The Jack of Ruin

by Stephen Merlino

  Brolli blinked himself awake, huge gold eyes squinting against the light. “What is it?” he slurred. “What is—What?”

  “It’s Caris. She’s throwing up,” Harric said, keeping his anger in check but ignoring Brolli’s irritation. “It’s the wedding ring. I’m sure of it. It’s making her talk about marrying me, and if she resists, it socks her in the gut until she pukes.”

  Brolli flipped his daylids down, frowning. “It…may be.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” said Harric. “Your people thought the Lone Queen might need to force a mate? Thought he might need to be kicked in the gut until he wed her?”

  Brolli frowned. “I am sorry for Caris. We had bad understanding of your people. My people have no mate for life. We do not have this thing called a ‘wedding.’”

  “Which is why you shouldn’t have made a wedding ring!”

  Behind the daylids, Brolli’s face went stony. “It is unkind to retell this. We know this now.”

  Harric bit back on his frustration and ran a hand through his hair. “All I know is that Caris is now compelled to marry, and the wedding ring is hurting her. She can’t endure this forever, Brolli. Is there nothing more you can tell me to help her? Do you have any idea how wrong that is for her? I don’t think Willard can even have a married apprentice, and knighthood is everything to her.”

  Brolli was now like a statue of a Kwendi. Slowly, he shook his head. “How can I say I am sorry another way?”

  Harric sighed. “You can’t.” He handed Brolli his blanket and turned away. “But please tell me if you think of any way to help her.”

  Any way other than me leaving.

  Three things I’ve learned in Arkendia: fear the goat from the front, the horse from the rear, and a courtier from all sides.

  —First Ambassador Brolli to his page escort on the day before he abandoned the court

  46

  Of Death & Revelation

  In spite of himself, Harric slept in a spot of sun and did not wake until the sound of a snapping branch nearby woke him with a start.

  Clambering to the top of a log, he peered down the run in the direction of the sound, where Caris and Willard rode into view. As before, the old knight sat upright, staring, and apparently deep in his trance of meditation. Caris remained in her saddle as well. She was clearly in communion with Rag and the other horses, for her gaze was about as remote as Willard’s.

  Harric hopped down from the log and crossed to the priest, who snored on his back with Spook asleep at the summit of his belly. Lifting Spook, Harric said, “Father,” and kicked the dirt-black sole of the priest’s bare foot. “It’s time.”

  “Wha—I’m up.”

  Harric placed Spook in his basket as Willard passed, eerily quiet. Caris followed, gaze so inward that she barely regarded Harric. It seemed she was back in the world of horses and that whatever difficulty she’d had with Rag the day before had been resolved. It relieved him to know she could flee from the Compulsion into that world.

  Harric mounted, and after a quick look to be certain the priest was on his feet and readying Geraldine, he rode after Willard, with Caris close behind.

  *

  Smoke hung like a haze in the great corridors of trees, making Harric’s eyes and throat raw. Willard set a grueling pace without stopping for rest, and as night approached and they finally stopped to camp, both riders and horses were exhausted.

  Spook ran straight for Geraldine, where Father Kogan milked her heavy udders.

  Kogan stooped to fill a cup for Spook, and the cat swatted at his hanging beard. Chuckling, he said, “I’m like to steal your cat from you, Harric.”

  “You may well be a better friend to him than I. Let me loan you his basket, and see if he won’t travel with you tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

  Harric watered Snapper, double-fed him, and rubbed down the gelding’s steaming muscles. The poor horse wouldn’t get much sleep tonight, for Harric would sneak him out of camp and leave as soon as he had an opportunity, and then he’d travel all night to get a head start.

  When he’d finished checking Snapper’s hooves and shoes, he packed for his departure by preparing two bags that he could carry on foot, in case he couldn’t get Snapper out of camp without waking the others. The first was his mother’s travel pack, where he stowed all essentials and a three-day supply of strong bread; the second was Captain Gren’s spitfire pack.

