by J. V. Jones
Somehow, from the time he left the servants’ hall to the time upon his arrival in the kitchens, night had fallen. Time, Jack found, had a way of slipping from him, like thread from a newly made spindle. One minute he would be setting the dough to rise, the next Frallit would be cuffing him for leaving it so long that it had toughened and was attracting flies. It was just that there was so much to think about, and his imagination had a way of creeping up on him. He only had to look at a wooden table and he was off imagining that the tree it came from once gave shade to a long-dead hero.
“You’re late,” said Frallit. He was standing by the oven, arms folded, watching Jack’s approach.
“Sorry, Master Frallit.”
“Sorry,” mimicked Frallit. “Sorry. You damn well should be sorry. I’m getting tired of your lateness. The heat in the oven has dropped perilously low, boy. Perilously low.” The master baker took a step forward. “And who’ll get into trouble if the fire goes out and there’s no baking for a day? I will. That’s who.” Frallit grabbed his mixing paddle from the shelf and slammed it viciously against Jack’s arm. “I’ll teach you not to put my good reputation at risk.” Finding a place that took the paddle nicely, he continued the beating until forced to stop due to an inconvenient shortness of breath.
Quite a crowd had gathered at the sound of shouting. “Leave the boy alone, Frallit,” one wretched scullery maid risked saying. Willock, the cellar steward, silenced her with a quick slap to her face.
“Be quiet, you insolent girl. This is none of your business. The master baker has a perfect right to do whatever he pleases to any boy under him.” Willock turned to face the rest of the servants. “And let it be a lesson to you all.” The cellar steward then nodded pleasantly to Frallit before shooing the crowd away.
Jack was shaking, his arm was throbbing—the paddle had left deep imprints upon his flesh. Tears of pain and rage flared like kindling. He screwed up his eyes tightly, determined not to let them fall.
“And where were you this time?” The master baker didn’t wait for an answer. “Daydreaming, I bet. Head in the clouds, fancying you’re something better than the likes of us.” Frallit swept close, grabbing Jack’s neck—the smell of ale was heavy on his breath. “Let me tell you, boy, your mother was a whore, and you’re nothing but the son of a whore. You ask anyone in this castle, they’ll tell you what she was. And what’s more, they’ll tell you she was a foreign whore at that.”
Jack’s head felt heavy with blood, spent air burnt in his lungs. There was one thought in his mind—the pain was nothing, the risk of ridicule wasn’t important—he had to know. “Where did she come from?” he cried.
He’d spoken the one thing that mattered most in his life. It was a question about himself as much as his mother—for wherever she came from so did he. He had no father and accepted that as his fate, but his mother owed him something, something she had failed to give him—a sense of self. Everyone in the castle knew who they were and where they came from. Jack had watched them, he’d witnessed their unspoken confidence. Not for them a life of unanswered questions. No. They knew their place, their personal histories, their grandfathers and grandmothers. And armed with such knowledge, they knew themselves.
Jack was envious of such knowledge. He too wanted to join in conversations about family, to casually say, “Oh, yes, my mother’s family came from Calfern, west of the River Ley,” but he was denied the pleasure of self-assurance. He knew nothing about his mother, her birthplace, her family, or even her true name. They were all mysteries, and occasionally, when people taunted and called him a bastard, he hated her for them.
Frallit eased up on his hold. “How would I know where your mother came from?” he said. “I never had call for her services.” The master baker gave Jack’s neck one final squeeze and then let go. “Now get some wood in the oven before I change my mind and decide to throttle you all the way.” He turned and left Jack to his work.
Bevlin was expecting a visitor. He didn’t know who it would be, but he felt the approach. Time to grease up another duck, he thought absently. Then he decided against it. After all, not everybody had a taste for his particular favorite. Better be safe and roast that haunch of beef. True, it was a few weeks old, but that hardly mattered—maggot-addled beef had never killed anyone, and it was said to be more tender and juicy than its fresher counterpart.
He hauled the meat up from the cellar, sprinkled it with salt and spices, wrapped it in large dock leaves, and buried it amongst the glowing embers of the huge fireplace. Roasting beef was a lot more trouble than greased duck. He hoped his guest appreciated it.
