The Baker's Boy

"The deed is
done, master." Lusk barely had a second to notice the glint of the
long-knife, and only a fraction of that second to realize what it meant.

Baralis sliced
Lusk's body open with one forceful but elegant stroke, cleaving from the throat
to the groin. Baralis shuddered as the body fell to the floor with a dull thud.
He held his hand up to his face where he detected a sticky wetness: Lusk's blood.
On impulse he drew his finger to his lips and tasted. It was like an old
friend, coppery, salty and still warm.

He turned away
from the now lifeless body and noticed his robes were covered in Lusk's blood;
it was not a random spraying, the blood formed a scarlet arc against the gray.
A crescent moon. Baralis smiled, it was a good omen-a crescent moon marked new
beginnings, new births, new opportunities-the very currency he would deal in
this night.

For now, though,
he had some minor details to take care of. He must get changed for one thing;
it would not be fitting to meet his beloved in bloodstained clothes, and there
was the body to deal with. Lusk had been a faithful servant, unfortunately he
had one tiny flaw-a tongue too prone to flap with indiscretion. No man with a
fondness for ale and a tendency for drunken disclosure would jeopardize his
carefully laid plans.

As he dragged the
body onto a threadbare rug, his hands began to ache with the familiar, stabbing
pain. He had taken a small amount of pain-relieving drug earlier to facilitate
his use of the long-knife, but it had quickly worn off, as it did all too often
these days, and he was reluctant to take more in case it interfered with his
performance.

Baralis wielded
the long-knife once more, marveling at the sharpness of blade and the way he,
who had never been an expert in such matters, seemed to be endowed with a
certain finesse when haft was in hand. He made the appropriate cuts and placed
what were the better part of Lusk's features in a linen swath, which quickly
soaked with blood. This really was most unpleasant. He had no liking for
bloodshed, but would do what was expedient. He moved across the room and threw
the swath onto the fire.

In the distance, a
clock began to chime. Baralis counted eight tolls of the bell. It was time to
get cleaned and changed. He would arrange to have the rest of Lusk's body taken
away in the morning by the hulking dimwit Crope. Now there was a man who would
tell no tales.

Less than an hour
later, Baralis quietly left his apartments. His destination lay above him, but
his route took him downward. Stealth was the greatest consideration; he could
not risk being challenged by an over-zealous guard or engaged by a damn fool
nobleman.

He made his way to
the second cellar level. The candle he held was not usually necessary to him,
but tonight was special; he would take no chances, tempt no fates.

Baralis crept to
the innermost section of the second cellar. The dampness was already affecting
the joints in his fingers and his hand trembled, but only partly from pain. The
candle wavered and hot, liquid wax fell onto his hands. A sharp spasm coursed
through his fingers. He dropped the candle and it went out, plunging Baralis
into darkness. He hissed a curse; he had no flint to relight the flame and his
hand was throbbing violently. He could not risk drawing light on this night. He
would have to proceed in darkness.

He felt his way to
the far wall and, using his hands like an insect's antennae, carefully felt for
inconsistencies in the stone. He found them, manipulated them delicately with
his fingertips, and stood aside while the wall moved backward. He stepped into
the breach. Once inside, he repeated the same procedure on the wall of the
passageway and the section fell back into place. Now he could begin to move
upward.

Baralis smiled.
Everything was going to plan: the lack of light was only a minor problem and,
after all, what was a little darkness now compared with what was to come?

He felt his way
through the passages with remarkable ease. He could not see openings and
stairways, but he felt their approach and knew which ones were for him. He
loved the dank underbelly of the castle; some knew it existed, but few knew how
to enter it. Fewer still knew how to use it other than as a way to surprise a
buxom lady's maid on her chamberpot. With the use of this network of passages,
he could move around the castle undetected and find his way into many rooms.
Rooms of both the lowly and the exalted. One should never underestimate the
lowly, he mused. Some of his best information came from overhearing the casual
gossip of a milkmaid or a cellar boy; who was plotting against whom, who was
sleeping where they should not, and who had more gold than was good for them.

Tonight, however,
he was not concerned with the lowly, tonight he would gain access to the most
exalted room of all-the queen's bedroom.

He made his way
upward, massaging his hand to ward off the cold. He was nervous, but then only
a fool would be otherwise. Tonight he would enter the queen's chamber for the
first time. He had spent many hours watching her, marking her routines, her
womanly rhythms, recording every detail, every nuance. Recently, though, his
cool observations had been enriched by the delight of expectation.

He approached her
room and peered inside to check that she was asleep. The queen was lying fully
clothed on the bed, her eyes closed. Baralis felt a tremor of anticipation run
through his body. The queen had drunk the drugged wine: Lusk had done his job.
With the utmost caution he entered the room. He decided to leave the gap in the
wall open, in case of the need for quick escape. He immediately crossed over to
the door of the chamber and drew the bolt. Nobody beside himself would enter
this room tonight.

He approached the
bed. The queen, normally so haughty and proud, looked impossibly vulnerable,
and of course she was. Baralis shook her arm lightly, and then harder; she was
out cold. He glanced over to the flagon of wine-it was empty, and so was the
queen's golden cup. A ripple of anxiety showed on his brow. Surely the queen
would never drink a whole flagon of wine? One of her ladies-in-waiting must
have shared it. He was not unduly worried; the unfortunate girl would spend the
night in an unusually deep sleep and wake slightly groggy in the morning.
Still, it was a slipup, and he didn't like those. He made a mental note to
check into it on the morrow.

