by J. V. Jones
She thought to monitor the direction of the sun, for she still intended to head east. The sun, however, was not on show. The sky was bleakly gray, and she realized she would soon need to find shelter, for the clouds held promise of rain. Melli had scant protection from the rain: the blanket that served as her cloak was not oiled and water could easily soak through. Suddenly she had an inspiration: she could use the heavy sack that contained her supplies as cover. The fabric was woven, but its coarse and prickly thread promised more protection than her woolen blanket.
Melli emptied the contents out of the sack. Then, taking the small but sharp fish-boning knife that Master Trout had so thoughtfully packed, she cut holes in the bottom and the sides of the sack. She secured her blanket around her chest and then slipped the sack over her head, sliding her arms through the side holes. It was a perfect fit, covering her body to below her knees. She burst into laughter-how silly she must look. What would Master Trout say if he saw what had become of his sack?
She reveled in the sound of her own laughter, skipping gaily around the glade, making mock curtsies to imagined ladies of the court. "Yes, Lady Fiandrell, this is all the rage in Rorn. I had the materials brought in from beyond the drylands. But, if I do say so myself, the expense was well worth it." Melli had now succumbed to a wild fit of giggles as she imagined herself at court, dressed in a sack.
Her old horse looked up, attracted by the sound of her laughter. "What are you looking at?" she shouted. "I won't be the one who gets wet when it rains."
Melli took a guess at where she thought the sky looked a little lighter and headed off in that direction, munching on a piece of drybread. Her belongings she had made into a neat package with the help of the second blanket. As she walked, she considered names for her horse: he wouldn't suit a romantic name like Goldarrow, nor a military name like Warrior. He needed a simple name like Pippin or Brownie. Only she didn't like either of those.
"I'm afraid you're destined to be the horse without a name," she said, patting the creature's back. One thing was certain: she had no intention of riding again without a saddle. The experience had proved to be most uncomfortable and her thighs chafed sorely as a reminder.
As she walked, her thoughts turned to her lost companion, Jack. She fervently hoped that he had not encountered her pursuers. He may have abandoned her, but she bore him no ill will. She even wished that he was still with her, for she didn't like the idea of traveling alone with only a fish-gutting knife for protection. In the space of two days she had been robbed and violated. What will be next? she wondered, for everyone knew that trouble came in threes.
Eventually the rain started, and Melli led her horse on a route that promised as much protection as possible. She headed toward the most dense forest she could see, thankful for the trees' broad branches, as they prevented some of the rain from falling upon her. She sang a few songs to keep her spirits up and tried not to think too much about the future.
Tavalisk was eating one of his favorite delicacies: raw oysters. It was oyster season in Rorn, and their supply was plentiful. Tavalisk, however, would eat no common oyster. His were brought in fresh each day from the cold seas of Toolay. The expense of such an endeavor did not concern him; it would be bome by the church. After all, he thought, an archbishop deserves whatever meager pleasures life affords.
Tavalisk prised open another shell with an expert hand and sprinkled vinegar over the milky creature, noting with pleasure the faint shudder as vinegar touched oyster flesh. The shudder was a sign of a healthy, live oyster. He cupped the half shell up to his lips and savored with relish the sensation of oyster in his mouth. He was careful not to puncture the creature with his sharp teeth. He liked to swallow them alive and whole. With displeasure, he heard a knock on the door. Why must that fool Gamil always come while he was eating?
"Yes. What is it?" he asked, careful to keep his voice sounding bored and indulgent.
"I thought you might like to know what our friend the knight has been up to." Tavalisk ignored his aide while he opened another shell. He could tell straight away the oyster was bad: it had a grayish bloom to its skin.
"Would you care for an oyster, Gamil?" he said, proffering the unsavory creature to his aide. Gamil looked rather astounded; Tavalisk never offered him food. He was obliged to accept the morsel and swallowed it quickly, making an unpleasant slurping noise.
