The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  Clearing his throat with a polite cough before he spoke, Emith said, “I think you’re right, miss. I’ve known a fair few scribes in my time, and all of them spent more time planning than they did sleeping. They’re nothing if not cautious men.”

  Tessa ran a hand along her temples. A thumb-sized burn could clearly be seen on her palm from the time she had worked against the harras in the Valley of Broken Stones. Ravis didn’t like the look of it at all. He liked what it meant even less. Painting a pattern to free the Barbed Coil was going to be dangerous. Izgard and his scribe wouldn’t just stand by and let Tessa unbind it. Ravis knew Izgard. He knew the Garizon king wouldn’t be content with merely defending the Coil. He would strike down anyone who tried to take it.

  “We could search the fortress,” Tessa said. “There might be something hidden away.”

  Camron made a small gesture with his hand. “It would take us days to search Castle Bess from top to bottom. The cellars alone form an entire story belowground. And beneath them there’s a maze of tunnels, cells, and natural caverns.” He smiled—his first since he had met them in the courtyard. “As a boy I got lost down there once. It took my father half a day to find me.”

  “You have no men to spare.” It wasn’t a question, and once again Ravis realized how observant Tessa was. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed Camron’s lack of men.

  Camron glanced at Ravis. Crossing to a high shelf, he pulled down a second bottle of berriac and cracked open the wax seal. Without a word he went around the table, filling everyone’s cup. Watching him, Ravis realized that two months earlier Camron would never have dreamed of serving his guests with his own hand. He would have expected Tessa as a female or Emith as a lowly scribe’s assistant to perform the task for him. Now he did it without a thought.

  When all cups were full, Camron turned to Tessa. “Izgard could arrive here as early as tomorrow morning. If this pattern is as important as you say, then it must be found soon, before the fortress is overrun.”

  Camron sat down, adjusting his chair so he could face both Emith and Tessa. “Please understand me,” he said, looking from face to face. “I don’t mean to frighten either of you, but we have very little time. Castle Bess is the strongest fortress in northern Rhaize, but Izgard has the plans to it. He knows its weak points, and even if he didn’t, he is coming here with such numbers that I doubt if we’ll be able to hold him off for more than half a day. As things stand tonight, I could spare two men to accompany you from the castle and take you to safety. Not Bay’Zell—its days are numbered—but inland to Runzy. Once there you can move south or west. In the meantime I will search for the pattern myself, both in the city and here in the fortress, and the moment it’s found I will bring it to you. I promise this on my father’s name.”

  Ravis was struck by how much Camron of Thorn had changed. For someone about to defend a fortress with what Ravis guessed to be fewer than two dozen men, his offer was generous to say the least. Ravis chewed on his scar. For some reason he found himself thinking about what Tessa had said to him on The Mull, about how Deveric’s patterns had held them back. Perhaps Camron had been held back too.

  Shrugging off the thought, Ravis looked to Tessa, knowing she would turn down Camron’s offer.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Placing her hand on Camron’s arm, Tessa said, “I can’t accept your offer. It’s not a matter of personal choice. I have to do this. If I can’t find the pattern tonight, then I’ll try something else, think of something else. I have to stay here and see it through. Too much is at stake, too many lives have been lost. People have died because of me.” She turned and looked at Emith. “A woman I loved is dead.”

  Emith gazed down at his hands. A muscle quivered in his throat. After a moment he spoke. “I can’t go either, miss. I can’t leave you here —Mother would never have allowed it. Your job is to stay with Tessa; help her any way you can, that’s what she would have said. She loved you dearly, miss. Dearly.”

  A tear rolled down Tessa’s cheek. She didn’t reply.

  Camron nodded. “If that is what you both want, then so be it. I’ll mention the subject no more, except to say this. Until the moment that Izgard and his army appear on the horizon, my offer still stands: two of my men to take you to safety.” He looked first at Emith and then Tessa. Seconds passed. Then, as a log splitting on the hearth caused the light to waver, all of them nodded as one.

