Authors: J. V. Jones
"Secondly,
the very stone they are bound to gives them their power. It becomes theirs and
theirs alone. A slice of the island bound to their backs. The sorcery is skin
close; it creates the seers, drives them to madness, and then ultimately
destroys them. The stone is their womb, their cradle, and their grave."
Hiss. More fat on
the fire.
"No wonder
the girl felt pity for them." Even though he was chilled to the bone, Jack
drew his chair away from the hearth. The smell of cooking meat was making him
feel sick.
"The girl
would steal into the cavern and tend to the seers. She became friendly with one
boy. Newly bound he was, barely old enough to be counted a man. She watched him
slowly deteriorate, saw the rope bite against his flesh, saw the bleeding, the
sores, the unbearable cramping of muscle. She watched it all with the eyes of a
girl in love for the first time. She couldn't bear it. One day she went down to
him and saw that the rope was no longer cutting through his flesh: it was part
of it. Nestling underneath the skin, blood vessels had started to form around
the rope as if it were bone. The sight of it drove the girl wild. She had just
reached womanhood and her powers were flourishing with her body. She lost
control. Her anger was focused against the stones, the cavern, the priests. The
great hall of seering shook with her power."
"Then the
priests came for her. She fought against them, kicking and screaming. Toward
the end of the struggle, when she was close to being overpowered, she swore a
terrible oath that one day she would destroy Larn."
"The priests
carried her, bound and bleeding, from the hall, a wad of wet cloth thrust down
her throat to stop the sorcerous flow. Barely able to breathe, she passed out.
When she came to she found herself in a small, darkened room. The smell of
incense in the air told her she was marked for death. It was her mother-a woman
so badly deformed that she could use no muscles on the right side of her face,
nor lift her right arm-who saved her. With her help the girl was cast adrift on
a small boat in the treacherous waters that surround the island."
Jack was sitting
very still. He had not moved or blinked the whole time Stillfox was speaking.
"What happened to the girl?" he asked.
Stillfox shrugged.
"She must have reached dry land, else I would not be here telling her
tale. I don't know what became of her, though. It was many, many years ago now.
The girl is probably long dead, her oath long forgotten. Larn still exists; as
powerful and as deadly as ever."
Abruptly Jack
stood up. The herbalist's cottage seemed small and confining. The smell of the
lamb was unbearable. "Where are you going?" Stillfox was one step
behind him.
"Outside. I
need some fresh air."
"No. You
might be spotted."
Jack shook his
head. He would not be hindered. His need to be alone was so great that nothing
else mattered. "I will be careful," he said as he stepped through the
door.
The herbalist's
cottage was on the outskirts of a small village, the last house on the street
before the rye fields. Jack headed over the plowed fields, down toward a
distant copse of trees. The air was warm and the sky was blue and the soil
beneath his feet was dry. He walked for over an hour, deliberately not
thinking, just looking straight ahead.
Eventually Jack
reached his destination. Sweating and out of breath, he slipped under the cool
shade of the trees. Flies buzzed past his face and birds called softly, warning
each other of his presence. He found the perfect tree: an oak old beyond
telling, its branches low and heavy, its trunk as wide as three men. Jack sat
beneath it, his feet resting upon its huge raised roots, the small of his back
upon the bark. He bent forward, bringing his head down toward his knees, and
took a deep breath. When he let it out, his emotions came with it.
Tarissa, Melli,
the garrison, his mother, and strangely enough, the story of the girl from
Larn-it was all too much. He sobbed quietly, thinking of Tarissa kneeling on
the ground at his feet, begging him to take her along. As the tears ran down
his face, his thoughts turned to the guard who had fallen from the battlements
at the garrison, and he remembered how hard the man had struggled to touch him.
Then there was his mother, sick and close to death, yet refusing the help of
the physicians. He would never understand why.
Crying was a
relief. He had been carrying so much inside for so long, trying to be brave.
Only he wasn't brave, he was scared--frightened of what the future held. Jack
wiped his eyes dry. That the future did hold something for him was a fact he no
longer doubted.
