by J. V. Jones
"No," said the duke quickly, "I would have you her friend."
"I choose my own friends, Your Grace."
"Then it is only fitting that you meet the lady in question." The duke pushed against the door and beckoned him forward.
They walked through a large dining room and then into a dimly lit bedchamber. A thin, dark-haired girl sat up in the bed. Her eyes were large and dark, and her chin was as blunt as a spade.
"Tawl," said the duke, "may I present the Lady Melliandra."
Melli was not in a good mood. She was heartily sick of being prodded and poked, and force-fed curds and whey. Her father had been right to hate physicians; not content with a patient being sick, they had to make them miserable as well. She wanted a leg of beef-a whole one, barely roasted-a jug of decent claret, and a chamberpot that didn't cut into her bottom like a knife.
Another thing she didn't like was the constant comings and goings. Ever since she came around yesterday, people had walked into her room as if the door, and the custom of knocking upon it, simply didn't exist. Physicians physicianed her, priests prayed for her, and dressmakers measured her: all united in their total disregard for her privacy. To top it all off, no one would answer her questions. No matter what she asked, they just smiled and nodded and said, "We'll see." She had just worked herself up into a satisfying fit of selfrighteous anger when in walked the duke.
There was someone with him, a tall golden-haired man who looked like he'd stepped straight from a legend. "Melliandra," said the duke, "I would like you to meet my new champion, Tawl of the Lowlands."
The man bowed graciously, his back broadening to a curve. "My lady."
Melli wasn't sure how to react. This stranger before her didn't deserve to be the target of her wrath. As he straightened up, she noticed there was a bandage around his chest and a second one around his arm. His blue eyes met hers and what she saw there destroyed her anger instantly. "I am pleased to meet you, Tawl," she said.
"What's this, Melliandra? Has the fall from the horse knocked the ire from your tongue?" The' duke smiled. He made his way over to the window, drew back curtains and shutters, and then turned to look at her. "You have lost color and weight."
"And you, sir, have lost none of your ability to insult a lady." Something was niggling at Melli. She couldn't remember having told anyone at Bren her real name, yet for the past day everyone had been calling her Melliandra, and "Lady," at that! Perhaps Bailor was telling the truth about the duke being in love, for people were treating her with new respect since the accident. A touch of pride settled itself in Melli's brow. It was only fitting that a man such as the duke should see her true worth, after all she was the daughter of the greatest lord in the kingdoms. Obviously her breeding showed through her present disguise.
"Leave us now, Tawl," said the duke. "Go and take some rest. I will talk with you later."
The golden-haired man bowed a second time and made his way from the room. Melli noticed that he didn't make a sound as he walked. As soon as the door was closed, she said, "Why was it so important that I meet your champion? Is he one more person to watch over me?"
"You flatter yourself, Melliandra," said the duke, coming to sit on the bed. "But not without reason. Yes, I would have him look after you." His lean, dark face was unreadable, his eyes bright like a hawk's. "When I value something highly, I make sure I keep it safe."
"So you value me highly?" Melli felt a little nervous at the sudden change in the conversation. The duke was so close she could smell him.
"I do." He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
His touch was rough, pleasing. Unnerved, she pulled away. "Why this sudden change of heart? Last time we spoke I remember no such consideration."
"When I was told you might die, I realized I didn't want to lose you." The duke spoke smoothly, but the words didn't quite fit the man.
"Me, an illegitimate daughter of an impoverished lord?" Abruptly, the duke stood up. For the first time Melli noticed he wasn't swearing his sword. Strange, she had never seen him without it before. It made her a little wary.
"Melliandra, since my wife died twelve years ago, I have kept women from my life. Yes, I took comfort-I would hardly be a man if I did not, but I only sought pleasure, not company." The duke turned to face her. "Until now. You have not been out of my thoughts since the day we met. Your pride and wit are matchless; you infuriate and beguile all in one. My wife was the last woman who challenged me so, and I had long forgotten what it was like to be with a woman who was my equal."
