by J. V. Jones
"They lay the boys out, limbs spread wide, and bind them to the stone with the strongest of ropes. They lash them as tight as they dare. The boys cannot move as much as a finger or a toe. All they can do is watch and breathe. They spend all of their lives so bound. Never able to move a limb. As the months pass, their limbs atrophy, becoming useless husks. All the better to think and foretell. It is the worst fate I can imagine for any man."
"The powers that be ensure that the seers are fed and cleansed. They claim the seers are closer to God. They say that the seers are allowed, through their sacrifice, to know the will of God. They spend their days contemplating the great pattern of life. They live and die bound to the stone. Lost in a world of hallucination and madness."
The old man grew silent. Tawl could hardly believe what he had been told. He shuddered at the fate of the seers and wondered how desperate a family would have to be to sell their sons into such a living hell.
Tawl could stand the silence no longer. "Old man, you have told a story that has chilled my blood. I fear I owe you more than a drink."
The man spoke quickly, as if he had already prepared his answer. "You owe me nothing. Save a promise not to visit that cursed place."
"I can give you no such undertaking. For I fear I am fated to go there." The old man stood up to leave. Tawl caught his arm. "Tell me, what is the price for a foretelling?"
The old man walked away as he spoke. "The price is whatever they decide. Be careful they do not ask for your soul."
Tawl watched as Jem left. It was getting late. He wanted to get back to Megan. He needed to feel her warm arms around his body.
The queen was in the king's chamber, probably the most splendid room in the whole castle. She watched as the king was bathed by his manservant. He had not remembered her name this night. Baralis was right: he was getting weaker. Only last spring he could sit a horse, now he barely left his bed.
Ever since the hunting accident, she had lived with less than a man. At first the injury had not seemed so bad. The wound had healed normally, and although it had left an ugly scar, the physicians were not unduly concerned. However, as the weeks passed a deep fever had set in that seemed to rob him of his strength. Gradually, the weeks had turned to months. The physicians began to shake their heads; they blamed infection, fever on the brain, poison on the arrow. But they could do nothing to heal him.
First they tried hot poultices to draw out the infection. Next they had tried leeches to cleanse his blood of bad humors. The physicians had then attempted to expunge the malignant biles by piercing the king's stomach. They had shaved his head, pulled his teeth, and let his blood-all to no avail.
The queen had watched these horrific remedies and many more, and she saw that they only served to weaken her husband further. Finally, she had driven all the physicians away, preferring to tend to the king herself. She engaged the services of a wisewoman who knew the ways of herbs.
After the physicians left, the king's health actually improved. The wisewoman's remedies were a lot easier for the king to bear: mulled holk with a sprig of juniper, herb-laden vapors, and rubs with therapeutic oils. Unfortunately, the wisewoman's treatments seemed to slow down his decline, not stop it. Years passed and his strength lagged further and his mind grew clouded. The queen could not count the times she had lain alone in her bed crying through the night. She was a proud woman and would allow no one to see her private anguish.
The attendant wiped a speckle of drool from the king's chin. The sight of the small gesture wrenched at her heart. What had her husband come to? The once proud King Lesketh reduced to being spoonfed and nursed like a baby! He was not yet an old man; others his age were in their prime. The queen thought on the audience she'd had with Baralis. He'd hinted that he had something in his possession that might help the king. No matter how much she loathed the chancellor, she would have to summon him back. She was desperate to try anything that might improve her husband's condition. She decided to see Baralis and find out what he wanted from her. She was no fool; she knew there would be a price to pay.
Chapter Six
Jack lay awake for some time before opening his eyes. He could smell the freshness of trees and ferns and the odor of wood smoke. Then he detected the smell of food, a savory stew or soup. Lastly, he smelled the delicious aroma of warm holk.
Tempted by such a beguiling array of odors, Jack opened his eyes. Soft, green light filtered through the trees and onto his face. He looked at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a sort of nest or den, which appeared to be woven out of leaves and branches. He was lying on a low pallet that rested upon a blanket of ferns and velvet mosses. He was alone.