  As he finished with the packs, Willard called them together. Brolli and Mudruffle were already with him, holding up Mudruffle’s map and pointing out features to Willard when Harric arrived.

  “Take a good look at this map again, all of you.” Willard pointed to their valley and to the adjacent valley where the fire burned. “So far, it seems this new wind has been our friend. It’s blown the fire back on itself, so the fire is dying, starving for fuel. Brolli will keep watch for any chance the new wind blows the fire into our valley while we sleep, but the chances of that are dwindling.”

  “That is good news,” Kogan said.

  “Mudruffle has agreed to show us what he knows of our path tomorrow,” said Willard. “And I want you to pay close attention, so you’ll know where to go if we’re separated.” He nodded to Mudruffle, and the little golem stepped forward, gave a stiff bow, and laid his finger on the map.

  “We are here now,” he said, indicating a spot near the top of the map, just below a spot he’d named Toothed Canyon. Above the canyon, annotations were scarce, a shortcoming Harric guessed Mudruffle intended to remedy now. “The Toothed Canyon is only a half-mile long, but the cliffs there are so severe that I have found only one way through, and that way is hidden by the river for most of the year by powerful waters. We are fortunate that in summer the water is low enough to reveal it: it is a ledge of stone that runs along the edge of the river on this side.

  “So it’s a riverside trail?” said Harric.

  “It is.”

  “Make no mistake,” said Willard, “this canyon is a bottleneck in the valley, and if Bannus wishes to cut us off, he might have run up the other side of the river to meet us there. I think it unlikely, but we must be on our guard.”

  The others exchanged uneasy glances.

  “So we follow the yoab runs from here to the canyon,” said Harric, drawing a line north along the river with his finger, “and when we get to the canyon, we climb right down to the water to find the ledge, and follow the ledge up the canyon.”

  “That is correct.” Mudruffle turned away from the map to face them. “When we are through, we will be near the Godswall, and we will turn west to find a pass back to the River Arkend.”

  “If there is no fire beyond the canyon,” said Willard. “If there’s fire in our valley or in the pass we want to take, we keep heading north for a pass along the feet of the Godswall.”

  “How likely is a pass west along the feet of the Godswall?” Harric said.

  Willard snorted. “Less likely than dying in a burning pass, but I’ll take my chances with the Godswall, all the same.” The knight turned to Brolli. “If the fires enter our valley, wake us and we will flee.”

  “I will go to my watch now,” said Brolli. “And I have seen fresh elk tracks. Tomorrow, Lady Molly will feast, or I am no hunter.”

  Willard nodded. “Harric will bring your nightly breakfast to you. Something hot. With all this smoke in the valley, no one will notice if we have a little cook fire. And one thing more.” He gave Kogan a long look, then stuffed a fresh ragleaf in his mouth. “Father Kogan has convinced me of the wisdom of riding days and taking the Blood only at night.”

  Harric looked up, but Willard avoided his gaze. Kogan smuggled Harric a wink.

  “Well, I’ll be hanged,” Harric muttered.

  “Come, girl.” Willard beckoned to Caris, and she acknowledged with a nod. After her wedding discussion with Willard, she’d retreated into the world of horses and scarcely come out.

  “We will find a spot back
on the road we took today,” Willard said. “As soon as I’m stable again, we return and you can get some sleep.”

  Willard rode, and Caris followed, holding a candle lantern high on a pole. She did not look in Harric’s direction.

  “Farewell,” he said, too soft for her to hear, for it could well be the last he ever saw of her.

  *

  Harric picked up Spook, whose soft belly was as round and full of milk as Fink’s was full of souls, and sat by the fire to pet him as Mudruffle boiled cakes of strong bread. Boiling the confection-like bread turned it into a hot and delicious pudding, and the change was welcome to Harric. With Spook in his lap, he wolfed two bowls. When finished, he filled a bowl with Brolli’s portion, and set out in the direction he’d seen Brolli leave for his watch.

  He found the Kwendi sitting atop a rock bluff some twenty fathoms above the river. The view of the smoky valley and the scattered fires on the opposite ridge was expansive, and though the waters rushed wide and vigorous below, the bluff was high enough that its noise there was little more than a sigh.

