack fought against the blistered dryness that was his throat, “you weren’t supposed to come back for me.”
Tawl’s smile was gentle. “I warned you about my heart, Jack. I said it might lead me astray.”
Fire followed them from the palace, barreling down corridors, licking at their heels. Stairwells and passageways were filled with smoke and motes of blackened dust. People were everywhere—screaming and panicking and running for their lives. No one paid heed to their passing. No one cared about the dozen fully dressed knights who raced ahead of the blaze. If they looked at all, it was at the one tall, golden-haired knight who carried a lifeless body in his arms. Something about his face gave hope to those who saw him. Something in his eyes spoke directly to the soul.
Melli stood in the knights’ camp and watched the palace burn. Bright, fierce, and liberating, it lit up the northern sky. Strange, but she wasn’t worried anymore: there was something in the air besides the smoke: a sense of anticipation, a feeling that everything would turn out all right.
“They’re coming back, miss,” said Borlin. “I can spot them now, just north of the plain.”
Melli didn’t ask if Tawl was amongst them, she didn’t have to. She just knew. “Have some brandy and blankets ready,” she said to Grift, who was hovering near to the fire.
“Aye, miss.”
Walking to the front of the camp, Melli heard the first strains of a song. A rich and mellow voice shaped words that pulled at the heart. Melli changed her course, drawn to the beauty of the voice. As she walked nearer, other voices joined in the song, and when she rounded the command tent, she saw a sight that made her smile with joy.
Twenty or so knights were gathered around a makeshift crib, singing little Herbert to sleep.
Andris, who had ridden out to Fair Oaks to fetch her earlier that day, caught sight of Melli and beckoned her over. She was drawn into the circle next to her baby, and the knights sang for her as well. Melli felt her heart would break. Anyone who heard them sing could not doubt that the knighthood was good. Looking at their fine faces, hearing the tenderness in their voices, Melli suddenly knew why Tawl had risked everything to save them. Some things were worth more than one life alone.
And, as the song came to an end and Tawl rode into the camp, Melli made up her mind that she would not stand in his way. She would release Tawl from his oath and give him the freedom to become leader of the knighthood. After all he had done for her she owed him that.
“Get the surgeon. Quick!” shouted Tawl from his horse. Melli saw someone riding at his back. She caught her breath. No. It couldn’t be . . .
But it was. It was Jack, nothing on his back except grimy, warped chain mail, no part of his skin that wasn’t black with smoke or burns. Melli rushed forward, her eyes filling with quick tears, her throat closing in around her breath. The world suddenly seemed a place where miracles could happen. And the golden-haired knight who rode toward her seemed worthy, at long last, of all God’s gifts. She loved him completely.
That night, as the fire blazed a league to the north, the surgeon worked on Jack. Melli held his hand through the long hours of torment, forcing water through his blistered lips, rubbing salve into his wounds. His forehead and hands were burnt the worst, but there were many lesser burns running the entire length of his body. One or two knights came over offering help and advice, and Borlin brought a drug to make him sleep. Only when Jack’s breathing was easy and regular did Melli fall asleep herself.
Tawl woke her at dawn. “Come, Melli. We’ve got to go to the city.”
“But—” Melli looked down at her lap. Jack’s bandaged hand rested against the fabric of her dress.
“Jack needs to sleep. You’ve done what you can. Nabber can look after him while we’re gone.” Tawl’s voice was gentle but firm. “You and the baby must come with me.”
She didn’t argue. She had many different responsibilities now.
Melli took great care with her appearance before she rode into the city. She brushed her hair until it shone, and disguised her burns with powder and paste. The innkeeper’s eldest daughter had parted with her best winter dress, and Melli put it on in Tyren’s tent. She struggled to pull it over her broken arm, far too proud to ask for help. When she finally emerged into the camp, Tawl was waiting with a beautiful bay gelding. He had just helped her onto the horse when, to her great displeasure, Nanny Greal rode over to join them.
“What’s she doing coming with us?” hissed Melli under her breath.
“She’s the only person in Bren who knows Baralis was the one who ordered the duke’s murder.”
Melli could think of no suitable objection to that, so she settled for an indignant snort instead. “She’s not riding with the baby. I’m taking him.”
Tawl actually laughed. Melli was struck by how young and happy he looked: almost like a child. “Well, if that’s what you want, little Herbert will have to be slung over your back.”
“Fine.” Melli tried to sound firm, but Tawl’s smile was infectious and she found herself giving in. “All right, all right, Nanny Greal can take him.”
Nanny Greal beamed at Tawl.
Tawl beamed at Nanny Greal.
Melli glared at both of them. And then smiled when their backs were turned. She felt madly, recklessly, happy.
The ride into the city took less than an hour. Melli rode at the head of a cohort of two hundred and fifty knights and seventy Highwall troops. Word was out that Baralis and Kylock were dead, and with no one to give orders, the city was in chaos. A company of blackhelms challenged them at the gate, but Valdis’ marksmen picked off a few of their numbers and their enthusiasm quickly waned.
