by J. V. Jones
Even as his hold on the blade wavered, the knight still fought on. The sorcerer was weakening. The power tautened like a drawn bow, ready to snap back. Inexperienced the cloaked figure might be, but he had still drawn enough to bum the skin off his own face.
The sharp tang of sorcery brought saliva to Baralis' mouth. He looked closely at the instigator. So small, so slight: it was a woman! Excited curiosity won over caution and Baralis shaped a compulsion on his very next breath. Weaving with subtle precision, he worked it below the thread of the drawing. An instant later the cloaked figure turned and looked at him. With the cries of the crowd sounding in his ears and the taste of sorcery still fresh upon his tongue, Baralis recognized the face of Catherine of Bren.
The knight's will fought back with deadly force. In that instant, Catherine lost control of the drawing. A fraction of a second later, Baralis sent out a drawing of his own. Not pausing to think, he directed every fiber of his soul toward the space between Catherine and the knight. The drawing broke. Baralis heard the sound of it snapping through the air. He sped to meet it. There wasn't enough time to brace himself. It smashed against him with the force of a storm. His mind was tom from his body and then he fell into the dark.
Nabber felt certain that Tawl was a goner. The knight's seizure had given Blayze enough time to recover both his strength and his blade. The champion took the knife in his left and slashed at Tawl's face. Tawl was doubled up with pain, but he just managed to turn away. The blade sliced his ear. Blayze moved forward again, preparing to strike. The crowd cheered him on. Victory was in sight.
All of a sudden, Tawl appeared to recover. He straightened his back and dropped his arm from his chest. He looked into Blayze's eyes and smiled. A second later he kicked in the champion's kneecaps. Both of them. The man fell to the ground. Tawl was on him in an instant. He punched an elbow into his face, breaking his nose. Blood splattered the features of both men. Tawl surprised the crowd by throwing away his knife. He took Blayze's forehead in both hands and smashed his skull into the ground. Again and again the man's head was brought down upon the stone flooring. The crowd was horrified. All eyes were on the pool of blood which surrounded the champion's face.
Nabber felt a sudden tug on his arm. He tore his gaze away from the pit and found himself face-to-face with the girl in the portrait. "Make him stop!" she screamed. One swift second to put everything into place-she was obviously the champion's sweetheart another second to ponder on the exaggeration of the artist-the girl looked a lot more haggard in person-and then he was off, leaping into the pit like a hero to the rescue.
He ran straight up to Tawl. The knight was in a blood frenzy, aware of nothing except the need to destroy. Nabber put a hand upon his arm and said gently, "Come on, Tawl, time to stop. No need to fight anymore." The knight looked up. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. Nabber realized he was far away in another place, fighting a fight that could never be won. "Please, Tawl, for me. Please stop." Tawl hesitated; his eyes cleared. He stopped and let Nabber pull him away. Standing up, he began to make his way from the pit.
The crowd waited in silence. In took Nabber a moment to realize what they were waiting for. The red scarf of victory still lay on the ground. Instinctively, he knew Tawl would never raise it. As his second, he could do it for him. Nabber picked up the red marker from the floor and held it above his head. As he did so, he looked for the hooded girl from the portrait. She was nowhere to be seen.
Maybor watched as the young boy raised the scarf over his head and the crowd broke into an uneasy applause. It was turning out to be a most interesting evening. By far the high spot had been some five minutes earlier, when Baralis had collapsed where he stood. One minute the king's chancellor was his usual contemptible self, stealing glances from the side like an uninvited guest, and the next he'd turned as pale as pig lard and his legs gave way under him. He was quickly borne away by a handful of servants, his body as still as a corpse.
The matter caused little commotion. The duke barely looked up from the fight. Sick envoys were obviously not a priority when the honor of Bren was at stake.