  “Nights are getting cold,” Harric said as he approached.

  Brolli’s head turned and his huge eyes flashed like a cat’s eyes in the silver light of the Bright Mother. He had bundled himself in his travel cloak and seated himself on a boulder at the edge of the bluff. He held below his nose a witch-silver cup full of steaming tea. Harric hadn’t seen that cup before, but the fact that it was witch-silver as much as guaranteed it was enchanted.

  “And here is the gliding frog among locusts,” Brolli murmured. “Here is the only one to trust, for he has the most powerful aphrodisiac of the world, and does not use it.”

  Harric’s shoulders stiffened and he bit back on a retort. Was that a jab or a compliment? Letting out a breath, he let it go; he had already snapped at the Kwendi that day, and he wanted to part on good terms. “Brolli, I am sorry for my rudeness today. The ring is not your fault.”

  Brolli looked up from his cup and stared at Harric for a long moment. “I thank you. And I thank you for the food.” Brolli nodded at the bundle in Harric’s hands. “You may put it down.”

  Harric set it on the boulder beside Brolli. An uncomfortable pause followed, while the Kwendi stared into his cup, which gave off a little puff of steam. Spook’s big eyes were fixed on the puff as it rose, and he let out a sound that was half mew, half purr.

  Brolli said something in Kwendi, and Harric’s eyes narrowed. Was he talking to the cup? And was it talking back? Harric couldn’t hear it saying anything, but something about it gave Harric the impression that Brolli was talking through it to someone. The mere possibility of such powerful magic set him aback. Not only had Brolli been learning Arkendian culture in the Queen’s Court and with Willard on the road, but he could share it with someone back in the Kwendi cities…if they even had cities.

  A faint chill passed through Harric’s middle. Everything he knew of the Kwendi had come through Brolli, who could reveal as much or as little of the truth as he wanted. It made Harric feel toyed with and vulnerable. Of course, the balance of secrets between Arkendia and the Kwendi had always been in the Kwendi’s favor—much like it had been in favor of Fink in Harric’s relationship with the imp—but this changed everything. And now that Brolli was openly critical of Arkendia, it made Harric doubly uneasy.

  “That is a very interesting cup,” Harric said, wondering if someone else could hear him through the receptacle.

  Brolli smiled. “We’ve shared many a night’s beginning.”

  “You said something just now that made me think of something I hadn’t thought of before.”

  “Mm? What is that?”

  “You called the ring an aphrodisiac, and it occurred to me what an advanced vocabulary you have. Most Arkendians don’t even know that word. They’d just say a ‘love charm.’”

  “Hear this!” the Kwendi said, the cup still under his nose. “I have advanced Arkendian words. That means strong.”

  “It just seems amazing that you speak our language so well when we only discovered your people last year.”

  Brolli’s eyes flashed in the moonlight. “It’s true. You knew nothing of us. But we have known of you for many years. Your knights have wandered our forests since before my mother’s girlhood.”

  Harric stared. “You mean knights who went north on Redemption Quests?”

  “You call them so, yes. I think instead of the banishing, a knight may take the Redemption Quest to bring back the horn of a spear dragon from our forest, yes? And if he succeeds, your queen forgives him his offense and the banishment.”

  Harric nodded. “But no one expects to come back. It’s more of a way to die with honor. I don’t think anyone has returned from one.”

  “That is so, because we capture these knights and from them learn much, including your language.”

  Harric blinked in surprise. It took a moment to be sure he’d heard the Kwendi correctly. Then a flame of anger flowered in his chest. All those knights never even had a chance to die in the way they’d chosen. “Why did you capture them? They weren’t your enemies.”

  “Were they our friends?” The Kwendi gave Harric a sharp look and took another sip from his mug. “Would you let a strange creature crash through your farms without explanation? Before we knew the language, we did not know what they wanted. They just appeared and smashed through the forest. And if we let them disturb a dragon, our truce with the dragons would be lost, and the dragons could destroy us. That would be a greater tragedy than capturing a favor-less knight, yes?”

