Authors: J. V. Jones
"Any news of
the new king?" asked Jack.
"There's
rumors he's planning a full-scale invasion. If it's true he'll probably wait
for full spring." Rovas rolled his phlegm, then spat. "No one in the
north is taking any chances, though, especially Halcus. Smithies are making
more money than's good for them, and every wisp of a lad over thirteen is busy
practicing with a sword. The garrisons have been overrun with men wanting to
join up and have a go at the kingdoms." The smuggler ran his hands across
his beard. "Or Bren, or both."
Jack helped Rovas
load the baskets of fish onto his wagon. The sun broke through the clouds and
the wind died down to a breeze. "So war is coming?" asked Jack.
"The minute
Kylock invades Halcus there's no going back. Powers will line up on both sides,
and once that happens war is inevitable. The scale of the thing is the
question. If it's just a dispute between northern powers it might be settled,
but if cities like Camlee and Ness become involved, then they'll drag the south
along with them." Rovas sat up on the wagon and took hold of the reins.
"The south has been looking for a chance to crack down on the knights for
over a decade now, and a northern war will provide it with a convenient
opportunity."
"So the war
could spread south?" Jack felt foolish, he had no idea that matters in the
Known Lands were so sensitive. He was beginning to realize just how isolated
the kingdoms had been.
"Not so sure
of that," said Rovas. "The south will be hoping that the war can be
contained in the north. They won't like the idea of any of their dainty white
cities being sullied by carnage." The smuggler pulled on the reins and the
wagon lurched forward. "Mark my words, boy. We're being led as surely as
lambs to the slaughter, and there are those who would shape an empire from our
blood."
The wagon trundled
away. Jack was shaking, and he hardly knew why. Rovas' words had stirred
something within him.
An empire of blood.
The world began to spin around
him. The sky came close and formed an arc above his body. He stumbled to the
ground, sick, disorientated. The snow burned his fingers and the sun burned his
soul.
An empire of blood.
Colors ran: green, blue, white; they all bled
to crimson. Jack brought his hand to his eyes and tried to keep out the light.
Madness came to fill the void. A thousand images beat like tiny insect wings.
An
empire of blood.
A city with high battlements. A man with golden hair. A
baby crying in a locked room. And Melli, Melli was there, but just as quickly,
she was gone. So many more sights impossible to define: blood the only common
thread.
Wet, his hands
were wet. Panic brought him round. He opened his eyes and forced the sky back
to its place. Colors refocused and the snow was cool beneath him. Tears, not
blood, streaked across his palms.
Jack braced
himself to stand. Nausea rose up like sorcery, both bitter to the taste. He had
to concentrate to keep his legs from bending at the joint. Step by shaky step,
he made his way toward the cottage. It felt as if the world had softened and
shown its middle. His heart was still racing at the sight.
An empire of
blood.
Yet what did it have to do with him? He was a baker, not a savior.
He stopped in his tracks. How could he think, even for a minute, that he had
some part to play in what was to come? Yet the images he'd seen had the
unmistakable feel of a message. Or a warning. Surely warnings were only sent to
people who could make a difference?
Sighing heavily,
Jack tried to dismiss it all as nonsense. The fight with Rovas, followed by the
bloodstained fish-it was easy to see how his mind might have deluded him. The
latch on the door seemed impossibly heavy. It finally gave way and he found
himself in the warmth of the cottage. Magra and Tarissa both looked up from
their work. As soon as they saw his face they rushed toward him. Jack fell into
Tarissa's arms. She pulled him close to the fire, and her words of gentle
comfort were the last thing that he heard.
Melli paced the
length of the room. Her reflection drew her eye despite her attempts to ignore
it. She looked pale and older. The bones on her face had sharpened to angles
and subtle lines traced her once-smooth brow. Nineteen this spring, but there
would be no treats or fancy ribbons to mark her anniversary. A slight smile
thinned her lips. Her father would miss giving her gifts. That was the one
thing he delighted in more than anything else; he would buy her dresses, hand
mirrors, carved boxes, slippers-all chosen with no thought to cost. If nothing
else, he had always sought to please her.
