A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  "What say you, Melliandra?" The duke's voice was soft. Melli reached out and brushed the goosedown from his shoulders. The muscle beneath her fingertips was hard as stone. "I agree to marry you, Garon, duke of Bren. I am willing to become your wife."

  It was time to leave this place. His heart had recovered from the shock of foretelling, and the wind that blew across the courtyard cut straight to the bone. Under his robe, his hands were curled up like nestling birds; he would need to bring drug to lip before they could be straightened once more.

  Just as he tensed his muscles to raise himself from the bench, Baralis felt a sharp pain in his chest. His heart stopped dead. A dull ache raced up his left arm. Even as panic gripped his soul, he knew a second telling was its cause. Stronger than before, much stronger, it overrode all communication from eyes and brain. A vision filled the void of a not-beating heart.

  Seen in his belly as much as his head, it was a girl with dark hair. Her lips shaped words that he could not hear, and the man whom she spoke to was a shadow without form. Baralis felt a stirring in mind and groin. He knew this woman. He had seen her naked, emerging from her bath, candlelight resting on the welts on her back. It was Maybor's daughter. Melliandra.

  The second her name came to him, the vision was sucked back to his heart. The jolt coursed down his spine like lightning. The beat began again, shocking, sickening, sending his whole body scrambling to fall in time. Baralis' lungs contracted violently and the air from the vision was expelled from his lungs; he tasted cheap perfume and expensive wine as it raced along his tongue.

  Out of time, out of strength, and outside of rational' thought, Baralis opened his eyes. A dark blur raced toward him. Paws hardly touching stone, it hurtled forward, muzzle drawn back to reveal an armory of teeth. A low growl sounding deep in its throat. Froth foaming at its jaw. It meant to kill him.

  Instinct and split seconds were all that he had. With a brain reeling like a spindle on a wheel, he could barely think, let alone react. Deep inside he found a resource more primitive and more deadly than thought: the will to survive. A whiff of dog and a glint of teeth were enough to set it in motion. The animal barreled ahead, fur flying, mere feet away now. A hand shot out from Baralis' robe. He hardly believed it was his own. With neither time nor consciousness to form a drawing, something came half-remembered from the plains. A rite of passage from boy to hunter. Without weapon or warning, but with alcohol high in their blood, they stopped a charging boar in its tracks.

  Hand held out to command the beast, sight trained on a spot between its eyes. A thick band of instinct rising up from the gut, and the mastery of willpower forced upon the beast.

  Baralis felt the air push against his face. Saw the black and pink of its gums. Eyes bright with savagery met his. Words and thoughts were obsolete, purpose was what counted. Wills clashed a half-second before bodies met. Eye to eye, Baralis bludgeoned the beast with his will.

  No stronger force existed in the universe in that instant. The dog responded as if whipped. Strength drained from its body and purpose drained from its soul. Momentum carried it forward to Baralis' throat. Muzzle closed, snout down, it slammed into him like dead weight. He was thrown backward toward the ground, the dog landing on top of him. Baralis blacked out.

  Wet and warm, something brushed against his face. Heart racing like a stallion on the chase, body shaking like a long-hunted fox, he forced thought and eyesight into focus.

  He was lying on his back looking up into a late afternoon sky. The dog was by his side, licking his face. Blood was still wet around its mouth, and it was standing with one front paw dawn up, as if injured.

  The creature wagged its tail when it saw him move and doubled its licking efforts. Baralis caught the stench of foul play upon its breath. Strangely, he found himself warming to the beast. Lifting up a hand too gnarled to show to ladies, he stroked the dog's ears. "No harm done, my pretty lady," he said.

  Two men waited in the antechamber. One had been known to the duke for twenty years, the other for twenty days, yet he trusted them both the same.

  First he spoke with Bailor. Taking him to one side, he spoke for his ears alone. "Your speech worked well, my friend. The lady has agreed."

  Bailor's smile was triumphant, yet his words were uncharacteristically modest. "More your delivery than my speech, Your Grace."