Maybor was hoping that some enterprising courtiers had taken it into their heads to poison the man. Either that or he'd been stricken with a fatal seizure. Indeed, seizures seemed the order of the night. The golden-haired fighter had definitely succumbed to some sort of attack. Strange how he recovered just after Baralis collapsed.
Unable to keep the smile from his face, Maybor uncapped his flask and took a hearty swig of brandy. Yes, it was a night of rare drama and intrigue, and the show wasn't even over yet.
The duke was not a happy man. A muscle was pumping in his cheek and his eyes were as cold and as dark as the Great Lake he claimed for his own. The crowd was looking to him for a sign, a gesture, no matter how small, that would give them some indication of how best to react. The Hawk was giving little away. He stood up and acknowledged the red marker with the briefest of nods.
"Bring the victor before me," he cried.
A few moments passed. To Maybor's eyes it looked as if the young boy had to practically drag the knight forward. Eventually the two stood before the duke. The wound on the fighter's chest had been quickly bound. Judging from the amount of blood on his tunic, the blade must have cut deep between the bones. The man looked sick, almost fevered; his skin had a gray cast to it and his brow was slick with sweat. The circles that had caused such an uproar were no longer on show. A length of green silk covered the spot where they lay. The boy's shirt, which was a matching color, was sporting a missing sleeve.
The crowd hushed in anticipation. "I will ask you one question," said the duke to the knight. "Are you free of your obligation to Valdis?"
Time slowed. The moon shone a pale light upon the dais and the faces of five thousand people were turned toward the knight.
"I have long forsaken Valdis," he said. "So you count yourself a free man?"
"I do."
"Then I ask you to take a pledge and be named as my champion."
A ripple of shock rose from the crowd.
The knight looked toward his second. He made a small gesture with his hand, and then said, "I am willing to take the pledge."
As close as he was to the duke, Maybor could not tell what he was thinking. The Hawk took a deep breath and then spoke in a voice designed to ring the city with its echoes.
"Repeat after me: I, Tawl of the Lowlands, do solemnly pledge to protect the duke and his heirs with all the strength of my body and the force of my spirit until Borc himself calls me to rest."
A minute of silence passed and then the knight repeated the oath.
FIFTEEN
The man with golden hair was at the center of the city. The high battlements closed about him like the sharp teeth of a predator. He was never getting out of there.
Jack awoke. He was confused, disorientated. An ember in the fire suddenly burst into flame. Never had a dream seemed so vivid, so true, so tragic. Jack was overcome with a sense of loss.
He felt alone, abandoned, as if he'd been left to fend for himself in an uncertain world. The golden-haired stranger had deserted him. Jack knew he would never see him in his dreams again.
Strange, but although the man had appeared to him only once before, he seemed to be a symbol of something. Something fundamental and precious like hope.
Jack was cold to the core. He drew the covers close, but how could a blanket warm the marrow of his bones? The embers ran out of fuel. The fire petered to nothing; a dark shell with a glint of red at its heart. There was no way of telling the time. He might have been asleep for hours, or minutes or seconds. The kitchen was quiet, dark except for the banking fire. Rovas slept in the larder, and Magra and Tarissa slept in the room behind the chimney.
Jack stood up and went over to the window. He unlatched the shutter and looked out at the night. The sky seemed impossibly large. Stars vied with a full moon, but nothing was as compelling as the dark. He was truly alone now. What did it mean? Why was the ma
n with golden hair so important? And what would happen now that he had gone? Jack ran his hands through his hair. He'd barely had a chance to recover from what happened yesterday, when his dreams had abducted his body, and now this. He looked to the sky for answers, but the impartial silence of the heavens was his only reply.
A floorboard creaked behind him. "Jack, are you all right?" came Tarissa's voice.
He didn't turn. "No. Something has changed. I don't know what."
"Was it another vision?" Tarissa rested her arm upon his shoulder.
"A dream, a vision-I don't know."
"Come and sit down. I'll make up the fire."