Melli was reeling. The last thing she had expected was such a magnificent declaration. My equal, he said. For the first time in her life, Melli knew what it was like to be valued for herself, not for her title, or her beauty, or the greatness of her father's wealth. But for what was inside. For what formed her words and shaped her actions and made her who she was. This man before her wasn't wooing Maybor's daughter, he was wooing a girl with no money and no prospects, yet he was treating her like a peer. Melli was thrilled.
The duke stood, waiting upon her response.
She was unsure what to say. Quickly she tested a few sentences in her head, but nothing seemed right. "You have caught me by surprise, Your Grace."
"I am not displeased." The duke smiled sharply, skin stretched over the hook of his nose. "But I am concerned lest I tire you. The physicians advise me you need rest."
"I feel fine." Melli was reluctant to let him go. "Though I'm worried about the horse. What became of him?"
"He is dead. He died by my own hand: a lame horse is no use to me."
Melli felt ashamed. Her pride, which moments earlier the duke had praised her for, had been the cause of the horse's death. "I am sorry," she said.
The duke nodded gently. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a package wrapped in silk. "I have something I would give you."
It was the pig farmer's knife, she was sure of it. With trembling hands she took the bundle from him.
"Open it."
Melli unraveled the silk and something heavy glinted and then fell onto the bed. It was a knife, but not hers: an exquisitely carved blade worked in silver and gold, with rubies and sapphires studding the hilt. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
"Do you like it? I thought perhaps you would need a new one, seeing as you bent the last one out of shape." Melli searched for warning in his voice, but could find only irony. She took the knife in her hand and it fit like a glove. The jewels danced with the sun, sending colors flying like sparks.
"It is a lady's blade, wrought five hundred years ago for a beautiful empress in the Far South. 'Tis rumored she only wielded it once, to kill her husband's mistress." The duke began to make his way to the door. "Tomorrow I will bring you a scabbard, then you will have no excuse for keeping it close to your chest." One quick shrewd look, one curt soldierly bow, and he was off, leaving the room larger by his absence.
Melli drew the knife across the bedsheets, slicing them clean apart. She was confused, excited, disappointed that he'd gone.
Garon, Duke of Bren, known as the Hawk by his enemies, walked down the long corridor and into the small chambers that were temporarily his own. He was anxious for his sword. He missed its reassuring weight around his waist and the coolness of the blade down his thigh. A newly purchased maiden waited in a state of undress. He had requested her presence earlier and now found he had no taste for lovemaking. He dismissed the girl with a single wave of his arm. She scurried away like a rat, a tiny cry of disappointment escaping from her lips. The duke barely heard it.
His visit with Melliandra had gone well. Very well. The unusual thing was, that at some point during his seduction, he had actually begun to believe what he said. She had captured his interest: her tongue was quick and her spirit was lively. She was an exceptional woman indeed.
He poured himself a half cup of wine and, after checking to ensure that his manservant was not in the room, he drank it. The idea of giving Melliandra a jeweled dagge
r had been inspired. He must remember to thank Bailor for the suggestion. The head of his household was a perceptive man. He had guessed that broaches and earrings would not have caught the lady's interest. And he was right: Lord Maybor's daughter could have any adornment she chose and a few trinkets more would fail to impress. Of course, the question was what she was doing with a knife stuffed down her bodice in the first place. The duke was inclined to look upon it kindly, perhaps even admiringly. She was a lady prepared to actively defend her honor.
He rubbed his hands across his chin. The beginnings of stubble caught the rough skin on his fingers. It was almost time for his second shave of the day. The duke went over to the table, picked up his sword, and hooked it on its loop. No scabbard for him; he liked his blade naked. Not only was it more threatening, but it also forced him to think before he made a move. The need to prevent a gash to leg or hand kept his reflexes well honed.
As he rubbed a soft cloth across the blade, his thoughts were with Melliandra. A beautiful new wife was just what he needed. And a bouncing baby boy for his heir.
