A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  Right about now dull seemed pretty appealing. The rain had started up again, lashing through the air in sharp, angry sheets. The wind whipped low around his ankles like a small and pesky dog, and the air was cold as spring could make it. A night for firesides, not adventures.

  Jack had been walking for hours now. The two hills, for so long in front of him, were now casting shadows on his back. The ground underfoot was beginning to level off and, without recognizing as much as a bush or a tree, he knew he was drawing closer to the cottage.

  It was dark. The trees, the hills, the clouds, and the rain all threw their pennies into the pit. He could see his feet beneath him, spot trees before he walked into them, but everything else was lost in darkness. Step after step he took blindly. Singing helped. Frallit had taught him many baking songs; some were bawdy ballads of master bakers slipping love potions into their pies, a few were actual recipes-the rhyme making them easier to remember-and others were slow, methodical tunes designed to knead bread by. Jack liked the kneading songs the best. Singing them now, whilst he was alone and in the dark, helped to keep his spirits up. They acted like a talisman, carrying with them all the good memories of the past.

  I bake a little slowly, 'cos I'm not a clever man

  I knead all morning and I sleep when I can

  I'm up all night to keep the oven hot

  But I always pause once a day

  No matter what my masters say

  And count my blessings for what I've got.

  Jack's steps matched the meter of the words, just as his hands once had. After ten verses, even the toughest dough would bake up to a fine crust. After eleven verses, Jack was usually overcome by a fit of yawning: it wasn't the most lively of songs. But it was simple and honest, and love of baking was written into every line. For the moment it was just what he needed: something familiar and methodical to keep his mind from the pain and his feet stepping one in front of the other.

  Abruptly the ground dipped under him. He threw out his leg to catch the firmness of earth. His foot encountered the wet slipperiness of mud and slid downward, throwing his body off balance. Grasping in the dark, he found nothing to break his fall. Roots and twigs tore at his legs and the mud carried him down the slope, sending him into the darkness beneath. A thorned branch slashed against his cheek. His knee crashed against something hard and jagged. Feet scrambling in the mud, he hurtled forward. Something white glimmered ahead. Rocks! was the last thought he had.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The rain stopping was what woke him. The constant pitterpatter was an accompaniment to his dream, and when it no longer beat against his cheek, the dream turned nasty, presenting him with a sudden, sharp drop. His body jerked convulsively and his eyes opened. Jack was looking at the sky. Gray, cloudy, close to the ground, it spoke of more rain to come.

  He was lying on a bed of mud-covered rocks. His arms and legs were as stiff as broom handles. Raising up his hand, he cautiously felt the back of his head, near his neck.

  "Aagh!" Something large and tender as a plover's egg did not want to be touched. Gingerly, he felt around the lump. His hair was stiff and matted. It could be dried mud, he thought, but more likely it was blood. Bringing his hand forward, he grazed his fingers against his cheek. A neat line of scabbed flesh rose above his skin, two days worth of stubble surrounding it like thorns.

  Jack sat up. Water, which had been pooling in the dip of his belly, ran down his thighs and onto the rocks. He now knew the meaning of being soaked to the bone. His clothes were plastered against his body, his fingers were swollen like sausages, and his feet were swimming in his shoes. As if the action of sitting up had forced his senses into action, Jack felt suddenly cold. He began to shiver, and try as he might he couldn't seem to stop himself.

  He had to get his blood pumping. Bracing his body, he forced himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness threatened to bring him straight down again, but Jack refused to give in to it.

  Whereas sitting up had made him realize how cold he was, standing up made him feel the pain. Chest, head, legs, knees, all ached with vicious delight. Jack had once heard a physician say that it was impossible to feel more than one source of pain at any given time. The man was a fool.