  The duke glanced at the second man. Tawl's eyes were averted and he was busy putting edge to sword. The duke risked a short laugh. "I was as wooden as the floor I stood on, but the lady seemed not to mind."

  "And the gift?"

  The head of his household was anxious for praise. In this instance, the duke didn't mind giving it. "An excellent suggestion, Bailor. She loved it. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires when the falconer handed her the bird." The duke paused for a moment, considering Melliandra's face. "She will be good with the falcon, I know it. She has more spirit than a score of trained huntsmen. A remarkable woman, indeed."

  "She is that, Your Grace."

  The duke noticed Bailor's eyes settling on his shoulders. "Threw a pillow at me, she did," he said, brushing away the last of the goosedown. "I've never met a more infuriating wench." The memory of her soft, hesitant kisses played upon his mind. It had been many, many years since any woman had excited him so. More than her beauty, it was her peculiar mixture of confidence and innocence that set his blood on fire. Without a doubt he would marry her soon. He would not wait untold months for the marriage bed; he was too old and his plans too pressing for the indulgence of a long betrothal. He could have taken her then and there--she had been willing enough-but no, he would not risk a begetting before their wedding day. When Melliandra was with child, people would keep careful count of the moons, looking for the slightest excuse to shout "illegitimate!" The duke shook his head. He would not give them a single arrow of doubt to shoot from their suspicious bows.

  Besides, he liked the idea of waiting. It was a novel experience for him, and one that would surely heighten the joy of their first union when it finally came. He would take no substitute to warm his bed in the meantime. All other women seemed like pale imitations compared to her.

  "Bailor," he said, "go to Melliandra now. You are the closest thing she has to a friend. If she is having any doubts, reassure her. See that she gets anything she wants. Tell her I will be back later to take her for a short walk in the gardens. She must feel as cooped up as a hawk during training, stuck in that bedchamber all day. Get Shrivral to play his harp whilst we walk, and have some refreshments waiting in the arbor. Fruit punch and sugared fancies, you know the sort of thing."

  "Yes, Your Grace." Bailor hesitated for a second. "Though perhaps if I might make a suggestion?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Bring strong wine and meat instead. The lady's tastes differ greatly from the hothouse flowers at court."

  The duke rubbed his chin. "Do it."

  Bailor bowed and began to make his way to the adjoining door.

  The duke pulled him back, for the first time speaking in a voice meant for two, "Find out from the physicians when the lady will be fit for the ride to Bren."

  Bailor nodded and then left the room.

  Turning to face the second man, the duke said, "Tawl, can I trust you to keep a confidence?" More statement than question, he didn't wait for the knight to reply. "The lady who you have been charged with guarding has just agreed to become my wife."

  Tawl bowed simply. "I wish you joy, Your Grace." The duke had known thousands upon thousands of men in his time, some bad, some good, most a mixture of the two, and he had developed the ability to quickly judge a man, to see where his strengths and weaknesses lay. To know what drove him forward. Somehow, despite all his experience, Tawl eluded him. Oh, there was a lot to see: the knight was entirely trustworthy, loyal, and probably gallant to a fault, but his motives were hard to pin down. Unlike Blayze he had no interest in the trappings of glory. Fine clothes and a purse full of gold meant nothing to the knight.

  Nor, wo
uld it seem, did the chance to be close to greatness. The court at Bren was filled to the beams with men and women who hoped for power and influence by ingratiating themselves with either the Hawk or his daughter. Bailor was one of the few who had found success with this all too common ploy. Instinct told the duke that Tawl wanted none of it, which, although making him an enigma, also made him a man whom he would gladly entrust with the safety of his most precious possession: Melliandra.

  The duke glanced quickly at the knight. Tall, imposing, built like a warrior, but with the manners and bearing to match any man at court. He was the perfect person to keep watch on his bride-to-be: honorable, loyal, and deadly with a blade.

  "So, Tawl," said the duke heavily, "you now understand why the lady is in great danger."