  Watching the three people at the opposite end of the table, knowing the value of what Camron offered, Ravis felt a stab of jealousy. He didn’t want to become an outsider again. And even as the thought formed in his mind, another one dropped into place like a gift.

  “Camron,” he said, leaning forward into the space occupied by the three of them, “remember the night we met in Marcel’s town house? When we talked about Deveric’s illuminations and you said Marcel had let you take a look at them?”

  “Yes? What about it?”

  “Well, if I remember rightly, you mentioned Ilfaylen then. Not by name, but you said a scribe had stayed here once, and before he left he painted a pattern to show his gratitude to the staff. You said it hung in your father’s study.”

  Tessa looked up.

  Camron nodded. “Yes, I remember. But it’s only a rough painting. There’s nothing written on it.”

  “Can I see it?” Tessa’s chair scraped against the stone flags.

  “It’s still in my father’s study.” Camron spoke the words as a warning. His face paled.

  Guessing that he had not visited the room since the night of his father’s death, Ravis said, “I’ll get it for you—”

  “No.” Camron laid a fist on the table. “No one will enter that room except me.”

  Ravis stood. “Let me walk with you as far as the door.”

  Running his hand through his hair, Camron said, “I had not planned on returning there just yet.” His voice was soft, distracted.

  After a long moment Ravis crossed to Camron and offered him his hand. Camron clasped it briefly as he rose from the chair, and together they left the kitchen side by side.

  Ederius coughed blood as he painted. Not much, a few specks. He kept a cloth close at hand, which he held to his mouth as needed. He never worried about anyone discovering it, as it looked to be just another of his pigment-spattered rags.

  The blood had begun some days ago. At first it was nothing more than a pinking of his saliva, and he had managed to convince himself that it was a touch of stomach trouble or an acute soreness of the throat. Only now blood formed red streaks in his saliva, and if he coughed violently, it speckled his cloth. He was old, that was it. No longer capable of sustaining the pace Izgard had set since the battle at Hook River.

  Even so, Ederius had started to notice that the worst instances of speckling happened while he was at his scribing desk, painting patterns, rather than sitting in the covered cart traveling from town to town.

  Not liking the implications of this observation, Ederius turned his mind to the pattern in hand. His time was limited, as Izgard wanted him finished and ready to travel within the hour. The army would march through the four remaining hours of darkness, reaching the outskirts of Bay’Zell at dawn.

  Ederius planned to rest during the journey. Izgard had recently ordered a camp bed to be laid in Ederius’ cart and had taken to encouraging him to sleep while they were on the road. Ederius supposed he should be flattered by his king’s attention, yet he knew the reason behind it, and it left him feeling numb.

  Sighing, he dipped his quill into the sepia ink he had prepared specifically with Castle Bess in mind. Cuttlefish secretions for the fish that could be caught directly off its coast, topaz quartz for the minerals that shot through its granite heart, and vermilion for the blood that had been spilled within its walls. It was a fluid pigment, easy to work with, and Ederius preferred to apply it with pen, not brush.

  The illumination was almost complete. The creatures had been created—though in truth he hardly knew what they were a
nymore—and they had arrived at the outer walls of the fortresses, unseen, unheard, and except for a colony of nesting terns that had fled to the night skies the moment they’d caught wind of the smell, undetected. Currently the creatures were stalking the battlements from the shadows surrounding the wall. Now all Ederius had to do was give them singleness of purpose so nothing would stop them until all inside were dead.

  It was the simplest part of the pattern: a few lines dancing around the creatures, binding them together so all felt and acted the same, plus a little scoring with the sharp side of the nib, ensuring the ink burned more deeply than any other pigment on the page.

  The Barbed Coil winked from its pedestal as Ederius finished the final design. It was becoming easier to work with by the day. The terrible dark creatures it had called forth tonight should have taken hours, even days, to create. Yet as the Coil turned toward its five hundredth year, it had taken merely an hour or two at most. Ederius felt less and less like a scribe and more and more like an assistant. It was as if he were no longer working with the crown, but for it. He felt his hand was being pushed through each spiral, line, and curve.