When the visitor finally arrived, it was dark outside. Bevlin’s kitchen was warm and bright, and fragrant cooking smells filled the air. “Come in, friend,” croaked Bevlin in response to the knock on the door. “It’s open.”
The man who entered was much younger than the wiseman had expected. He was tall and handsome; gold strands in his hair caught the firelight in defiance of the dirt from the road. His clothes, however, had little fight in them. They were an unremarkable gray; even the leathers that had once been black or tan bore testament to the persistence of the dirt. The only bright spot was a handkerchief tied about his neck. Bevlin fancied there was something touching about its faded scarlet glory.
The stranger looked a little saddle weary to the wiseman, but then that was to be expected; after all, Bevlin lived in a very remote spot—two days ride from the nearest village, and even then the village was no more than three farms and a middens.
“Welcome, stranger. I wish you joy of the night; come share my food and hearth.” Bevlin smiled: the young man was surprised to find himself expected, but he covered it well.
“Thank you, sir. Is this the home of the wiseman Bevlin?” The stranger’s voice was deep and pleasant, a trace of country accent went unconcealed.
“I am Bevlin, wiseman is not for me to say.”
“I am Tawl, Knight of Valdis.” He bowed with grace. Bevlin knew all about bowing; he had stayed at the greatest courts in the Known Lands, bowed to the greatest leaders. The young man’s bow was an act of newly learned beauty.
“A knight of Valdis! I might have guessed it. But why have I been sent a mere novice? I expected someone older.” Bevlin was well aware that he had insulted the young man, but he did so without malice, to test the temper and bearing of his visitor. He was not disappointed with the young man’s reply:
“I expected someone younger, sir,” he said, smiling gently, “but I will not hold your old age against you.”
“Well spoken, young man. You must call me Bevlin—all this ‘sir’ nonsense makes me a little nervous. Come, let us feast first and talk later. Tell me, would you prefer salt-roasted beef or a nice greased duck?”
“I think I would prefer the beef, sir, er, Bevlin.”
“Excellent,” replied Bevlin, moving into the kitchen. “I think I’ll have the duck myself!”
“Here, drink some of this lacus. It will calm the rage in your belly.” The wiseman poured a silvery liquid into a cup, and offered it to his companion. They had eaten and supped in silence—the knight had resisted Bevlin’s attempts to draw him into casual conversation. Bevlin was willing to overlook the young man’s reticence, as it could conceivably be due to gut sickness. Looking decidedly pale and sickly, the knight tasted the proffered drink. He drank reluctantly at first, but as the liquid found favor on his tongue, he drained the cup empty. Like so many men, in so many ages, he held his cup out for more.
“What in creation is this stuff? It tastes like—like nothing I’ve ever had before.”
“Oh, it’s quite common in some parts of the world, I assure you. It’s made by gently squeezing the lining of a goat’s stomach.” The visitor’s face was a blank, and so Bevlin elaborated. “Surely you have heard of the nomads who roam the great plains?” Tawl nodded. “Well, the plains goats are the tribes’ livelihood; they provide the nomads with milk and coarse wool, and when they are killed, they
provide meat and this rather unusual liquid. It’s a rare goat that favors the plain. A most useful creature to have around, don’t you agree?” The young man nodded reluctantly, but Bevlin could see he was already beginning to feel much better.
“The most interesting thing about the lacus is that served cold it cures ailments of the belly and—how should I put it—the, er, private parts. When the lacus is warmed, however, it changes its nature and provides relief from pain of the joints and the head. I have even heard said that when condensed and applied as a paste to wounds, it can quicken healing and stave off infection.”
Bevlin was feeling a little guilty. He realized the addled beef was responsible for his visitor’s illness, and decided that before the young man left he would make amends by giving Tawl his last remaining skin of lacus.
“Is the lacus more than the sum of its ingredients?”
The knight had keen perception. Bevlin revised his opinion of him. “One might say there is an added element that owes nothing to the goat.”
“Sorcery.”