  Tawl nodded. "Yes. Though greater danger awaits her at court."

  "I know. It is a risk I must take."

  "I suggest that you and the lady travel in separate parties to Bren. I will travel with Melliandra, but I don't want to be weighed down with a battalion of guards. I want to be light on my feet in case of danger."

  The duke nodded. The advice was sound. "You are in charge of her safety."

  "Who else knows of the engagement?"

  "Bailor." He thought for a moment. "And the falconer was there when I asked for her hand."

  "That was a mistake."

  The duke smiled. "I know, Tawl, but when the moment is right. . ." He shrugged.

  "Good sense goes out the window." Tawl raised an amused eyebrow and both men laughed. "Have Bailor speak with the falconer as soon as possible. Find out all the people he has come in contact with since he left the lady's chamber. Have them all confined here, in the lodge, under sun and moon watch until the official announcement is made."

  The duke nodded. "Anything else?"

  "Once the lady arrives in Bren, I personally want to examine her chambers before she takes residence. All her guards and servants are to report to me, and her food is to come directly from your personal cook. You do have a tester?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. For the ride back she must have your gentlest mount. After her fall she will be horse shy."

  "What about speed?"

  "I will take her on my own if need arises."

  The knight was good. Very good. It was far better to have Melliandra riding at his back in an emergency than having to fend for herself. The duke felt well pleased with his decision to have Tawl guard her. Already his mind was more at ease. "Do you need anything special for the ride?"

  "A boy's breastplate for the lady, and for myself a bow and a quiver of barbed arrows. I have swords and knives enough of my own."

  "So I noticed," said the duke, motioning to the green felt cloth that was spread out on the floor. Resting upon it was enough polished steel to defend an entire garrison.

  Tawl smiled almost sheepishly.

  The duke was beginning to like him even more. "Oh, and one more thing before I go. I want you to befriend the lady. She knows no one in Bren except Bailor and me, and she must yearn for extra company."

  "What about your daughter, Catherine?"

  The duke drew in his breath: what about Catherine? His daughter would be furious once she learned he intended to wed. Not only was he stealing her glory, but also-if Melliandra was to give birth to a boy-her inheritance as well. Catherine was unpredictable at the best of times. It was better for the moment if he kept the news from her. He already had enough on his hands at the moment, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with one of his daughter's childish tantrums. "I don't want my daughter to know anything about the marriage until I make the official announcement."

  "As you say."

  "I think that's everything. Bailor is yours to command, as are all my staff. Make sure he informs you when it is safe for the lady to travel." The duke made his way to the door.

  "Tawl," he said, as he paused on the threshold, "I feel better knowing that Melliandra is in your care."

  The knight inclined his head. "I will defend her with my life."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jack ate a small breakfast of pork and damp drybread as he counted his mistakes. Yesterday, an hour after entering the woods, he had discarded at least half of the supplies given to him by Mrs. Wadwell. Mistake number one was leaving the cumbersome oiled cloak behind. The skies had been a beautiful, cloudless blue the day before and he reasoned to himself that, as it was spring, they were bound to stay that way. Wrong. The downpour had begun in the middle of the night. Raindrops as hard as pebbles had woken him from his sleep. Scrambling in the dark, over ground rapidly turning to mud, he was soaked to the skin before he found shelter.

  Mistake number two had been transferring the items that he needed from the heavy leather bag to the lighter cloth sack, for his supplies were now as wet as himself. So he was now reduced to eating damp drybread: contrary to popular belief, it didn't benefit from a soaking.

  Mistake number three was where he had left his supplies: out in the open where anyone could spot them. Yesterday it hadn't seemed important: they were dead weight that needed to be dropped as soon as possible. Today they were signposts that could point to who he was, where he was going, and most importantly of all, the identity of the people who had helped him on his way. Large was the Wadwells' trademark, and if he had learned that spending less than one day with them, then everyone in the surrounding countryside was bound to know it, too. One look at the size of the ointment jar, the length of the bandages, and the diameter of the cheese would be enough to seal their fates.