She was so close he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. Its warmth drew him in. He was so cold and she alone could warm him. He turned toward her, following her breath to its source. Her mouth was open as if somehow she understood what he needed. She came to meet him. Her substance was an antidote to the vast emptiness of space, and her warmth expelled the cold like a flame.
Lips met, skin touched. A pull upon a strand and Tarissa's nightgown fell to the floor. Her nakedness was a gift. The moonlight gleamed upon her flesh, but it was to the shadows that his tongue was drawn. The exquisite dip where the throat joined the body, the heavy underside of her breasts, and the fragrant moistness of the hairs beneath her arm. He couldn't touch her enough. He needed to feel part of her, to help dull his sense of loss and to be saved from the anguish of being alone.
His urgency was so great it drove them to a place where nothing mattered, only the wetness of saliva and the soft edges where flesh became hollows. Tarissa made her body an offering, sacrificing herself to the force of his need.
As soon as the maid had left, Melli turned toward the minor and rubbed the rouge from her face. There was no way she was going to be garnished like a dish at a banquet.
Off with the dress, too. Ever since her brief stay with Mistress Greal, Melli had taken a deep disliking to the color red. She didn't care a jot whether or not she looked nice for the duke.
As she changed back into the dress given to her by Fiscel, she checked again to see that her knife was still in place. The hardness of the metal pleased her. The duke would get quite a fright if he tried to come too close. Not that she had any intention of letting matters get that far. She looked at her reflection: what else could she do to make herself unappealing? A flash of inspiration came to her and she spent the next ten minutes biting her nails to the quick.
It really was getting rather late, well past midnight by her reckoning. Perhaps His Grace had gone off the idea of feminine diversions. She hadn't heard from Bailor all day, but the fact that he had sent a girl to tend to her appearance was a sign that she might still be called upon despite the lateness of the hour.
There was a small part of her that hoped the call would come. Try as she might to deny it, the thought of a confrontation with the duke excited her. He was said to be the most powerful man in the north. It would be interesting to see. what kind of man lay behind the reputation. Melli scolded her imagination and deliberately focused on a disturbing thought to punish herself. If the man was as brutal as was rumored, then how would he react to being challenged in his own chambers with a knife?
A knock at the door was followed by the drawing of a bolt. In walked Bailor. He took a long look at her, and then said, "if you take the gilding from the lily, the flower still remains."
Melli felt a flush upon her face. He had seen right through her attempt to make herself unappealing. Determined not to admit her tactics, she feigned innocence. "I decided not to wear the red dress, the color doesn't become me."
"Aah. And your nails, did their length not become you, either?"
"I broke one and thought it wise to make the rest even."
"And the rouge?"
"Pale cheeks are the height of beauty in the kingdoms." Bailor actually laughed. "You are going to be quite a surprise to His Grace. I can't decide which is the quicker: your tongue or your wits."
Melli tried to look indignant. "Are you calling me a liar, sir?"
"You're no shrinking violet, that's for sure." He gave her an appraising look. "You will do just the way you are. Follow me."
Now the moment had finally come, Melli found that she wasn't the least bit excited, just nervous. She let Bailor lead her out of the room. They walked along a series of galleries and then down many flights of stairs. The farther they descended, the more worried Melli became. Surely the duke's chamber would be situated high in the palace? She stopped in her tracks. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded.
"For a bastard daughter, you have quite an air about you," said Bailor, looking at her sharply. Melli dropped her gaze to the floor. "There's no need to worry," he continued.
"The duke values discretion in all things, especially matters of a personal nature. There is a tunnel in the servants' chapel that leads to his chambers."
"How very convenient to have both sin and salvation within such easy reach." Melli was relieved. She didn't doubt his words for an instant. Castle Harvell was riddled with tunnels, and there was no reason to believe that the duke's palace would not boast a few of its own.
"Did the fight go well?" she asked as they approached a low wooden doorway.
Bailor wheeled around. "Under no circumstances must you mention the fight to His Grace."