He and Kylock were
connected in some way. Even the mention of the new king's name was enough to
send him reeling. Jack looked toward the deepest part of the wood.
Kylock was evil.
Had the vision that had shown him that been designed to shape his fate? Was his
purpose to oppose Kylock?
Abruptly Jack
stood up. He felt restless, overwhelmed with the desire to be doing something,
to take action. Striking a path for the fields, he headed back toward the
herbalist's cottage. The sun broke out from behind the clouds the moment he
cleared the trees. Its warmth was an unmistakable blessing. Jack walked
quickly; he was eager to get started. Stillfox had offered to teach him and it
was time to learn all he could.
"And in God's
holy presence, with the blessing of our savior, his beloved servant Borc, I
hereby command those brought here to witness to step forth with their
misgivings."
The archbishop of
Bren, a tall man with a high nasal voice, swept the room with his glance. No
one moved.
Out of the corner
of his eye, Tawl saw Catherine's expression. Hate in its purest, most vivid
form was clearly written on her face. The other people gathered for the
ceremony did not look especially pleased-except, of course, for Maybor, who was
beaming ear to ear like a fisherman with a big catch-yet none of them dared
show anything except politely frozen smiles.
Melli and the duke
stood side by side at the altar, both facing the archbishop. A gaggle of clergy
formed a half-circle around the group of three, prayer books and holy water in
their hands. On one side of the church no less than four scribes were scribing,
busy scratching away at their parchments, recording every detail of the
ceremony. Later, when it was finished, all the witnesses-about twenty in
numberwould be asked to sign and date each account. The duke was taking no
chances. Neither was Tawl: outside the chapel an entire company of troops was
patrolling both entrances. There would be no uninvited guests at this wedding.
In her dress of
crimson, with matching rubies sparkling at her throat, Melli looked impossibly
regal. Every eye was upon her. Soon she would be a duchess. Later, if the duke
had his way, she would be a queen. Tawl found he couldn't listen to the
ceremony; the vows and prayers sounded false to his ears. He chose not to
explore why, fearing that his thoughts might lead him into disloyalty.
Instead he
concentrated on the security arrangements. The greatest danger today was the
journey from the chapel to the duke's chamber. Once there the newlyweds should
be safe. The duke's chamber was patrolled day and night by two guards. Tawl had
increased the number to eight. There was only one entrance, and the fact that
it was on a lower level than the actual living quarters made the whole place
more secure. He personally had seen to all the food and drink preparation. Even
as he sat here, two food tasters were sampling every dish from the wedding
feast. At his suggestion, the duke and Melli would eat alone in their chambers,
where they would be safe from the hostile intent of Lord Baralis and the court.
Tawl couldn't
foresee any problems tonight, but tomorrow, when the whole of the city learned
of the marriage, and when the duke and his new bride began to perform official
duties in public together, the real problems would start. Protecting Melli
would be a nightmare then.
Turning his
attention back to the ceremony, Tawl was just in time to hear the archbishop
pronounce the couple man and wife. As the duke embraced Melli, a cold chill ran
down Tawl's spine. He stood up. He had no desire to look upon the happy couple.
While everyone else was busy with congratulations, he made his way to the rear
of the chapel. He settled back against a wooden beam and waited until the time
came to escort the newlyweds to their chambers.
"From here
you go alone," hissed Baralis.
Traff was not
pleased. "You said you would show me to the passageway." He did not
trust him.
"Take the
turn at the end of the corridor. At the bottom you will find a pair of double
doors. Two guards will be at either side of it. They will let you pass
unchallenged." Baralis drew his hood over his eyes. He was dressed in a
cloak that matched the color of his shadow. "I must be off now."
"I thought
you would wait for my return." Traff could see that Baralis was nervous;
the great man did not want to be seen here with him.
"I will be
back later." Baralis' voice was sharp. He kept looking from side to side.
"I told you I will be waiting for you. You have my word on it. Now
go."
Traff did not
move. He was not about to be ordered around like a common servant. Besides,
Baralis was lying; he would not wait for him.
