The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  The most unsettling thing was not the blood itself as much as its presence in such a pristine setting. Like a beautiful maiden in the company of old dowagers, the blood seemed more striking by comparison.

  The following day she'd passed Kylock in the stables. He'd asked how she was and then, just as she stepped away, he said, "So, Mother, what did you think of my rooms?" His tone was mocking. He didn't wait for a reply, merely smiling, then walking away.

  She never felt easy in his presence. He was so unlike her or the king, and not just in appearance-though he was as dark as she and the King were fair. It was his whole bearing that was different. He was so secretive, so introverted. Even as a child he preferred to be alone, refusing to play with other children. Baralis was his only friend.

  Kylock approached her now, lips curved in an ironic smile. "Good evening, Mother." His low, seductive tone reminded her of another's, but she could not remember whose.

  "Good evening to you, Kylock." Her son looked at her, and she could think of nothing else to say to him.

  "What have you there?" He motioned to the bottle she carried.

  "It is medicine for your father."

  "Really. Do you suppose it will do him any good?" The queen was troubled by his nonchalant tone.

  "Lord Baralis has prepared it for him."

  "Well, in that case it is bound to do something."

  The queen could not make out what her son meant by the ambiguous comment. She regretted mentioning that the medicine was from Baralis. Her son had that effect on her: he either robbed her of speech entirely or impelled her to speak unwisely, as she had done now. She looked up to say something else, but he had gone.

  She found herself wishing that she had never been queen-she had little joy in it. Of late, she had been king in everything but name. She would have liked to give it up, take her sick husband away to their castle in the Northlands and live a peaceful and quiet life. Something stopped her, though. It was partly her pride, but there was also something in her that balked at the idea of her son as king.

  She had never loved him properly, not with a mother's true affection. She remembered the day he was born, when he was handed to her-pale and silent and smelling of cloves. There had been no surge of warmth in her breast, no pull of emotion. The midwife nodded her head wisely and told her love would come. And it had in a way, for she loved her son with an almost jealous frenzy, but she felt no tenderness, no affection.

  It upset her to think of the many years she had been childless. The years of longing for a baby, the countless disappointments, the unceasing humiliations. She had been married to the king for ten long years before she had conceived.

  For the first few years the king had been full of gentle encouragements and considerations. "No matter, my love," he would say as her blood flowed anew each month. "There is time aplenty. You are young and fertile; the Gods choose to make us wait until they are ready." He would smile and squeeze her hand and invite her to bed to try again.

  The pressures of sovereignty had eventually taken their toll, and the king became desperate for a son-an heir was essential to the stability and continuity of the country. Sly whispers assailed the king's ears:

  "A country without an heir is an invitation to war."

  "It is your sacred duty to provide an heir for the kingdom."

  "The queen is not fertile."

  "Strike the marriage asunder."

  "Replace the queen with a breeder."

  The king had loved her dearly and could bear no talk of setting her aside. But the fulsome urgings of the court had their effect upon him. She could hardly blame him-they were right, the country did need an heir.

  She had been desperate to conceive. She tried everything from scalding poultices to arcane ceremonies ... all to no avail. Of course there was no mention that the king could be infertile. The very thought was preposterous. He was the king: symbol of life, renewal, and continuity. Even the queen dared not harbor that treasonous thought, and she resigned herself to her barrenness.

  The king had not once spoken to her about annulling the marriage, even though he was legally entitled to do so as she had been proven barren. Instead he brought other women to his bed, hoping to father a child and later legitimize any issue resulting from the union. He'd tried to be discreet, but servants whispered and courtiers talked. The queen shuddered at the memory of the shame-surely no other queen in all the histories had ever had to bear such humiliation-to carry on at court each day as if nothing was wrong, to appear regal and composed while her husband dallied with numerous women.

  The strange thing was that none of those women had borne him sons. The few women who did conceive gave birth to daughters, and a daughter was of no value in maledominated Harvell. The king had sent the women and babes away, caring little for their fate.

  Eventually, he gave up his attempts to conceive a son and they both became resigned to remaining childless. Then, one chill winter month, nearly eighteen summers ago, her blood had failed to flow. She hardly dared hope: ten years without a child was proof beyond doubt that she was barren. A second month had passed and then a third; her body swelled and her breasts grew tender. She was with child. The king and court were jubilant. There were parades and dances and feasts in her honor, and she had duly given birth to a son.

  She'd counted back nine months from her son's birth. Kylock had been conceived in mid-winter and the queen had no memory of the king visiting her bed at that time. Of course, she could not be certain, and she did remember one occasion when she'd drunk so unwisely that she had no memory of the night before. She recalled waking in the morning and feeling the familiar soreness of lovemaking. Her husband must have taken her while she was drunk. A disturbing thought.

  The queen raised a finger to her lips and bit softly upon the fleshy tip. The sting of pain brought her back to the present and she was glad; there were too many unanswered questions in the past, too much sorrow, too much lost.

  She made haste along the lofty corridors, eager to try the medicine upon the king.