Why.
"He lost his champion tonight."
"Was the man killed?"
"Worse than killed. His brains were smashed out of his skull." Bailor's voice was grim. "He is barely alive. The Physicians are doing what they can, but there is little hope that he'll live through the night."
"And the victor, what has become of him?"
"His fate plays a stronger tune. The duke appointed him his new champion." Bailor glanced around before placing his hand on the door. "He had little choice really, what with the court and the foreign envoys looking on. He is a proud man and to have his champion defeated in such a way was quite upsetting for him. So whatever you do, don't mention the fight to him." He looked to Melli for her assent, but at that instant the door swung open.
"Thought I heard voices. It's a little late for a service, though." Straight away Melli recognized the accent of the kingdoms. Instinctively she turned her head away from the man to whom the voice belonged.
"You are not the normal guard," said Bailor. "What are you doing in the chapel at this hour?"
"Me and my friend here have been doing a little work for the chaplain." The guard indicated a second man standing behind him. "We were just finishing off polishing the floor;."
There were a bucket and some cloths on the floor behind them.
"I would advise you not to work so late in the future." said Bailor. "Now let me pass."
They walked into the chapel, Melli keeping her head bent low toward the floor. Her heart was beating wildly. She was almost certain that the guards were from Castle Harvell. They could recognize her in an instant.
"What's your name, man?" asked Bailor to the one who had opened the door.
"Grift, sir, and my companion here is Bodger."
"Well, Grift, I trust you know the value of a still tongue?"
"You can count on me and Bodger, sir."
"I'm pleased to hear it." Bailor took hold of Melli's arm. "I think it's time you gentlemen retired for the evening."
The one called Grift nodded judiciously. "Of course, sir, say no more. Me and Bodger will be on our way." With that he and the second guard made their way toward the main entrance to the chapel.
Bailor waited until the door was closed behind them. "Drunken fools," he said under his breath. He then guided Melli toward the altar.
Hanging behind the altar were several painted panels charting Bore's progress from shepherd to hero to god. Bailor went straight to the middle panel and pressed against the left side. The whole thing swung open like a door. Startled, Melli jumped back. Her nerves were on edge; the incident with the guards had left her badly shaken.
"Follow me," said Bailor.
They traveled up a narrow, spiral staircase. They must have been expected, thought Melli, for the stairway was lit with torches. Up and around they went, burrowing into the heart of the palace. Eventually they came to a door. Bailor knocked lightly and the door was opened by a guard wearing military blue. The man nodded curtly and let them pass. They walked through the small anteroom and into a large but sparsely furnished chamber. One man stood alone by an unshuttered window.
Bailor cleared his throat. "Your Grace, may I present Melli of Deepwood."
The man turned and looked at Melli. Never in all her life had she received such a look: cold and appraising, it seemed to strip her bare and then discard what was left.
"Take her away," he said. "But, sir-"
"I said take her away."
Anger rose within Melli. No one dismissed her so brusquely. "Do what the man said, Bailor. After all, he's had quite an upsetting evening-best to let him mourn his champion alone." She spun around and began to walk back the way they'd come.
The duke was on her in an instant. He slapped her across the face. Melli reeled with the force of the blow. She struggled to keep her footing. Once she was stable, she drew herself up to her full height, looked the duke straight in the eye, and said: "It's a pity your champion couldn't muster such a blow, else the fight might have ended quite differently."
Flint gray eyes reappraised her. Without looking at Bailor, he said, "Leave us alone."
Melli heard the sound of footsteps receding into the distance. Determined not to be the first to look away, she held her gaze firm. The duke took a brief step forward and Melli couldn't stop herself from flinching.
"Not as tough as you seem," said the duke with a stretch of lip that might have passed for a smile.
"Well, I'm sure you're looking to make someone pay for tonight. I've probably come at just the right time." She tilted her chin. "If you're going to beat me, I should wam you, I will fight back."