She wondered where
he was now and what he was doing. Probably at his estate in the Eastlands
preparing for spring planting. Well, that was what he officially did, anyway;
in reality he got drunk every night and went off hunting every day. The
overseer saw to the land. Melli caught another glimpse of her reflection: there
were tears in her eyes now.
She missed her
father. She missed his proud, possessive love.
Scolding herself
for her frailty, Melli brushed away the tears before they had chance to fall.
She was strong--Maybor had given her that-and she had a low tolerance for
weakness, both in herself and others. Strength in a person attracted her more
than looks or titles or money. Looking back, she began to realize why the young
men of the court had failed to catch her interest: they had no power, no
experience, no guile.
Her thoughts
turned before she could stop them. Baralis. There was a man to put others in
the shade. Even now, months later, Melli could still feel his breath in her
lungs. She had been breathing it ever since. Once she had heard a physician say
that air became flesh in the body. Did that mean part of her was created by
Baralis?
Melli cgarefully
avoided her reflection this time; she was afraid of seeing a flush upon her
face. Why did her mind insist on coming up with such nonsense? Trying to divert
her thoughts as far away from the subject of Baralis as possible, she found
herself thinking of Jack. What had become of him? He was alive and well; she
knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Fate hadn't chosen him to let him
die amongst the enemy.
Melli took a deep
breath as her thoughts raced toward the very thing she had been trying to avoid
for days: Alysha's words to Fiscel when they both thought she was asleep:
"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. "
Had
fate chosen her, as well?
A soft knock on
the door was a welcome interruption. "Enter," she called, falling
into the old habits of a court lady. Bailor walked in the room. He was dressed
more finely than the last time she saw him. The silks were well tailored, but
the overelaborate style suited neither the roundness of his belly nor the
spindliness of his legs. He looked toward the empty food tray that rested upon
the bed.
"A healthy
appetite, I see."
"If you're
worried about my figure, bring me less next time. Like a good milk cow, I eat
all that's set in front of me." Gone was Melli's nervousness of the day
before. She was ready to challenge anyone or anything that came before her.
Plenty of food, a good bed, a night of total privacy, and the absence of Fiscel
and Alysha had all combined to invigorate her flagging spirit.
"No, no, my
dear," said Bailor. "You misunderstand me; it was a compliment. The
duke is fond of women who eat with their bellies, not their waists."
Melli had
encountered men like Bailor before; although servants, they were used to being
treated well by everyone, including noblemen. They gained power over courtiers
by discreetly supplying them with whatever illicit commodities or diversions
were currently in fashion. Castle Harvell boasted more than its fair share of
such enterprising individuals.
"So when will
I meet His Grace?" said Melli with what she hoped was a pretty smile. It
would do her no harm to befriend the man.
The smile provoked
a little anxious vanity on Bailor's part. He sucked in his stomach and smoothed
down his tunic. "That's what I came to talk to you about. Tomorrow night
there is a big event happening in Bren. The duke's champion is fighting the
mysterious golden-haired stranger-half the city will be watching. His Grace
will be in attendance with two important foreign dignitaries. Usually after
such affairs the duke likes to retire to his chambers for ... how should I put
it? A little feminine comfort."
"So bloodshed
whets his appetite."
"I wouldn't
put it quite so crudely," said Bailor.
"No. That wouldn't
be your style." Realizing that she had spoken before thinking, Melli
worked quickly to mend her error: "You're a man of too great a sensibility
to stoop to such coarseness."
Bailor seemed
pleased with the compliment. The belly receded even further into the silk.
"And you're a lady of obvious breeding. Tell me, who are your
family?"
A strong warning
flashed through Melli's mind. He was trying to catch her out: she had already
told him where she was from. She cursed her foolishness. Here she was acting
like a great lady when she was supposed to be a minor nobleman's bastard. No
one must find out she was Maybor's daughter. She had already shamed her father
enough by running away; she would not shame him further by claiming his name.