Baralis regarded
the queen with detachment for several minutes. Sleep suited her. It smoothed
her brow and softened the set of her arrogant mouth. He put his hands beneath
her, rolling her onto her stomach and then proceedeed to unlace her gown. This
took some time, as his hands were stiff and the lacing intricate, but he
endeavored, for he could not risk cutting the laces-that would arouse too much
suspicion.

Eventually the
ties were loosened and he rolled her onto her back. He pulled the front of her
bodice down, revealing the pale curves of her breast. Although he had all but
given up the pleasures of the flesh these past years, he could not help but
respond to the sight. Poets and minstrels were forever harping on about the
queen's beauty, but he had always remained unaffected by it-until now. Ironic,
he thought, that she had to be out cold before he could find her desirable. He
chuckled mirthlessly and lifted her skirts around her waist.

He loosened her
undergarments and pulled them off, spreading her legs. Her thighs were soft and
smooth, a little cool perhaps, but that was only to be expected, a side effect
of the drug. Baralis found the coolness not unpleasant. He was, he realized with
relief, sufficiently aroused. He had feared lack of performance; after all, the
queen's fare was not to his normal taste. If he had any preference at all it
was usually for the young, the very young. Her thighs might be soft, but she
was no newly broken maiden and the mark of years could clearly be seen in the
delicate blueness of her veins. She was beautiful, though, her legs long and
slender, her rounded hips an enticement to any man. Unlike most women her age,
her body had been spared the ravages of childbirth. Her breasts were still high
and her belly flat as an altar-stone. He slipped down his leggings and entered
the queen.

He was sure she
was in her fertile span; he had spied on her often enough to know what time of
the month she bled. He had heard of men in the past having the ability to sense
which stage of her cycle a woman was in by just being in the room with her,
feeling the ebb and flow of her menses as palpable force. Such illustrious
accomplishments had eluded him, however, and he was forced to rely on more
prosaic methods.

He had gleaned the
knowledge he used this night from the wisewoman of the village he grew up in.
Many young boys besides himself had been keen to know the best time to take a
maiden without risk of begetting. He had been the only one to ask what time was
best for begetting. The wisewoman had looked at Baralis with foreboding on her
old, careworn face, but she had answered him anyway; it was not her habit to
question motives.

Baralis had waited
fourteen days from the onset of the queen's bleeding before making his move.
But that was nothing-he had planned and waited years for this. Everything he
had done in the past and would do in the future depended on this night. For
years he had studied the portents, the signs, the stars, the philosophies:
tonight was the time. He would be altering the course of the known world and
securing his own destiny. The stars glittered brightly for him this night.

His attention
returned to his task. He was nervous at first, but there was not a flicker from
the queen, so he continued on more forcefully. He knew the quickening of desire
and was surprised by its familiarity. As his excitement grew so did his
abandon, and he pushed into her with all his strength. He had not expected to
enjoy it and was surprised when he did. Eventually he reached his climax and
his seed flowed deep within the queen.

As he withdrew
from her, a trickle of blood escaped from the queen and ran lazily down her
inner thigh; maybe he had been a little rough, but no matter. For the second
time that evening he drew bloodied fingers up to his lips. He was not surprised
to find the queen's blood tasted different: sweeter, richer. Ouickly, he wiped
the remains of the blood from her thigh. He pushed her legs together and pulled
her skirts down.

Before he pulled
up her bodice, Baralis traced his hand over the arc of her left breast, such
pale perfection. On impulse he pinched it viciously, squeezing the delicate
flesh cruelly between his fingers. He then arranged her body carefully and even
placed a soft pillow beneath her head.

Now it was time
for him to go away and wait. He would be back later to finish the job. He did
not remove the lock on the door; he wanted no one disturbing the queen's peace
while he was gone.

Bevlin looked into
the deep, clear sky, searching. His eyes scanned the myriad of stars; he knew
something was not right in the world this night. He felt the weight of it
pressing his old bones and weakening his old bowels. When it came to sensing
unease in the world his bowels were as sure as blossoms in springtime, if not
as sweet smelling.

He sat, looking
upward for almost an hour, and was beginning to blame the queasiness in his
bowels on the greased duck he'd eaten earlier when it happened. A star in the
far north grew suddenly brighter. Bevlin's bowels churned unpleasantly as the
brightness lit up the northern sky. Only when it started to fall toward the
horizon did he realize that it was not a complete star at all, but a portion of
one: a meteor, racing toward the earth with a speed born of light. As he
watched, it hit the atmosphere-but instead of burning up, the meteor split into
two. The cleaving sent sparks and flames streaming into the air. When the light
diminished, Bevlin could make out two separate pieces where one had been
before. As they arced across the sky, trailing stardust in their wake, he saw
that one shone with a white light and the other shone red as blood.

A single tear ran
down Bevlin's cheek: he was surely too old for what was to come.

In all his years of
looking at the stars and of reading the books, he had seen no reference, no
prophecy of what he had just witnessed. Even now, as the two meteors raced
toward oblivion on the far side of the horizon, he could hardly believe what
had happened. He went inside quite sure there would be nothing else to see.

In a way it was
quite a relief to him. He had waited for so long for a message in the sky, and
now that it had happened, a subtle tension uncoiled within him. He did not know
what it meant or what action, if any, should be taken. He did know his bowels
had been right and that meant the greased duck was fine, which was just as
well, as there is nothing like a great sign in the sky to make one hungry.
Bevlin laughed merrily on his way to the kitchen, but his laughter had turned
slightly hysterical by the time he got there.