  Unaware he was shaking his head, Ederius stood free of his desk. The illumination was complete. Marginalia had been scripted in the blank parchment surrounding the pattern to ensure its effects would continue long after the pigments were dry—as long as needed for the Coil’s creatures to do their work.

  Coughing a little into his cloth, Ederius stepped across his tent and out into the night. He needed air and sounds and smells. He needed to feel part of life.

  As he stepped free of the tent ropes, he noticed a white curl of smoke rising up from the ground close to the flap. Peering down, he saw what it was: a bowl of steaming, milky fluid. Straight away the smell told him it was honey and almond-milk tea. Angeline. She must have heard him coughing and prepared her special remedy. Perhaps not wanting to disturb him as he worked, or provoke her husband’s anger, she had left the bowl outside.

  Ederius felt his eyes stinging. Kneeling by the little bowl, he cupped its warmth in his hands and drew it to his chest. He wanted to smile but couldn’t. In his soul he knew Angeline’s kindness was a gift he didn’t deserve.

  “I have twenty men in total. Five of the original longbowsmen you commissioned from Segwin the Ney, eight of my own knights, and six of the men assigned to me by Balanon.” Camron thought for a moment, smiled slightly, and then added, “And one guard sent to pull survivors from the field at battle’s end.”

  Ravis nodded. It was worse than he thought. “What of Broc of Lomis?”

  Arriving at a door splintered by crossbow heads, Camron came to a halt. Without turning to look at Ravis, he said, “Broc is dead. The harras slit his throat.”

  Ravis touched his heart. “I’m sorry. Broc was a brave man. A good fighter to have at one’s side in battle.”

  Muscles to the side of Camron’s neck worked for a moment, and Ravis thought he was about to speak, but instead his hand came down on the latch, releasing the locking mechanism and opening the door. He stepped across the threshold into the darkened room.

  Ravis stayed where he was. Glancing down, he avoided looking into the darkness, but he could do nothing to avoid the smell. The room stank of blood. Ravis guessed it had not been cleaned following the deaths. How many weeks ago was that now? Nine? Ten? He kicked at the flagged floor with the toe of his boot, passing time.

  Minutes passed. A soft sound came from inside the room. Something scraped against stone, and then Ravis heard Camron’s footsteps padding toward the door. Camron emerged into the lighted hallway, looking like a ghost. His eyes were bloodshot, but there were no tears shining in the corners. He carried two things: a small painting the size of a roof tile pasted onto a wooden panel and a block of red sealing wax as big as a curled fist. Without saying a word, he handed the painting to Ravis and then turned and locked the study door.

  Ravis wanted to say something to him, to offer what consolation he could, but anything he thought of didn’t seem nearly enough. In the end he said, “Let’s get back to the kitchen. I think we both need a drink.”

  Camron weighed the sealing wax in his hand. His eyes were the color of cooling metal. “Is there any way we can stop this war without bloodshed?”

  Ravis shook his head. “I don’t think so. People will die. How many depends on several different things. This for one.” He turned the painting to the light. “Can Tessa find what she is looking for? Is she capable of pulling it off?”

  “Do you believe what she says?”

  “Implicitly.”

  “Is it our only hope?”

  Ravis ran his free hand over his scar. “Even if she succeeds in sending the Coil back to wherever it came from, it still leaves us with Izgard and his army to deal with. The field may be leveled, but it remains a field of war.”

  “And you and I?” Camron said, holding the block of wax so tightly, the heat of his hand molded the blood red edges. “What part do we play in this?”

  “We stay here, defend the fortress, give Tessa the chance to do what she needs to, then escape as soon as we can. Once we’re clear of Bay’Zell we’ll have time and distance to plan our next move.”

  Camron shook his head. Relaxing his hold on the sealing wax, he said, “Remember when we first met in Marcel’s town house and I swore to you I had no desire to take Izgard’s place?” Ravis nodded. “I’ve learned many things since then, seen sights I wish I’d never seen. And I think the time has come for me to fight for the throne.”