"Now, wasn't that delicious?" The archbishop smiled with benign indulgence. "I have them brought in from Toolay, you know." Gamil nodded in agreement. "You were saying about the knight?" Tavalisk opened yet another oyster.
"Yes, Your Eminence. The knight visited Frong Street
yesterday and went into The Grapes, where he bought a long-knife."
"Very good, Gamil. Is he showing his circles?"
"No, the marks were concealed beneath his cloak."
"He is wise to keep them hidden; the people of Rorn have no love for the knights of Valdis." Tavalisk allowed himself the smallest of smiles, parting his lips just enough to reveal the glint of teeth. "I think I've made sure of that. Though their hatred needs little prompting at the moment. The knights paint themselves as religious fanatics, but what they're really after is trade, not conversions." He poured a clear, heavy liquid into his cup. "Anything else?"
"One more thing. The knight was asking about Larn." Tavalisk, who had been about to drink from his cup, put it down quickly. "Larn. What was he asking about Larn for?"
"I can't say, Your Eminence."
"If I remember rightly, that old fool Bevlin has no love for Larn. He tried to put a stop to what went on there once. Of course, he failed miserably. Larn is not a place to suffer interference gladly." Tavalisk paused while he toyed with his cup. "Perhaps he's using the knight to mount a second offensive. He really should keep to his books and prophecieshe's far too old to be indulging in moral causes."
The archbishop turned to Gamil. "You may go now. You've made me lose my appetite with all this talk of Larn." Gamil obediently withdrew. As soon as the door was closed, Tavalisk immediately returned to his oysters, his eyes scanning them greedily for the biggest.
Tawl was out on the streets of Rorn again. When he returned to Megan the previous night, he had questioned her about the Seers of Larn, but she had never heard of them. Today he was determined to do two things: first, he wanted to build up the strength in his muscles by walking several leagues, and second, he was going to find someone to tell him about Larn.
The crowds were still out on the street, but there were not nearly as many as the day before. What people there were seemed pale and drawn, heavy drinking and overindulgence stealing the spring from their step.
Tawl was feeling a lot better. His arms and wrists were slowly recovering and his legs were feeling stronger. His training as a knight had left a legacy of physical resilience that even now, five years later, could still be drawn upon. With concentration, he could control the blood flow into his muscles, swelling the arteries, making the tissue supple and ready for action. Tawl found that this technique, taught to be used in preparation for battle, was helping his damaged muscles recover their strength more quickly.
His training seemed far behind him now. He was a different person than the young, idealistic boy who'd presented himself at the gates of Valdis so many years before. There was hope, then, and dreams and the thrill of achievement.
During his first year at Valdis, the emphasis had been on physical strength. Novices were set a series of tasks to test and develop their skills of endurance. Tawl was sent into the Great Divide with only a knife at his side. He was lucky; some before him were caught in blizzards and never came back. Two months it took him to reach the mountain shrine. Even now he could remember the terrible cold, his hair stiff with ice, the saliva freezing on his teeth. The shrine was set upon the second tallest peak in the Known Lands. It was a symbol, and to meditate in its barren chamber was essential for gaining the first circle.
When he returned to Valdis, flushed with pride at
his success, they sent him out again, this time to search the length of the milk flats. Pride was not tolerated at Valdis.
The milk flats, which were located south of Leiss, were deceptively named. They were formed from white porous rock and were flat when viewed from a distance, but up close they were a maze of tunnels and sinkholes. The rock was as brittle as old bones: one wrong step, one sudden rain shower, or even the smallest of earth tremors, could lead to death. Tawl was ordered to bring back a knight who'd gone to the flats in search of Borc's sword. Nothing lived on the sterile rocks. Night and day were cruel masters: the sun was merciless and the moon cold-hearted. Close to starvation and madness, he eventually found the body. The knight had slit his own throat. Before he died, he etched the words es nil hesrl into the face of the rock. I am not worthy.