  How could he have been so stupid? Jack threw the drybread on the ground. It landed soundlessly, cradled by a bed of wet leaves. He had to learn to think before he acted. Standing up, he kicked at the bed of leaves, sending them flying into the air. Green and newly budded, stripped from the tree by cutting rain, they slumped heavily back to earth. Sometimes even thinking was dangerous.

  Strangely enough, his fever had actually subsided. Jack felt more clear-headed than he had in weeks. The gentleness of nature seemed to act like a salve. Raindrops gathering mass on the underside of branches flashed with simple brilliance when plump enough to fall. The many greens of spring were soft on the eye and even softer underfoot. Everywhere the sound of water dripping, running, and pooling could be heard. It competed with the calls of small animals and birds- Most of all it was the smell. Fresh and old in one, the scent of new leaves and ancient earth mixing in mistdamp air. Jack's lungs were full of it, his blood ran with it, and gently it pushed against the outside of his skin.

  Muscles that a day before had been tense and sore were now relaxed and merely tender. Dog bites had flattened and dried, and wounds had lost their fester. Even the gash in his chest felt better, the pain not so biting, the terrible itch of knitting flesh and bones now no more than a simple irritation.

  How much was nature's work and how much Mrs. Wadwell's was impossible to tell. At the end of the day, Jack supposed, looking over the expanse of tangled woodland, it was all one and the same.

  Time to be on his way. The sack, which he swung over his left shoulder, was so saturated with water, it dripped.

  Pork, drybread, nuts, fresh clothing, a few good knives, and his bedroll were all contained, wetly, within. In fact the whole thing was now almost twice as heavy as before. Jack smiled grimly. No doubt about it, he was not cut out for adventures. Any self-respecting hero would have known rain was on its way, built a suitable shelter in a matter of hours, and buried the remaining supplies in an unmarked grave. Instead, here he was, shoes squelching with every step, hair plastered to his skull, and body weighted down with a sack full of little else but water.

  Jack looked up past the branches to the sky. An unremarkable gray met his eyes. It was impossible to tell which way the light came from. "Head east and then northeast, "

  Mrs. Wadwell had said. "Follow the brook upstream. " Well, he'd found the brook; it was behind the group of hazel and hawthorn bushes that he was heading toward, but ju
dging from the noise, it was no longer a bubbling woodland brook but rather a raging torrent of purposeful water. Now all that remained was to follow its path downstream.

  He wasn't ready to leave Halcus and the garrison town just yet. He had business to attend to with certain people in a certain well-appointed cottage which, as best as he could gauge, lay several leagues to the west.

  A few hours later Jack fell under the shadow of the garrison. Rain diluted the sweat on his forehead, sending it streaming off the end of his nose and down his neck into his tunic. He judged he was near the place where the tunnel had ended before someone had sealed it up with dirt and stone. The place where Tarissa said she would wait for him. The place where he had been betrayed.

  Jack knew better than to pursue such thoughts. Too dangerous by far, especially here, with the blackened walls of the garrison looming high in the distance. It was neither the time nor the setting for a second disaster. So he buried his hurt deep, binding it away from the light of his thoughts, afraid that even as little as recalling the curve of Tarissa's cheek, or the sheen of her chestnut hair, might spark the fire within.

  The woods in these parts were patrolled. Rovas had told him that, and his own observations confirmed it. Footprints freshly embedded in the mud and wads of snatch spat to either side of the path told of guards passing not long ago. Less than two days after the fire, they were bound to be on the alert. Jack slipped from the path and into the bushes. Thorns tore at his britches and barbed branches caught at his sack. His chest was aching badly now; the long walk and the weight of the supplies had finally taken their toll. A mouthful of brandy might help. If he remembered rightly, there was a pewter flask in his sack, and he was pretty sure that Mrs. Wadwell would have filled it with some of the pale gold liqueur. Ducking down amongst the undergrowth, he hunkered in the dirt to search through his belongings.