He would marry Melliandra and she would provide him with an heir. It was a brilliant plan. Perfect in every way. At this point in time Catherine was committed to marrying Kylock; the betrothal had been settled by proxy, so it was as good as set in stone. The problem-and Lord Baralis knew this very well, though he wasn't about to admit it-was that Kylock seemed set to conquer Halcus. This would not only make Annis and Highwall very nervous, but it would eventually lead to war. The crux of the matter was that Catherine was-his only child, so on his death Bren's leadership would pass to her, and by implication her husband as well. The duke did not like this fact one little bit. It had kept him awake at nights, especially after he received news of Kylock's successful invasion of Halcus.
To back down from the marriage at this point would be disastrous. It could lead to another war in itself, as the kingdoms would take it as a grievous insult. To make matters worse, there was currently some rumor that Catherine's wedding dress had been seized and then burned by a coalition of southern forces. So now it was almost a matter of pride that the wedding go ahead; he wouldn't let the southerners think they had intimidated him into backing down. The duke drew the polishing cloth taut against the blade. The Hawk backed down for no one.
The whole situation was too dangerous. His alliance with Tyren and the knighthood had long worried the south, but they had been content to leave matters well alone until the announcement of the union between Bren and the kingdoms. He knew what everyone was frightened of: the emergence of a single power that encompassed the north. Anchored by the kingdoms in the west and Bren in the east, it would be an empire the likes of which had not been seen in centuries. That was what Kylock and Baralis wanted. Oh, Baralis was ever the diplomat, denying and then minimizing the threat, but he had his eye on the prize, and a very clever and calculating eye it was. The duke began to pace around the room. By taking a wife himself and fathering a legitimate male heir, he would confound the plans of Baralis and Kylock, diffuse the growing tension in the north, and still appear resolute to the south.
It was nothing short of magnificent. By fathering a son, Catherine would no longer be his heir, so the union between her and Kylock would not be seen as a threatening coupling of might, but rather a traditional royal marriage sealed with bonds of friendship and trade. The wedding would no longer have a sting.
Let Kylock do what he would with Halcus; as soon as Melliandra was with child, it would not be Bren's concern. He would go to Annis and Highwall and promise neutrality.
That would ensure the war didn't escalate, for there was no way the kingdoms could take on the might of Highwall alone. Even now, that city with the infamous granite battlements was preparing for war. The duke received daily reports from Highwall, and its leaders were taking the situation seriously. Just last week they passed a law stating that every man must practice archery for twenty hours a week, and that a fifth of all income was to be contributed for defense.
The duke sat down at his desk. In the half hour he'd been away, more reports had arrived. Briefly he read one. Kylock had taken the town of Nolton, a strategic gain, for it lay halfway between the border and the capital, Helch. Five thousand women had been slaughtered in its sacking. There was no death count given for the men. Brushing his hands over his shortly cropped hair, the duke wondered exactly what Kylock was up to. Killing women was simply uncalled for. The duke was a military man; he'd taken many towns and villages over the past twenty years and never once had he ordered women killed. Of course, it was a hazard of war that some would die and many be raped, but there was no benefit to be gained by actively pursuing them. In fact, killing of innocents usually had the effect of hardening enemy resolve.
Whatever his motives, Kylock was certainly doing something right. He'd cut through the Halcus defense as easily as if it were butter. He was actively recruiting mercenaries, too. Four days ago a whole battalion of them had crossed through the Bren pass on the way to the front. The duke stood up again; he was restless. He needed to be in the city. Events had to be monitored closely and he felt cut off here in the hunting lodge.
The ironic thing was that his plans required that he be here. Melliandra couldn't be moved at the moment, and he needed to woo her fast. The marriage had to be announced before everything got out of hand. And judging by the rate Kylock was thundering through Halcus, that wouldn't be long at all.