To a knight of Valdis the only thing that mattered was to be worthy. It was what all the training, all the learning, all the searching was for.
Tawl looked back on his time as a novice with mixed feelings. The first circle had brought him renown. He'd surpassed all others in the art of swordplay, though before his training he'd never even handled a sword. He'd gained the shrine in two months, when most took over three. And then there was the body, carried home from the milk flats on his back. Valdis liked to bury its own.
Renown brought resentment, and his first conferment had been marked by subtle tensions. He was called too young, too common, too favored.
The second circle brought derision. He had no learning; the only book he'd ever read was Marod. Yet after gaining his first circle, he was thrown into the company of men of culture. It was a struggle to master the classic texts, to learn the great histories, to speak in foreign tongues. He was constantly shown for what he was: a lowly boy from the marshlands. Most of the knights came from the nobility; they had manner and bearing and speech on their side, and they never once let him forget that he wasn't one of them.
Tawl had gone through a hundred different humiliations: he didn't know how to bow, how to dress, how to speak with great lords. It made him more determined than ever to learn their ways-not because he wanted to be what they were, but to prove that any man could be a knight. If it hadn't been for their taunting, he wouldn't have gained his second circle so fast-at least he had that to be thankful for.
He did have some friends, good men who'd been like brothers. Once he got his second circle and was free to go out in the world, they'd planned to go on a journey together, beyond the drylands in search of sacred treasures. But it all changed. Everything changed when he came home to visit his family. His life had been forever altered and now only the quest remained.
Tawl walked aimlessly through the streets of Rorn, searching out diversions. When his thoughts circled too closely around his family, he became desperate to change their path. Women, with their ability to give so tenderly of themselves, could usually lead his body to a place where his mind would follow. And if he'd been in a different city, he might have gone in search of some comfort. Megan was here in Rorn, though, and she'd done so much and asked so little that the least he owed her was fidelity.
Tawl chose streets that were bright with people, seeking out distractions where he could. Eventually he found himself heading down to the harbor. The smell of the sea was sharp but not unpleasant. Tawl found his spirits reviving with each salty breath.
Rorn was the greatest trading city in the east: rare spices, exquisite silks, fabulous gemstones, and fresh seafood all found their way through the great port. Rorn's main source of income came from trade. The terrain to the north of the city was both rocky and barren, and Rorn grew no crops, or reared no livestock to speak of. The city owed its prosperity to the fortunate trade winds which gently drew ships from all the Known Lands to its safe harbors.
The harbor was large, spread over several leagues of seafront. Tawl enjoyed the brisk, salty air. It made a change from the smell of decay in the whoring quarter.
He walked for some time before deciding upon a likely looking tavern. THE ROSE AND CROWN, declared the old and peeling sign. Tawl slipped inside out of the wind.
The tavern appeared to be doing a fine business. Customers were talking loudly, there were people shouting for ale, a group of men were noisily proposing toasts to famous local beauties, and others were placing bets on times ships would come to harbor. There were those who sat around tables engaged in heated discussions and others who drank alone. It was a seafaring tavern, a place where sailors came to talk about the sea.
A large and comely woman approached Tawl. "What's your favor, sir?" she asked, smiling and thrusting her magnificent bosom out to its best advantage. Tawl, almost against his will, was drawn into the familiar cadence of flirtation. Exchanging smiles was enough to create the potential for a liaison. He was tempted to see the dance through, to feel the joy-no matter how visceral-of shared intimacy. The woman waited for a sign, confident of her attractions.
Tawl's gaze moved from her eyes to the floor. "All I'll take is a mug of ale, if you please."
She raised an eyebrow, surprised but not put off by his restraint. "Certainly, sir," she replied, her full lips curving slightly. "I hope the ale serves to warm your blood." She retreated slowly, giving Tawl plenty of time to regret the loss of her ample curves.