Drawn to the smell of food, he caught sight of a small brick stove in the middle of the den. A gap had been left in the weave of trees to allow the smoke out. Jack tentatively put his foot on the floor and found to his surprise that the moss was warm to the touch. As he swung both his legs off the pallet a wave of nausea swept through his body. Jack felt dizzy and wondered whether he should just stay in his bed. The promise of hot food and holk proved too tempting to be put off by mere physical discomfort, and Jack rose from his bed.
Shakily, he approached the small stove. An open pot contained a rich, dark stew. Jack scanned the den, and found various cups and plates lying in wait on a low, wooden table. He ladled some of the fragrant mixture onto a plate, and poured himself a cup of mulled holk.
The stew was delicious; it contained mushrooms and rabbit meat, carrots and onions, all flavored with robust herbs and spices. He felt sure he could detect the subtle taste of apples and cider. He ate a hearty portion, and then another one-the last time he had eaten seemed to be a long time ago. It didn't occur to him to question where he was or how he'd gotten here. Food and warmth were quite enough to occupy him for the moment.
After his meal, he felt the need to relieve himself and he looked for a way to leave the den. He could not find one. He was not too worried, as he had noticed a chamberpot at the foot of his bed. After he had finished, he climbed back onto the pallet and immediately fell into a deep and restful sleep. Some time later Jack was woken by the sound of movement in the den. He opened his eyes to find a tall, longbearded man staring back at him. "I see you have eaten well, young man." He spoke in a curious lilting accent. Jack could only manage to nod his head; he was feeling a little guilty for eating what he had not been invited to. The man appeared to recognize Jack's concern.
"You did well to eat, 'twas meant for you. I hope you found it to your liking?"
Jack nodded enthusiastically. "It was delicious-the best stew I have ever tasted." He hesitated. "I thank you for it, sir." Jack took in the strange appearance of the man: he seemed neither young nor old and was dressed in skins and coarse weaves. His most remarkable feature was his magnificent, long, ash-colored beard.
"I am no sir, young man. I have not been a sir in many years, and I do not wish to be one now." A half-smile graced the man's lips.
"I am truly sorry if I have offended you." Jack felt the man was amusing himself at his expense.
"No matter, no matter. I suppose I will have to give you my name."
"If you would rather not, I will understand. My own name is Jack, though. You are welcome to it."
This speech seemed to please the man. "Well, Jack, you shame me. You would give freely of your name to a stranger who has not given his. There are many people who believe that if you know a person's name, you gain power over them. What do you say to that?"
It was a little difficult for Jack to follow what the man said, for his voice made speech sound like song. The man continued, "I will give you my name, Jack, but I can only give you half of it. I have lived without naming myself for many years. The trees do not ask my name, the birds would gain no benefit from it, the streams run and do not stop from want of knowing it. But I will give it to you, Jack, for man, unlike nature, has need of names. People do well to be wary of names-they have power. If I were to name a tree, I would make it mine, an
d no man should have such a claim over a tree, or a brook or a blade of grass." The man grew disheartened and breathed wearily.
Jack spoke to fill the silence. "If a bird does not ask your name, then neither will I. I refuse to know even half of it."
The man smiled and shook his head sadly. "My half name is Falk." Jack felt as if he was being let in on a great secret. He wanted to offer some comfort to the man, but found he could think of nothing to say.
Eventually the man spoke again. "You have been sick, Jack. You caught a wet fever, and you should rest for now and regain your strength. I must be off. I will bring you more food later. Before I go, I would have you take a sip of this medicine." Falk crossed the room and came back with a cup of pungent-smelling liquid. Jack obediently swallowed all of the concoction, not at all sure he liked the taste. He wondered what the medicine was made from. Jack gave the man a questioning look, and Falk smiled kindly. "I have given you half my name, would you know all my secrets, too?"