  A peculiar dryness tickled at his throat, and when he recognized what it was he burst out laughing. He was thirsty! Here, surrounded by dripping rainwater, damp air, and wet clothes, with the rain newly stopped and more on its way, he was actually feeling thirsty. It was really quite ridiculous. When the sound of his laughter died away, another sound took its place: water running then splashing against rocks. It was so loud, he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. It seemed his senses were coming alive in stages and hearing was obviously last on the list. Directly ahead lay a thick copse of trees. Turning around he noticed that the rocks to the far left were bubbling with falling water. He scrambled over toward them, feet slipping in the mud. A large boulder blocked his path to the water and he was forced to clamber over it.

  What he saw on the other side made him stop dead.

  It was the pool where Tarissa had taken him the day she said she loved him. The rocks, the waterfall, the glade. Destroyed by two days of torrential rain. The once clear water was brown with mud, clotted with twigs and leaves, and dead birds and vermin floated in it. The waterfall spilled more of the foul matter into the pool and sent what was already there churning around in spirals. The water stank. Gone were the daffodils; flattened and decaying, their remains were strewn across the ground. The rain had stripped the leaf buds from the willows, and the trees hung bare above the pool like skeletons.

  Grass was trampled and thick with oozing mud. Worms and centipedes and other creatures of the soil lay glistening, struggling to right themselves, forced to the surface by the rain-soaked earth. They were everywhere he looked.

  Jack's mind flashed back to that one perfect day-the best of his life-when they sat by the pool and he'd washed Tarissa's feet. She was so beautiful, so full of life, so much cleverer than he. That was the day she'd agreed to come away with him to Annis. Flinging her high atop his shoulders, he'd given her little choice. Jack smiled, remembering how hard she had kicked and screamed. There was no one like her. No one at all.

  His memory receded and he was left looking at the wreckage of a once flawless scene. How could she have done it to him? Smiled and led him on, and said she loved him, and made love to him. And all the time, behind each word, each kiss, each tender look, there lay a snarl of lies. Melli was alive, and all three of them-Tarissa, Rovas, and Magra-had told him she was dead. They had kept him in the cottage, carefully steering his hate, like cattlemen with their sticks, toward the man they said had killed her. Like a fool, he had committed the murder for them.

  The strength drained from Jack's legs and he collapsed down upon the rocks. He stayed there, water splashing against his shoulders, head bowed down toward his chest, until the shivering became so intense that he was forced to move on.

  Melli was just about to start on her second plate of eggs and bacon when a knock sounded upon the bedchamber door. "I'm dressing, come back later," she called.

  A second knock came, followed by a man's voice. "I imagine dressing must be difficult without a dress, my lady." The voice was half-familiar, the tone was mocking. Whoever it was must know that she had no clothes in her bedchamber, only various nightgowns. Interest piqued, she put down her knife and spoon. "Who is it?"

  "Tawl, duke's champion."

  So, it was the man who was charged with protecting her. For days now she had been aware of his presence on the other side of the door. Sometimes when it opened, she would catch sight of him, always sitting on the floor, mending his clothes, or polishing his weapons, eyes gallantly averted lest he catch a glimpse of a lady undressed.

  "Enter," she said.

  The door opened and in walked Tawl. Dressed plainly, his clothes were a poor disguise for the body beneath.

  "You are alone?" he asked, scanning the room.

  "S
urely you must know that already, seeing as you monitor the door like my keeper." Melli picked up a slice of bacon with her fingers and slipped it between her lips.

  Tawl shrugged. "I watch the physicians come and go."

  "And how do they look once they leave?" Melli was feeling a little mischievous.

  "Relieved," said Tawl dryly.

  Melli laughed. "What brings you here? I thought you were supposed to watch me from a distance?"

  "I've come to take you to Bren."

  "What?" Melli was taken by surprise. "I thought the physicians said I wouldn't be fit to travel for another day or two yet."

  "They did."

  "But--"

  "I'm going to take you now," Tawl said, "regardless of what the physicians say."

  Melli was rather pleased; she was getting a little bored of being cooped up in her bedchamber like a rescued damsel. "Does the duke know of this?"

  "He left for Bren earlier this morning. I told him, and only him, that you would join him there tonight." Tawl came closer to the bed where Melli sat, cross-legged, with a plate of food in front of her. "Open your nightdress."

  Melli stared at him.

  "I want to take a look at your knife wound."