Melli felt nervous entering the city. She rode through street after street where people stood and stared at her, many openly hostile, some cursing as she passed. Gone was the mad euphoria of earlier. Instead she was sobered by the sheer brevity of events: the future of a great and ancient city lay in the balance—its fate dependent upon her and her son.
Melli’s nervousness showed itself as pride. Her chin tilted upward and her eyes flashed at those who cursed her. She had been married to their duke and had given birth to Bren’s true heir—she had every right to be here.
As the cohort turned into a large public square, Melli got her first sight of the smoking skeleton that had once been the duke’s palace. It had been reduced to a stone shell. The walls were intact, but the middle was now a gaping hollow: all the wood—all the roof beams and floorboards and furnishings and doorframes—had perished. All gone, and she couldn’t say she was sorry to see it.
Mesmerized by the sight for some time, Melli looked around to see a large crowd gathering in the square. She glanced at Tawl
“It’s all right,” he said. “The more the better.”
Melli looked at the hundreds of people who were blocking the streets and pathways, swarming around the fountains, and rapidly filling every available cobbled space. She was afraid now, but determined not to show it.
The knights—resplendent in full dress armor, lances at their sides, their horses proud and gleaming—formed a defensive semicircle around Melli, Tawl, and Nanny Greal. A flash of yellow-and-black high up on a roof caught Melli’s eye: Valdis’ marksmen were leaving nothing to chance.
When the square was full of people, Tawl urged his horse up the few steps to the raised dais at the head of the square. The crowd, recognizing the man who had once been the duke’s champion, began to hiss.
Tawl raised his hands. “Silence,” he commanded. “Hear me first before you condemn me.” His voice carried to all four corners of the square and the noise of the crowd died down. “Baralis and Kylock are dead. They were both killed last night in the fire. Your city and your armies are no longer commanded by a foreign king—”
“Why should we listen to you?” snapped a man near the front of the crowd. “You murdered our duke.”
“Aye,” murmured a hundred others.
Tawl’s face darkened. He pressed his lips together as if he were forcibly containing a reply. With a quick gesture he beckoned Nanny Greal forth. Melli took the baby from her before she guided her horse up the steps.
Nanny Greal brought her horse to rest next to Tawl’s, and arranging her bony body high in the saddle, she told her story to the crowd. First she told how she had overheard Baralis plotting to kill the duke, about the payment that changed hands, and the true name of the assassin.
Then, with the crowd still reeling in disbelief, she told them how Kylock had murdered dozens of noblemen and had their mutilated bodies thrown into the lake. When someone called her a liar, she took out a little pigskin book and recited their names one by one. When she came to the name, “Lord Bathroy,” a voice cried out from the crowd:
“The lady is right.” The voice belonged to an old man who made his way to the front. Painfully thin, covered only by rags, the man was missing his left hand. Slowly he climbed the steps of the dais. “Bathroy is dead.”
Tawl glanced at Melli.
Someone in the crowd jeered, “How would you know?”
Turning to face the mob, the old man held up the scarred stump that had once been his left wrist. “I know because I was one of Kylock’s victims.” His gaze darted around the crowd, challenging anyone to contradict him. No one could meet his eye. “I shared a cell with Bathroy. I was there when he was taken away, and I stayed awake as he screamed through the night.” The man’s voice was thin and piercing. “And let me tell you, he wasn’t the only one. Night after night I heard men scream, and night after night I gave thanks to God that Kylock hadn’t come for me.”
The crowd was silent now. They shifted uneasily where they stood.
“Only one night he did come,” said the man. “One night our king, our duke, our warlord came and asked for me.”
Hearing the old man speak, Melli felt the hairs on her arms prickle. Her throat and lips were dry.
“Bound and gagged, I was led into a room lit up like a surgeon’s tent. In the middle of the floor was a butcher’s block. After the guards left, Kylock laid my arm against the wood and hacked off my hand with a cleaver.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd.
Tawl grasped Melli’s hand tightly. She felt as if she would faint.
The man brought his arm down to his side. “Kylock wasn’t going to stop there, but word came that he was needed urgently upstairs, so I was led back to my cell. He never called for me again after that night—whether he forgot, or whether he just wanted to prolong my suffering, I will never know.” The man shook his head slowly, and when he next spoke, his voice had lost all its former power. He sounded tired and very old. “So, whatever you do today, remember this one thing: Kylock may have led us to victory, but he would have led us to damnation as well.”
A single tear streaked down Melli’s face. Quickly, she brushed the wetness away. Of all who were gathered here today, she alone knew just how right the old man was.
The eyes of the crowd were cast down to the ground. No one spoke.
Melli wanted to go to the man, to comfort him. She wasn’t the only one: a young girl with dark shiny hair and pink cheeks came forward and took the man’s arm. Without looking up at the dais, he let himself be led away. The crowd was silent as the old man and the girl made their way through their midst. There was something immeasurably sad about the sight of them, arms linked, shoulders touching, the old man leaning against the girl for support.