Jack felt suitably chastened and handed the cup back to the man. He watched as Falk walked toward the wall. With gentle hands, he pulled the weave of branch and twig apart, creating an opening. He then stepped out into the cool air. Once on the other side, Falk rewove the flexible branches which served to seal and conceal the entrance to the den.
****
Baralis could hardly contain his pleasure when the messenger arrived from. the queen. She had not only taken the bait, she had swallowed it whole. She was on the hook now. All that remained was to reel her in.
All his other concerns were petty annoyances. The girl Melliandra he was still tracking; he would move in on her more carefully next time. She would not elude him twice. As for Jack, well, how far could a boy on foot get in a few days? He would find him soon.
Baralis took from his drawer a measure of the white powder that was his pain-killing drug. He was about to swallow the foul tasting crystals when he thought better of it. His head would need to be clear. He would have to endure the pain in his hands until after his audience with the queen. It was a small price to pay.
He once again dressed with care, ensuring he chose a different robe than the one he had worn for his last meeting. It suited him to go along with the customs of the court.
This time the queen did not keep him waiting outside the door. She beckoned him in the moment he knocked. Her tone was still as cold as ever, though. "Good day, Lord Baralis." She was dressed with exquisite care: her gown was embroidered with rubies and pearls, and matching gems sparkled at her throat and wrist.
"Joy of the day to Your Highness."
"I will not keep you long. I would rather get straight to the point, Lord Baralis." The queen smoothed her hair nervously; Baralis was gratified to note that her hand trembled as she did so.
"As you wish, Your Highness."
"You hinted during our last meeting that you had something in your possession that might help the king. Am I right to assume that was what you meant?"
"You are, Your Highness." Baralis decided to say little, preferring to let her talk.
"Then am I also right in assuming that you speak of some medicine or potion that will help the king's illness?"
"Yes, Your Highness." He watched the queen grow impatient with his short answers.
"Lord Baralis, what is the nature of this medicine, and how do I know it will work?"
"The answer to the first question is that I cannot divulge its nature. The answer to the second is that you cannot know it will work until you try it."
"What guarantee do I have that it is safe? How do I know it is not poison or worse?" The queen looked directly into his eyes, challenging him.
"I give Your Highness my gravest undertaking that it will do the king no harm."
"And what if I have no faith in that undertaking?"
"Your Highness, I have a proposition." Baralis dug into the fold of his cloak and brought out the small glass bottle containing the potion. He held the bottle up to the light, and the brownish fluid sparkled with promise. "This vial contains hope for the king." He handed it to the queen. "In it is ten days supply of medicine. Take it from me this day, and administer it to the king. If you see a noticeable improvement in his health, I will be willing to supply you with as much of the remedy as the king will ever need."
The queen regarded Baralis impassively. He suspected that beneath her serene exterior was a frenzy of emotions. "I repeat, Lord Baralis, how do I know this remedy is safe?"
Baralis remained calm. He had expected no less and was prepared for it. He approached the queen and noticed that she winced slightly as he did so. Slowly, for his hands were in pain and he was anxious not to betray that fact to the queen, he pulled the stopper from the bottle. He then raised the bottle to his lips and swallowed a quantity of the thick, brown liquid. Baralis resealed the bottle and held it out for the queen to take.
For what seemed to Baralis like an eternity, but was in fact only a few moments, he stood there offering the bottle to the queen. At last, she stepped forward and took it. Their fingers touched for the barest of seconds.
"If this works, what will you expect in return?"
"Your Highness, let us first see if you are willing to buy before we talk of the price."
The queen's face was as cold as stone. "You may go now, Lord Baralis."
He left obediently. Everything had gone perfectly. The medicine would appear to work well. It would improve the king's condition, as it was part antidote to the poison that had been on the king's arrow. Of course, the king would never be himself again, but the medicine would halt further decline, and might enable him to remember names and walk a little once more. Might even stop his constant drooling. Nothing too drastic, mused Baralis. Nothing that would interfere with his plans.