  "How dare you suggest such a thing!" Melli was indignant. "Leave me this instant, or I will be forced to call the guards."

  Tawl didn't move. "Lady," he said, his voice betraying a measure of impatience, "I have no desire to see you naked, but I do need to see your wound to check for myself if you're ready to travel. In my experience physicians tend to be overly cautious, but I'd like to make certain before I put you on a horse." He folded his arms with infuriating calmness. "Now, either lift up your gown and show me your side, or sit there and shout for the guards until you're blue in the face. For as far as I'm aware, there's not one of them within earshot."

  Realizing her mouth was agape, Melli abruptly closed it. Bursting with anger, she could think of nothing to say. She glared at the man, muttered a few choice curses under her breath, and rolled onto her side. In her haste to get the matter over and done with, she ripped the ribbons from the seams. With a great show of indignant modesty, she pulled back barely enough of the gown to reveal the bandaged wound that lay just beneath her rib cage. "Go ahead," she said. "Make your examination."

  Tawl came forward. Before he touched her, he blew on his hands to warm them. Melli strained her neck to see what he would do. A quick flash of silver streaked through the air.

  Only when she felt the bandage fall away from her skin did she realize he had drawn a knife. His touch was gentle, but firm. He placed one hand upon her rib cage and another below the wound. Slowly he pressed against her flesh, testing muscle first and then probing deeper, feeling for her organs. His expression was serious. Melli noticed how finely his lips were shaped. He made a small noise in the back of his throat and then ran his thumb along the wound. A second later she felt his thumbs to either side of the injury.

  He stood up. "Wait here," he said.

  She watched him walk into the next room and rummage around in a leather saddlebag. When he returned he was carrying a small blue jar. Uncorking the top and dipping in his fingers, he scooped out something that looked suspiciously like axle grease. Seeing her expression, Tawl smiled. "I make it myself," he said. He warmed it between his fingers and then slapped it onto her skin. "The wound is healing cleanly, but there's a lot of stiffness in the muscle beneath. There's little chance the cut will reopen during the ride, but your side will give you some trouble." He massaged the grease into her flesh, working it down to her muscles.

  "So how did you learn all this? Were you one of those physicians who got sick of blood and guts and decided to turn to a peaceful life of fighting instead?" Melli was beginning to feel a little contrite. She was also quite enjoying the sensation of Tawl's large hands pushing against her belly. He ignored her attempt at humor. "No. When you're on your own a lot you pick up things here and there." He shrugged. "You learn how to patch things up until you make it to the nearest town."

  It wasn't the answer she had expected. She was about to question him further, when he tapped her on the ribs.

  "Lift up a moment," he said. "I need to retie the bandage."

  She did as she was told. She felt his capable hands cupping the small of her back and threading the bandage beneath. He tied it more firmly than the physicians, and a fraction lower, too. He finished the job by tying the strangest knot she'd ever seen around her waist. With almost touching delicacy, he trimmed off the frayed ends and then flattened it out so it wouldn't press against her.

  "That's the best I can do," he said, gathering either side of her gown and bringing them together. "I'll leave you now and send hi your maid to help you dress. Wear a loose wool skirt and under no circumstances put on a corset. I'll be coming back later with a breastplate. I'll make sure it's well padded around the sides."

  "Armor?" Melli was genuinely shocked.

  Tawl nodded. "Your life is in danger. There are those who would stop at nothing to prevent the duke from getting married again."

  Feeling rather stupid, she,g asked why. Prepared for a typically condescending male answer, where the facts were laid out in simplistic terms that females could easily understand, she was surprised at his forthrightness.

  "The timing for one thing. Catherine and Kylock are due to be married soon, and both parties think that their wedding will be the most important event of the decade." Tawl cleaned the grease from his fingers with the remains of the bandage. "I don't think either of them are going to be very pleased at being upstaged by you and the duke. In fact, most of the population of the Four Kingdoms are going to be mad as hell. At the moment they believe their king is marrying the sole heir to Bren."

  "My marriage won't affect Catherine's status."