After a few minutes the woman returned. He watched as the eyes of many a man appreciated her generously proportioned form-she possessed an abundance of flesh that was sadly lacking in many women of the day. "There you are, sir. Be sure to let me know if you change your mind and take a fancy for something else." She acknowledged Tawl's rueful smile and then left with a saucy turn of her hips.
Tawl made himself comfortable and sampled his ale. It was really quite delicious: foamy and cool, with a pleasant nutty taste.
"The owner here brews his own." Tawl looked up to find an old, red-faced man standing over him. "Do you mind if I sit a while with you?"
"Please, feel free to do so, sir. It would be my honor." The old man was clearly pleased with Tawl's courtesy. "You have a nice manner about you, young man, but you have a strange accent. I cannot quite place it."
"I'm originally from the Lowlands." Tawl did not want to say any more on the subject and the old man, sensing this, let the matter be.
"I'm known hereabouts as Jem." The old man smiled kindly. "Do you have a name you would share?"
"I am Tawl." His name sounded short to his ears without its normal title.
"I wish you joy of the day, Tawl." The man finished the last of his ale and placed his empty mug loudly on the counter. Tawl offered to buy him another. The man accepted graciously, and minutes later the two were sitting and supping.
"What is your trade, Jem?"
"Better to ask what was my trade." The old man sighed heavily and stared into his ale. "I was a seafarer. I've spent the best part of my life on the high seas. I'd be out there now if it wasn't for my bad leg-dry land is too still for my taste."
"So you have visited many places?" Tawl asked casually.
"Aye, that I have, on both coasts."
"Tell me, Jem, have you ever heard of a place called Larn?"
The old man sucked in his breath. He was silent for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice had changed its timbre. "Why would you wish to know of such a place?"
Tawl decided to take a chance. "I would visit with the seers there."
"I would not risk going there if I were you." Jem shook his head. "No, I would not, indeed."
"You know where it is?"
"How could I call myself a seafarer and not know, eh?" he responded sharply, but then continued more quietly. "Larn is not that far from where we stand. Only a couple of days sailing southeast. It's a tiny island, so small you will find it on no charts. But seafarers know it well. It is a deathtrap to sailors. The sea for miles around is rocky and shallow. Woe betide the sailor who is blown off course to that damned isle."
"There must be a way to get there, though?" Tawl tried to disguise his eagerness by taking a long d
raft of ale.
"No captain who valued his ship would take you there. The best way would be to sail as far as was safe, and then row the rest of the way in a small boat."
"How far would one have to row?"
"A sane captain wouldn't sail any closer than twenty leagues."
"Yet people must journey there to consult with the seers?"
"No one in his right mind would want to consult with the Seers of Larn, boy," warned the old man.
"What have you heard of them?"
"Plenty." Jem sipped his ale. His eyes flicked around the room, and when he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. "I've heard plenty. Tales so horrifying that even an old man like myself doesn't like to repeat them."
"Why don't I buy you another drink and you can tell me what you know."
Jem considered the offer. "Very well, boy. You are getting a good bargain." Tawl called for more drinks; both young man and old waited in silence. The drinks came and neither man noticed the charms of the barmaid this time.
The old man spoke. "The Seers of Larn have existed for as long as anyone can remember. They were around long before the city of Rorn was founded. There is said to have been seers on Larn since the time of the great purge. What strange beliefs they have I don't know, what Gods they worship I cannot tell you. What I do know of is the terrible way the seers are created."
"The powers that be on Larn pick young childrenboys who are rumored to have a little skill in foretelling. They pay the parents of these children one hundred gold pieces. The parents never set eyes upon their sons again. The boys are shipped to the dread isle, and they are kept in a darkened room for a full year to cleanse their souls and minds. They are fed nothing but bread and water, for they believe that all other foods interfere with the foretelling."
"After a year in the dark, the boys are measured. A huge stone weighing many tons is cut for each boy. The stones are then hauled into the Great Hall of Seeing and are laid flat on the ground. Each boy is then bound to his stone."