Watching them, Melli felt her throat tighten. How many other people in the city had been touched by Kylock’s madness? How many years would need to pass before they were free of the memories and the pain?
After a few minutes of silence, Mistress Greal chose to speak. Clearing her throat loudly to ensure she had everyone’s full attention, she began telling the crowd the story of how Melli had been imprisoned in the castle for five months—pregnant with the duke’s child and victim of Kylock’s cruelty. The crowd listened, subdued. Nanny Greal told of the night Melli gave birth and the orders Baralis had given her: “As soon as the baby is born, take it away and smother it. Destroy the body when you’re done.”
A dark murmur united the crowd.
Melli shuddered. She heard the words as if they came straight from Baralis’ mouth. For the first time, she realized just how much danger Nanny Greal had placed herself in by defying Baralis’ orders. Later, when all this was over she would thank her—properly and from the heart.
For now, though, her first task was to show her son to the city of Bren. Kicking her horse forward, she joined Tawl and Nanny Greal on the steps. Tawl took her reins and Melli held up the baby for all the crowd to see.
“Look,” she cried. “Look at the face of your future duke. Look at the son of the Hawk.”
Many in the crowd cheered, others hissed, a few cursed.
“Foreign whore! That baby could be anyone’s brat.”
Tawl stiffened. He took a mouthful of air to shout, but Melli put a hand on his arm. “No,” she whispered. “Let me handle this.”
Turning back to the crowd, she took the left sock from the baby. When Nanny Greal leant forward to give her a hand, Melli didn’t slap her away.
“Here!” she said, presenting the barefoot and now very indignant baby to the crowd. “See the mark of the Hawk for yourself.”
Most of the people cheered now. It wasn’t enough for Melli. Looking directly at the man who had just insulted her, she beckoned him forward. “Come, sir, take a look at the baby close up. Run your finger over the mark—satisfy yourself that it won’t rub off.” Laughter rose from the crowd. “Come on,” she said when the man hesitated. “With a tongue as fast as yours, I would have expected quicker feet.”
The man who came forward became the most famous man in Bren. Quick-tongued Tarvold, as he was subsequently known to all and sundry, went down in history as being the man first to doubt, and then to proclaim, Melliandra’s baby as the true heir to Bren. His words, “Aye, my friends, the lady’s right about the mark—it won’t come off,” went on record as setting off the longest and loudest cheer in the city’s thousand-year history.
Tradition later held that the one thing that stopped the cheering was when the Lady Melliandra turned her open palm toward the crowd and swore she would bring peace. Everyone was quiet after that. There was nothing more to say.
Epilogue
Aah, so what you’re saying is that I’m definitely not the chosen one?” Tavalisk held out his little silver sieve and scooped a fistful of tadpoles from the tank. It was hatching season at last and the archbishop was looking forward to one of his favorite delicacies: frogspawn.
“Well, as Your Eminence can see, there is a great difference between the two verses.” Gamil wa
ved toward the two copies of Marod’s prophecy on the desk. “The version that fell into your hands was a much later edition than the first, Your Eminence. Scribes had changed words, sentences, meanings.”
“Hmm.” Tavalisk inspected the sieve full of wriggling tadpoles, looking for the ones that were already sprouting limbs. “Well, I have no sister, so it surely can’t be me. And even if I did have one, as a man of the Church I could never condone taking her as a lover.”
“Exactly, Your Eminence.” Gamil took the liberty of edging the copies to the side. A few stray tadpoles had landed on the parchment.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, Gamil. Can’t say I’m disappointed, either. After all, everything has turned out fine: the lovely Lady Melliandra is acting as regent in Bren, the Four Kingdoms have dragged up an old cousin of the late King Lesketh to take the throne there, the north is free of Kylock’s forces, and the south is no longer under threat. I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Though I still think I’m due part of the credit.”
“How so, Your Eminence?”
“Well, according to all the rumors it was that golden-haired knight’s doing, and you alone know, Gamil, how I encouraged him all the way.”
“I pray Your Eminence never sees fit to encourage me.”
“Nonsense, Gamil. I did my duty by the knight: kept him safe in my dungeons for a year, monitored his every move, even saved his ladyfriend from a life on the streets.” Tavalisk filled his silver spoon with tadpoles, squeezed fresh lemon juice, seasoned with salt and pepper, then swallowed them whole. Slimy little devils. Quite tasteless, really. “In fact, in many ways I was chosen. Who’s to say the newly altered version of a prophecy doesn’t have as much validity as the old one? Words don’t change without reasons, Gamil. Fate meant to draw me in.”
“And then left you off the hook at the last moment?”
“Gamil, you forget how tirelessly I have worked over the past two years to keep Baralis and Kylock from taking power.” Tavalisk managed an affronted snort. “Anyway, the Lady Melliandra has been regent for over two months now, and it’s high time I sent her an official greeting. Scribe me an appropriate missive. Make the usual offerings of friendship and so forth, and then bring it to me to sign.”