  Harric knew his own anger was making him unreasonable. Nothing Brolli said was anything he might not have done himself, but it made him furious that the Kwendi people had known so much about Arkendia before the Arkendians knew anything of them.

  “You could have turned them back to Arkendia,” he said, looking for some moral basis for his anger. “You didn’t have to capture them.”

  “How?” Brolli’s tone bore no warmth or sympathy. “Even if we knew the language, how would we convince a banished knight to turn back home?” The cup spouted steam, and Spook, still staring at it, let out another purring mew.

  “Before my mother’s time, we killed the knights. Back then, your knights were rare. But in my lifetime, they came more and more often. We now know it was because of your queen’s long peace and bad temper that so many were banished. It was my mother who decided to capture them and learn their language, so we could know what they wanted. Not all the clans liked this idea. But by capturing them, we have language for diplomacy with your people. It is law we learn to speak. If we had not done so, there would be no path but war.”

  Another chill passed through Harric. He felt like an ignorant child at the foot of a tutor.

  Brolli’s pointed canines flashed. “We are a nation of bastards, Harric. We, like you, do what we must to survive. I think we are good at it.”

  Bristling inwardly at the comparison, Harric forced himself to swallow his objection. “You had reasons,” he said. “Even good ones.” It was hard to admit it. Not only had the Kwendi fed back to him his own bastard survival philosophy, but by admitting the wisdom of the Kwendi, he admitted the ignorance of his own people.

  Mercifully, something in the river caught Harric’s eye, giving him an excuse to change the subject. He pointed to the moonlit rapids. “Look there. Are those milled boards?”

  Brolli looked and nodded. “It is sawed planks. They are stuck in rocks.”

  “That means there’s a settlement in this valley, upstream somewhere beyond the Toothed Canyon. And a settlement means a road.” Carric smiled, relieved. His solo expedition didn’t seem quite as terrifying as it had been a moment before.

  “This is good,” said Brolli. A puff of steam rose from his cup. Brolli glanced at Harric and gave him a wooden smile. “Thank you for the food,” he said, as if dismissing him.

  “Quiet watch.” Harric left him to his post, but rather than returning to camp with a clear heart
, he felt newly troubled. Before, it had seemed to Harric that the Kwendi were a wronged people struggling to make a quick peace with an invader. Now it appeared that they had far more cards in their hand than he’d supposed, and that the Queen’s hand was much weaker. And he couldn’t shake the sense that Brolli had ended their conversation so abruptly because he was up to something and impatient to get to it.

  It might be as simple as Brolli wanting to throw the strong bread in the river and open his magic closet to eat a proper Kwendi snack. Or maybe Harric had interrupted a lover speaking to Brolli through his cup. But that hadn’t been the mood Harric felt there. If he had to guess, he’d say he interrupted official business. Could Brolli make nightly reports to his people through the cup?

  When he returned to their camp, Harric found it empty of all but the horses and Kogan, who lay beside the musk auroch, snoring like an overfed yoab. Caris and Willard were still somewhere to the south, bleeding Molly, and Mudruffle had gone east to map a fork of the yoab run. When Spook saw Kogan, he squirmed, and Harric walked him over to let him down on Geraldine’s ample back, where he curled up for another nap.

  “Farewell, Spook,” Harric murmured. “You’ve been a good friend, but I leave you with a better provider. Stay safe.”

  A deep ache squeezed Harric’s heart. Already he felt more alone than he had since the night of his last birthday, on which he’d been cursed to die.

  Well. Farewells are a kind of death, too.

  He left a note explaining his departure in terms of his concern for Caris, and his reasoning that putting distance between them would weaken the ring’s influence. That it was what the real Caris would want him to do in this situation, in any case.

  Then he took one last look at the camp, and led Snapper into the trees.

  If Fate wants to kill you, she first makes you stupid.

  —King Harnor, in Apoligia for the Cleansing