"Stand there
waiting any longer, my friend," said Baralis, becoming angry, "and
the good duke will have broken in his new bride. Then dearest sweet Melliandra
will be nothing more than used goods." Baralis drew closer. "Or is
that the best a man like you can hope for?"
Traff went to
strike him. His arm was stopped in midswing. He looked at Baralis; the man was
smiling softly and shaking his head. "Come, come now, Traff," he
said. "You should know better than to try and hurt me."
Struggling against
the compulsion, Traff tried to move his arm. His muscles would not respond. The
faint but unmistakable smell of hot metal filled the air. Then suddenly it was
gone. His arm dropped down to his side; it felt heavy and sore.
Baralis turned the
full force of his gaze upon him. "You know what to do. Now do it."
This time Traff
moved. He turned and began to walk down the corridor. He did not look back. The
muscle in his lower arm was cramping slightly, but he ignored it. He was used
to pain. It was sorcery he couldn't deal with.
The passage curved
around and a few seconds later he saw the double doors and the two guards. Both
men were busy drinking. As soon as they spotted him, they got even busier,
burying their faces in their cups, whilst turning away from the light. Traff
fancied they looked familiar. He ignored them and opened one of the doors.
The mercenary
found himself in a chapel. After sorcery, the thing Traff hated most was
religion; he hated the scented candles, the long ceremonies, the self-satisfied
priests. He reached in his tunic and brought out his snatch pouch. Pulling
himself a fair portion, he slipped it between his lips. Even before it was
soft, he spat a portion out. He felt a lot better after that; half the pleasure
of snatch was the spitting. A man could say a lot with a spit. After a brief
pause to grind the snatch into the chapel floor, Traff made his way behind the
altar.
The middle panel,
Baralis had said. He spoke the truth, for the panel swung to the side when
Traff pressed on the left side of it. Looking inside the passageway, he hissed
a curse.
Like a fool, he
hadn't realized it would be so dark. Grabbing one of the altar candles, Traff
stepped into the passageway. Before he moved up the stairs, he pushed the panel
back into place. As he did so, he tilted the candle and hot, fragrant wax fell
on his forearm. This time he named Baralis in his curse: the wax had landed
directly on the burn the man had given him many months ago in Castle Harvell.
The skin was still tender and the memory still sharp. Traff shook his head
grimly; he hated Baralis about as much as it was possible to hate a man. That
wasn't important now; claiming Melli for his own was what counted. She was his,
after all-her father had promised her to him. Only now it seemed that Lord
Maybor had gone back on his word. Traff began to climb the stairs. Maybor, like
Baralis, would have to be dealt with later.
The stairs
spiraled upward toward the heart of the palace. With each step, Traff felt his
excitement growing. Soon Melli would be his.
"I could have
swom that man was Traff, Bodger. What d'you think?"
"I think you're
right, Grift. Looked a lot rougher than when I saw him last, though."
Grift shook his
head. "This is trouble, Bodger. Real trouble. Traff is the sort who'd
murder his own mother for a hundred golds."
"Best not ask
any questions, Grift. Best not even talk about it."
Bodger was scared,
thought Grift. He should have come here tonight on his own; there was no need
for both of them to be outside the chapel. "Go down to the kitchens,
Bodger. Grab yourself a bite of supper."
"No. I'm
staying here with you, Grift. You don't know what will happen when Traff comes
back."
"You're a
good friend, Bodger." Grift looked at his companion for a moment. Bodger
was too young to be involved in something like this, something that was going
to end in disgrace either way. "You know what?"
"What,
Grift?"
"We're gonna
be in trouble no matter what happens. If we stay here until Traff has done
whatever he's supposed to, then raise the alarm, we'll be thrown out of the
guard anyway. Everyone will say we were drunk on duty, and we'll have no choice
but to go along with it."
"But what
about Baralis, Grift? He's not a man you want to cross."
"What's
Baralis up to, though, Bodger? Where does that tunnel lead?" Grift's voice
was a whisper now. "What if it leads to the duke's chamber? We might as
well slit our own throats here and now." Grift took a quick couragegiving
swig of ale. "I say we take action, Bodger. We ain't got much to
lose."