  Chapter Seven

  Tawl slipped into the shaded alleyway. Although it was daylight, it was almost dark between the tall buildings, their overhanging eaves serving to prevent the light from reaching the ground. He was on his way to see a man recommended by Megan for being able to arrange passages on ships, no questions asked. He had no money to pay for such a passage, though, and Megan's small savings were down to the last few coppers. He decided he would talk to the man first and see if he could persuade him to do business. He would come up with a way to find the passage fee later.

  Like so many districts with bad reputations, the whoring quarter of Rorn had its good and bad areas. A good area was considered to be one where whores and touts felt free to ply their trade, where pickpockets slunk amidst the crowded streets, places where people said, "At least it's not as bad as Sharlett Street

  ."

  Sharlett Street

  was in fact much more than a street-it was a small district within the whoring quarter. There were no half-dressed prostitutes on these streets. No amiable pick-pockets, no hopeful con artists, no one in fact who valued their life. Sharlett Street

  was for those who didn't value their lives, those so tortured by disease, or their own dark consciences, that they didn't care if they ever saw another day.

  It was more than the pestilence and the filth that kept people off Sharlett's bleak streets. There was a feeling of corruption in the very air, an atmosphere that held promise of ill deeds and decay.

  It was to this place that Tawl was headed. He noticed the gradual changes that took place in his surroundings: fewer people on the streets, rats scurrying through the slop of human refuse, failing to observe the usual after-dark hours of their kind.

  As he walked, picking a careful path through the filth, Tawl considered the tale the old man in the tavern had told him. He shuddered to think of the helpless seers leashed to the rock for the length of their lives. Tawl knew what it was to
be bound. He'd felt the snag of rope upon his flesh. He wondered at the nature of the powers who would do such an inhuman thing. And he bitterly wished that he did not have need of their services.

  To go to Larn and consult with the seers was condoning what was done there, when he, as a knight of Valdis, should be striving to free them from their captivity. The knights were founded upon one basic principle: to help their fellow men. For over four hundred years the order had striven to alleviate human suffering. Their greatest triumph was the campaign against slavery in the east. Thanks to their actions, cities such as Marls and Rorn could no longer trade in flesh from the far south. Even today the knights still manned the eastern harbors, checking the hulls of merchant ships.

  Tawl uncovered the double circle on his arm. He had hoped, many winters ago, that he would gain the third and final ring. That was why Tyren had sent him to Bevlin in the first place. To attain the final circle and become a ranking knight, a novice was expected to go out in the world and not return until he had "achieved merit in the eyes of God."

  The first circle was for physical excellence, the second for learning, and the third for achievement. What constituted merit in the eyes of God was hard to judge, and many knights spent many years in search of a glorious, but often elusive, cause. Most chose to go on missions. The year Tawl had been conferred, two knights went to the northwest to mediate in the dispute over the River Nestor; a few sailed down the Silbur in pursuit of river pirates; and his friends had traveled to the far south in search of lost treasures-Tawl didn't know what had become of them.

  At the end of it all, when the knights thought they were ready, they presented themselves at Valdis to be judged. Four men heard the testimony and then acting upon their recommendation, the leader, Tyren, either conferred the knight with his final circle, or sent him out to begin again. It brought great shame to a knight if he presented himself and was found unworthy. To avoid this humiliation, many knights spent years, even decades, away from Valdis. Some never returned.

  Tawl couldn't imagine a time when he'd be ready for judgment. He'd been set a nearly impossible task, and until it was completed he couldn't show his face at Valdis. It seemed many years since the head of the order had sent him on his way. He still remembered Tyren's words: "Go visit with the wiseman Bevlin. You will find him in the north. I have faith that you will do what he asks." It had been a difficult time; he'd come close to giving it all up. The feeling that he was needed, and-if he were honest-the promise of glory, was all that kept him going.

  The reality was so much different than the dream. He had spent all save one of the last years in a fruitless search: he'd traveled through much of the Known Lands asking people if they knew of a boy who was different in some way from others.

  He had been told of boys with six fingers, boys with yellow eyes, boys with madness eating away at their brains. These and countless others Tawl had sought out, only to know in his deepest soul that none of them were the one.

  Eventually he had come to Rorn, his spirits low, his task appearing hopeless. He'd made the mistake of asking in the wrong place and had been picked up by the authorities. It was a risk one took being a knight of Valdis, for the knights were no longer in favor. They were used as scapegoats for any problem a particular city had-if crops failed in Lanholt, it was the knights who willed it; if trade was down in Rorn, it was the knights who slowed it. Tawl sighed heavily. He had heard all the rumors about how the knights were building up stockpiles of cash, of religious fanaticism and greed for political power. If the knights were corrupt, then so was their leader, and Tawl would hear nothing malicious said about Tyren.

  He had many things for which to thank the head of the order. Tyren had been good to him. He was the one who had made it possible for him to join the order. He, a common boy from the marshlands, with no rich family to sponsor his training. Tyren had helped him through the worst time of his life. When everything seemed meaningless, and the burden of guilt was too new to be bearable, Tyren had sent him to Bevlin and given him reason to carry on.