It would only be a matter of days before the queen would come to him, eager for more of the medicine. So eager, she would agree to anything he asked. He must remember to make the second batch much weaker. It wouldn't do to have the king too well.
As Baralis returned to his chamber, he had the vague feeling he was being watched. He turned around, and no one was there. He shook his head. He was probably imagining things; it might even be an aftereffect of the king's medicine. Baralis smiled to himself. A little paranoia would go unnoticed among the king's other ailments.
The assassin watched as Baralis returned to his chambers. He was careful not to approach the door too closely. He had seen markings like those before, and he knew they were wardings. Maybor had tried to make light of the man's powers, but he was no fool. He knew what the dangers were. In part that was why he'd accepted the commission. Baralis' murder would be his finest achievement, the crowning glory in his long dance with death. He was excited by the prospect of taking such a craftily guarded life.
Scarl had spent several days monitoring Baralis' movements. He suspected the king's chancellor had access to secret passageways, for the assassin had waited outside rooms, only to find that Baralis never left them, yet he would appear in a different part of the castle later. The assassin liked the idea of secret passages as much as the next man. He would make it his business to find out more about them.
He was, he admitted, a little afraid of Baralis. That the man possessed great power was highly evident, despite Maybor's attempts to deny it. The secret of murdering a sorcerer was to catch him unawares, to give him no chance for a defensive drawing. Scarl would have liked to kill Baralis whilst he slept, but it was impossible to gain access to his chambers-Crope and the wardings saw to that. He would have to find a time when the man's attentions were diverted by something just as compelling as sleep.
One moment off his guard and the knife would be his fate. Scarl had yet to meet a man who would not succumb to a blade. All died equally as fast when their windpipes were severed. That was how Scarl liked to do his job: one clean, deep sweep with a sharp knife. It had proved most successful in the past. It would do for Baralis, too.
There was a lot to be said for slitting the throa
t. It silenced the victim instantly, it was quick, there was never a struggle, one approached one's victim from behind, and lastly, if one was skillful, which Scarl was, one never got as much as a drop of blood on oneself.
Yes, mused Scarl, others might go in for the showier executions-the dagger in the eye, the blade in the heartbut nothing beat a good throat slitting.
Scarl knew he had to be careful to choose the right moment. The castle passageways were too public, guards or others could approach at any time and foil his plans. He would not rush into this. It was his nature to watch and wait. At some point Baralis would be vulnerable, and that would be the instant he felt the keen blade of Scarl's knife at his throat.
After Baralis left, the queen sat for a long while, turning the small bottle in her hand. She watched the tawny fluid move within the glass. On impulse she unstopped the cap and smelled the contents. She pulled away from its strong and unpleasant odor. She tipped one single glistening drop onto her fingertip and raised it to her lips-she would rather endanger herself than the king. The taste was bitter.
She waited for many hours, refusing food and drink, and could detect no harmful effects. It was true she had only sampled a drop, but she was satisfied nonetheless. She would take the medicine to the king.
As she walked to the king's chamber, she came across her son Kylock. Seeing him thus, she realized how very little she saw of him normally. He was a stranger to her. She didn't know what he did from day to day. His chambers were out of bounds; he had never once invited her past his door. Several months back, when she knew Kylock was off for the day on a hunt, the queen stole into his rooms. The act had been unworthy of her, but curiosity won over pride and she made her way to the east wing. She chose her time well and met no one on the way. Her first feeling on entering the chamber was relief. It was clean and orderly, every chest in its place, not a fold falling amiss. Then it occurred to her: it was too meticulous. The rugs were perfectly square, not a mote of dust on the sill, not a flake of ash in the fire. Too orderly by far for a boy of seventeen, it was as if he didn't live there at all. One particular rug drew her eye-the deep crimsons of its weave seemed strangely random. The queen crouched down and ran her fingers over the silk. Even before she raised her hand to her face, she knew what it was: blood. Sticky, nearly dry, less than a day old.