Another thought occurred to her: Bailor was exactly the sort of man who would
blackmail her father if he ever discovered the truth. Maybor would pay dearly
to prevent the news of his daughter's disgrace reaching the ears of the court.
Remembering the
lie she used on the Halcus captain, Melli said, "My father is Lord Luff of
the Four Kingdoms. My mother was a servant girl from Deepwood."
"Aah."
Understanding dawned on Bailor's face. "I see, I see. The kingdoms, eh?
Your king looks set to marry Catherine."
"King?"
Melli felt a deep hollow in the pit of her stomach.
"Yes."
Bailor beamed. "Didn't you know? Lesketh is dead, and Kylock is now
king."
She had to sit
down. Her first thought was for her father. He would be taking this hard; by
all rights his daughter should be a queen this day.
She
should be a
queen this day.
Melli tried to
shrug it off, but the reality was so weighty it bore her down. The power that
could have been hers! Regret wormed its way into her brain and she was helpless
to stop it. Only months earlier she had assumed that Kylock and Maybor would
divide up whatever power was bestowed upon her. Now she realized that power was
never given, it was taken. By leaving the castle she had stopped her father
from controlling her destiny. She had taken the power for herself. If she were
queen today, it would be more than in name alone.
The image of
Kylock worked to slow her regrets. No, she didn't want to be married to him.
His dark and handsome face had never displayed anything except scorn, and his
lips were molded for cruelty. Catherine of Bren was welcome to him.
"My dear
Melli," said Bailor, "are you all right? You look quite pale."
It took Melli a
moment to settle herself; her mind was spinning around the throne. "Yes,
just a little dizzy. You know how women are."
Bailor nodded his
head. "You're not called the delicate sex for nothing."
Melli quickly
scanned her repertoire and came up with a simpering smile. "When will the
marriage take place?"
"Not for many
months, I should think." Bailor headed toward the door. "Anyway,
there's no need to concern your pretty head with such matters. I expect you to
be prepared if I call on you tomorrow night."
Melli wasn't ready
for him to leave, there was something else she wanted to ask him. "Is
there any chance that I might take a walk in the grounds? The fresh air will
improve my looks."
Bailor waggled his
finger. "I don't think so, my dear, not just yet. Let's wait and see how
you and the duke get along first, before we talk of favors."
Melli couldn't
quite muster a second simper. "Never mind, it's too cold for walks at the
moment."
"I
know." The look Bailor gave her was an unmistakable warning. "I'll be
off now. If you need a new dress or any other baubles, ask the guard to send
for Veena; she will get you what you need." He closed the door behind him
and Melli clearly heard the sound of the bolt being drawn on the other side.
Damn, he'd seen
right through her! A walk
in the grounds.
How could she have been so
stupid? Bailor's use of the word guard was no coincidence. Now he was going to
watch her like a hawk. Angry at herself, Melli stamped her foot and looked for
something to throw across the room. She took a pewter cup from the tray and was
just about to hurl it at the mirror when she caught sight of her reflection:
she looked just like her father. Face red, chin tilted, eyes flashing-it was
Maybor through and through.
Melli let the cup
drop from her hands and fell on the bed. She'd run a long way only to find that
her father had been with her all the time. Smiling gently, she curled up in the
covers. Her thoughts darted like mayflies and it was a long time before she
found any rest.
Tawl entered the
stall and threw two full skins of ale on the floor. Straight away he crossed
over to Nabber, and without saying a word, he unwrapped the bandage from around
his neck. He looked at the wound, felt around it for bloating, and then took a
leather pouch from his tunic. Scooping a portion of the herb and grease mixture
in his fingers, Tawl proceeded to smear it around the wound. Once finished, he
retied the bandage and then turned his attention to Nabber's injured arm.
"Does this hurt?" he asked, lifting it gently.