  Ravis took a breath and held it in. Things had just become a whole lot more complicated. Camron could not fight with Rhaize forces against Garizon if he someday hoped to take the throne. The Garizon people would never forgive him.

  Ravis met Camron’s eye.

  Then there were things that Camron of Thorn knew nothing about, other claimants to Izgard’s throne. Like he himself. Izgard’s brother-in-law, husband to his deceased sister, equal claimant to Izgard’s wife, Angeline of Halmac, in the event of her husband’s death.

  Camron continued to watch Ravis, waiting for him to speak. Inside his mouth, Ravis’ tooth found his scar. It felt like knotted rope. The past was coming to life all over again. This man before him was proposing they fight side by side for something they both had claims to. He was a good man, too. Just as Malray had been all those years ago.

  Feeling an unexpected tightness in his chest, Ravis took a few seconds to still himself. Why did things hurt more now than they had in the past? Nothing had changed. The facts remained the same.

  Careful not to let his emotions color his voice, Ravis said, “Our only hope of seeing a fast end to this war is if Izgard is assassinated, and quickly. If we’re lucky, his warlords will start fighting over who should take his place. If we’re very lucky, they may even race each other back to Veizach in their eagerness to stake their claims.”

  “You said an assassination couldn’t be done.”

  “Not by an outsider. No.” Seeing disappointment on Camron’s face, Ravis added, “After Tessa has completed her pattern, then perhaps we might find a way.”

  Camron looked down at the sealing wax, then up again at Ravis. His eyes were bright with need. “Will you help me take the throne?”

  The tightness in Ravis’ chest lifted. He felt as if he were seventeen years old again. After what seemed like a very long time he surprised himself by saying, “Yes.”

  Tessa didn’t bother to wait for Camron to return with candles. She took the wooden panel and settled herself close to the hearth. In the blue-and-orange light of the ashwood-and-peat-packed fire, Ilfaylen’s painting glowed like the skin on the back of her hand. It was signed with an I in the lower left margin, and it looked like no other pattern she had ever seen.

  Straight away she knew it wasn’t the copy she needed. The palette was limited, the parchment lower grade, and the design itself was oddly angular. The borders were typical enough—spirals and interlacing XXXs—but the main patter
n area seemed to be a series of loosely connected geometric shapes. Squares, oblongs, ovals, and other more irregular shapes were outlined in a sepia-colored pigment, then filled in either with more sepia or one of a handful of other colors. Amber, a deep sea blue, a yellowy green, and a dull sandy red were the only other shades used in the design. All the pigments had been applied liberally, forming ridges and clots that could be felt with the hand.

  “Five colors, miss,” Emith said, coming to stand by her side. “Only five, and look what he managed to create with them.” There was awe in his voice. “You’re holding something painted by the great master himself five hundred years ago.”

  Tessa held the wooden panel toward him so he could take a better look. Five colors. Five hundred years. Surely it had to mean something?

  “Light for the lady.” Camron strode into the kitchen, carrying two great pewter candelabras. His mood had changed from earlier, not lightened exactly, but something close to it. He seemed more sure of himself now. As she looked on, he lit and placed candles in all of the separate holders, flooding the area around the hearth with a whiter, more serious light.

  The colors on the illumination shifted with the change of light; geometric forms sharpened, and a score of minute details came into view. The pattern began to look less like a work of art and more like an architect’s plan. The border consisted of all five colors threaded through each other in sequence. Directly above it, brushing against the main design, was a second, paler border consisting of spiky, loosely crossed XXXs. A date could now be seen on the opposite corner to the signature, but Tessa couldn’t quite make out what it was, as one of the digits—either a 9 or a 0—was oddly misshapen.

  Camron leaned over Tessa’s shoulder to look at the painting. “I’ve never really looked at this before,” he said. “It was just one of a dozen other things hanging in my father’s study.”

  “Those XXXs look like plant forms, miss. Almost like reeds or grass.”