  "It will if you have a child, and it's a boy."

  Melli felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. What had she gotten herself into? She was marrying a man she barely knew and who, in turn, knew nothing of her. Grabbing at the seams of her nightdress, she twisted the fabric between her fingers. He didn't know she was Maybor's daughter. How would the news affect him? Would he be angry at being deceived, or pleased that she was, after all, well bred and well dowered? Her social position seemed to mean little to him. Indeed, that was one of the things that most attracted her to him: the fact that he judged a woman by her character, and not her family or wealth. And then there was his power. She couldn't imagine herself with a man who was not her equal. She needed someone strong, someone others would look up to.

  The duke was the most powerful man in the north. Single-handed, he had turned a city into a kingdom. It would only be a matter of time before he named himself a king.

  Melli released her grip on her nightgown. Her hands were damp with sweat. Perhaps her father would get his wish after all: she might one day be a queen.

  The strange thing was, the title itself didn't interest her. What was the use of being a queen if all one did was wear fine clothes and a crown? No, she wanted real power, the kind the duke had promised her. She wanted to be able to make decisions and influence events, to be a partner, not a possession. There was too much of Maybor in her to play the role of a passive spouse. The duke sensed this about her, and more than accept it, he welcomed it. He wanted her by his side both in bed and the council chamber. He could have a thousand beautiful, submissive women, but he had chosen her instead. And that, more than anything else, was the reason she had agreed to marry him.

  She knew nothing about him, didn't even know his age, and now it seemed, after listening to what Tawl said, she couldn't even be sure of his motives. Was he marrying her to have a child? Surely not; there were many women at his court who would be more suitable mothers to a potential heir than herself. The duke believed she was illegitimate, and that was hardly the sort of legacy he would want to pass down to his son. Melli shook her head from side to side; she didn't believe it. Even his gifts--the knife, the scabbard, and the hawk-spok
e of a man who was thinking of adventure and excitement, not domestic bliss.

  Tawl brought her back to the present. "I will return within the hour, my lady," he said gently, seeming to sense that her thoughts had taken her far away.

  She nodded. "So be it."

  He bowed, his golden hair almost sweeping the floor as his back broadened to a curve. Turning from her, he left the room without a sound.

  Melli took a deep breath the moment the door was closed. So she would be with the duke this evening in Bren. She had left the city as a servant and would return as its mistress. It seemed too unbelievable an irony to be dismissed as mere chance.

  A log on the fire suddenly flared up, casting sparks and flames from the hearth. "Where I come from we call people like her thieves. Their fates are so strong they bend others into their service. And what they can't bend they steal." Alysha's words rose up with the smoke. Had the fleshtrader's assistant been right all those weeks ago? Was it her fate to be married to the duke? And if it was, had everything she'd done and everyone she had come in contact with led her to this? The Halcus captain, Fiscel, Bailor, perhaps even Jack and her father: had she used them all to bring herself to this point?

  Melli made no move to stamp out the sparks on the rug. She knew not one of them would catch.

  It she was to believe what Tawl said, then her marriage to the duke would have a profound effect on the future of the north.

  "My lady," came a voice. It was her maid, Nessa. "Are you all right? You look a little pale."

  Melli was glad of the interruption; her thoughts were taking her to a dangerous place, one where the landscape was preordained and where people were little more than accessories of fate.

  She made an effort to be bright. "I'm fine, Nessa. Don't just stand there gawking, hurry up and help me dress. I'm leaving for Bren in less than an hour."

  The maid came forward and began to brush out her hair. "Why miss, you're shaking like a leaf. Are you worried about the journey?"

  Melli shook her head. She sat back a little and tried to relax. It wasn't the journey to Bren she was worried about no harm would come to her, she was sure of that-it was what she would have to do once she got there. The duke must be told who she was. The lie about her being illegitimate had gone on for too long. He had to know the truth. The stakes were higher than she had thought: politics, power, succession, and even war were all caught up in the match. Melli sighed heavily. It was time the duke learned that his future wife was the daughter of the richest and most influential lord in the kingdoms.