Melliandra's safety was another consideration. As soon as Baralis learned of his imminent marriage, he would be furious. It would be a bludgeon to his plans. His first instinct would be to murder the bride-to-be, or the groom. The duke was not worried about himself, but Melliandra would need watching day and night. He was already happier knowing that Tawl would be guarding her. He had a good feeling about the knight. A man like that would lay down his life to protect a lady. Still it wasn't wise to underestimate Baralis. He was a silken viper with poison on his tongue. He craved power on the grandest of scales and was not the sort to sit and watch quietly whilst it was stolen from under his nose.
Things would have been so different if old King Lesketh hadn't taken it into his head to drop dead before the marriage had taken place. It was a blessing, really, for it had given the duke a chance to realize he was making a huge mistake. Kylock did not want a bride, he wanted Bren. Sitting himself down in front of a small silver mirror, the duke took out his knife and began to shave. He enjoyed the twice-daily ritual. He would let no manservant with soap or pig lard near him. He preferred to shave dry and alone. The blade was so sharp it cut without pressure, skimming over his flesh like a calm-water skiff. Not once in ten years had he drawn blood.
He would stay here tonight and depart at midmorning. That should give him at least one more chance to talk with Melliandra. He had to be so careful with the girl. Bailor was right: she was playing a game of her own. A game called: "I can do fine without my father's name or wealth." She had to be flattered, but not in the traditional way; poetry and compliments would have little effect. What he had said earlier about equal partners seemed to please her, so he would give her more of that. His long-dead shrew of a wife had finally come in useful, too, adding a pleasing air of tragedy to the whole proceedings. Well, in a way, their relationship had, been tragic: she had certainly done her best to put him off marriage for life.
The duke nearly ruined his ten-year record by smiling at a crucial moment. His hands were quick, though, and the skin remained unbroken.
Yes, Melliandra would need a quick but subtle courtship. He would not reveal to her what he knew of her identity, best to let her think he was in love with Luff's bastard daughter, that way she would be wanted for herself alone. He supposed he could marry any one of a number of women at court, but he hadn't avoided a second marriage for twelve years to jump quickly into a wedding with politics as his only motive: Melliandra was the only woman who had engaged the interest of his mind as well as his loins. Besides, by taking a girl from Castle Harvell for h
is bride, he just might retain the goodwill of the kingdoms.
Of course, he would never have dreamed of marrying her if she hadn't been Maybor's daughter. As it was, it had all worked out beautifully; he would gain a powerful friend in Lord Maybor, neutralize the marriage of Catherine and Kylock, and nip the threat of an empire in the bud. Perhaps as a dowry he would ask for the stretch of land west of the River Nestor. That would please his people greatly, as eight hundred years before the same ground had belonged to the king who ruled Bren's territories. It would be most satisfying, not to mention profitable, to have it back within the fold.
Shaving finished, he rapped the knife against the table to clean it. The amount of hair that fell from the blade was barely visible; another man would not have bothered for such a tiny crop. The duke did because he knew that discipline and ritual mattered.
Baralis brought a fingertip to his lips and tasted the bead of honey upon it. A sweet stinging that owed little to the bee. In the background, Crope moved a sturdy chair close to the fire and then raked the coals to make them dance. This time when he left his body behind he would not come back to find it as cold as a stone.
Blood still flowed from a finger that looked bloodless, coming to the surface like a glossy red jewel. The cup captured its measure and a drawing made it move. Baralis' brow furrowed in anticipation of the bum. Across his forehead he made the line of the horizon, and then bent low to inhale the drug that would send his mind above it. His lungs fought the poison all the way. Immediately he grew lighter. Too light to be held by a heavy body, too restless to be bound by four walls. Up and up he rose, making for the highest point, the clank of earthly chains in his ear.
The heavens had no power to tempt him tonight. They were a woman whose charms had long faded.
East and south he traveled across the darkening sky, over the listless land and then above the skittish sea. They knew he was coming and sent out a beacon, yet he would have found his way regardless of guidance. Larn glowed like a pearl in the dark.