  The skitter of soft feet brought Tawl back to the present. He was being followed. Surreptitiously, he felt for his knife. His fingers closed around the cool blade, and its deadly smoothness was a reassurance. He was much stronger than he had been a week ago, and he was ready for an attack if one should come.

  Tawl walked calmly on, careful not to speed his step and thereby give away the fact that he knew he was being followed. His ears strained to hear the soft patter of feet; his shadow must have shoes of cloth. Tawl managed a grim smile. He wouldn't enjoy walking these streets with only a thin stretch of fabric between him and the filth.

  He was forced to slow down. He was not entirely sure if he was following Megan's instructions correctly. She'd directed him to what he thought was this alleyway, but she had told him it would branch off to the left. There was no such opening: the alleyway ran straight up without any turnings. He felt his skin prickle. There was a breath of air, a flash of blade, and the man was upon him.

  He swung to meet his foe, drawing the long-knife with one graceful stroke. The man had a curved sword. Tawl had seen such blades before and knew that when handled well they were deadly. The man slashed at him, forcing him to move back. He slashed again, a wild and reckless attack. Tawl jumped out of the way of the blade. As his foe prepared for another onslaught, Tawl took the opportunity to strike with the long-knife. He caught the man's arm and blood welled quickly to the surface. Distracted for a fatal instant by the sight of his own blood, the man looked up to see Tawl knife him in the chest.

  It was a clean strike. Tawl had no liking for those who sought to prolong a fight with cruel and intentionally torturous blows. The man fell to the ground, blood rushing from his wound. His curved blade fell by his side, clattering harshly upon the dull stone.

  Tawl was feeling a little shaky. It had been a long time since he had last drawn a blade. He took no delight in his win, it was merely something that had to be done.

  He considered the curved blade. It was sorely blunted: not the weapon of a man who was serious about murder. He had probably been a thief ... and a desperate one at that. Tawl picked up the sword, noting with surprise its goodly weight. It would look better once polished and sharpened; maybe he would be able to sell it and gain some money for his passage. He tucked the sword in his belt, ensuring that it could not be seen by casual eyes.

  Now he had to find the right alleyway. He decided to continue down the one he was in. He walked for a while, and found to his annoyance that it came to a dead end. He turned, resigned to walking the length of the treacherous street once more. As he wheeled around he felt a powerful blow to his head. He attempted to draw his long-knife, but another crippling blow to his skull made the world go black.

  Jack was slowly recovering from his bout of wet fever. He could now walk around the den without feeling dizzy and light-headed.

  His recovery was definitely aided by Falk's various arrays of medicines and ointments. Jack, however, lay most of the credit to the delicious food that Falk served up. Every day there was a savory stew or a roasted rabbit, or turnips baked in rich meat juices. Jack had spent his whole life in the castle kitchens, but had never been allowed to eat food this tasty. The diet for a baker's boy was usually thin gruel and all the bread he could eat.

  Jack felt almost guilty in the delight he took from eating. It didn't seem right. He was leagues away from home, supposedly on a grand adventure to find a new life, or the truth behind his mother's origins, or whatever seemed the best idea of the day, yet here he was comfortably settled in the warmth of the den eagerly awaiting his next meal.

  Each day Falk would bring the makings of a fine meal into the den. He would carefully prepare the ingredients, chopping onions and slicing carrots, skinning rabbits and grinding spices. Jack could see Falk enjoyed his work and admired how content he was doing such ordinary tasks. There had been times at Castle Harvell when he too felt a similar joy, but as he grew older, dreams an
d dissatisfactions had conspired to take it away.

  Jack did not like to be idle and had asked Falk if he could help. "No," Falk replied. "It is a blessing to me to handle the bounties of nature. I love to cook. I take only what I need, and I waste not a thing. The bones from a roast will be next day's soup, the scrape from the apple will be set to dry." Jack hadn't known how to reply to this and so had offered to bake bread for Falk.

  "Boy, you are weak yet. Baking bread must wait. Besides, I have only a make-shift stove."

  "I could make griddle cakes," said Jack, hoping that Falk would agree, for he did miss bread in his diet.

  "Very well, Jack. I see you have a need to repay me. It would be ungracious of me if I did not let you do so." Falk had a way of saying things that left Jack at a loss for words.

  So, this day Falk had returned with the flour and eggs that Jack had asked for and the boy set about making the batter for griddle cakes. As Jack mixed the ingredients, he felt that his old life as a baker's boy was far behind him. There would be times, like this, when he would bake bread, but there was no going back to the past. He could probably find a town far away in the east where he could take up a position as a baker's apprentice, only he wasn't sure if that was what he wanted anymore.

  He knew he would have to move on soon, and although he had enjoyed his time with Falk, he needed to be on his own. He was worried about the future: Baralis was after him, he had no money in his pocket and nowhere to go. The time was fast approaching when decisions would need to be made--he could choose to forget about the incident with the loaves and live quietly as a baker, or he could change the course of his life and make himself anew.