Bevlin smiled. “You are most forthright. All too often these days people are afraid of naming the unseen. Call it what you like, it makes no difference, it won’t lessen its retreat.”
“But there are still those who . . .”
“Yes, there are those who still practice.” The wiseman stood up. “Most think it would be better if they didn’t.”
“What do you think?” asked the knight.
“I think that like many things—like the stars in the heavens, like the storms in the sky—it is misunderstood, and people usually fear what they can’t comprehend.” Bevlin felt he’d said enough. He had no desire to satisfy the youthful curiosity of the knight. If Tawl was to find anything out, let it be through experience—he was too old to play teacher. Guiding the conversation around to its former topic, the wiseman said, “I think maybe you should sleep for now. You are weak and need to rest. We will talk in the morning.”
The knight recognized the dismissal and stood up. As he did so, Bevlin caught a glimpse of a mark on his forearm. A branding—two circles, one within the other. The inner circle had been newly branded: the skin was still raised and puckered. A knife wound of some sort ran through the center of both circles. There were stitches still holding it closed. It seemed an unusual place for an enemy’s blade to fall.
Battle scars aside, the knight was young to have gained the middle circle. Bevlin had guessed him to be a novice. Perhaps he should have spoken further about that which made the lacus sing. The knight would have been keen to learn—the second circle marked scholarship, not just skill with a blade. Still, he was offering the knight a chance for glory—why should he offer him knowledge as well?
As soon as Melli entered the chambers of her father, Lord Maybor, she made a beeline for his bedroom, in which was to be found that most precious of objects: a looking glass. This was the only glass that Melli had access to, as they were considered too valuable for the use of children. Melli drew back the heavy red curtains and let the light shine into the luxuriant bedchamber.
Melli considered the chamber—all crimson and gold—to be a little gaudy for her taste, and resolved that when she had a chamber of her own one day, she would show greater discrimination in the choosing of furnishings. She knew well that the rug she walked on was priceless and that the looking glass she had come to use was supposed to be the most beautiful one in the kingdom, better even than the one possessed by the queen. Still, she was not greatly impressed by these trappings of her father’s great wealth.
Melli moved directly in front of the mirror. She was disappointed by what she saw there: her chest was still flat as a board. She breathed in deeply, pushing her meager chest out, trying to imagine what it would be like to have womanly breasts. She was sure they would arrive anyday now, but whenever she stole into her father’s rooms, her image remained unchanged.
Part of Melli longed to become a woman. Oh to be able to use her lady’s name, Melliandra, instead of the rather short and decidedly unimpressive Melli. How she hated that name! Her older brothers would tease her mercilessly: Melli, Melli, thin and smelly! She’d heard that rhyme a thousand times. If only her blood would start to flow, for then she would be allowed to use her proper name . . . and then there was the court dress.
All young ladies were given a special court dress on reaching womanhood. Wearing them, they would be presented to the queen. Here Melli knew that she, as Lord Maybor’s daughter, would have a definite advantage. He was one of the richest men in the Four Kingdoms and would certainly use the presentation of his daughter at court as an opportunity to show off his wealth.
She had already decided what her dress was to be made from: silver tissue—expensive and exquisitely beautiful, made from combining silk with threads of purest silver. The art of weaving such fabric had long been lost in the north, and it would have to be specially imported from the far south. Melli knew nothing would please her father more than spending his money on such a publicly displayable commodity.
Becoming a woman was not all good, though; at some point she would be forced to marry. Melli knew well she would have little say in the matter—as a daughter, she was considered the sole property of her father and would be used as such. When the time came, he would trade her for whatever he deemed suitable: land, prestige, titles, wealth, alliances . . . such was the worth of women in the Four Kingdoms.
She had no great liking for the pimply, simpering boys of the court. She’d even heard mention of a possible match between herself and Prince Kylock; after all, they were the same age. The very thought made her shiver; she disliked the cold and arrogant boy. He might well be rumored to be learned beyond his years and an expert in swordplay, but he rather scared her, and something in his handsome, dark face raised warnings in Melli’s heart.
She was about to leave the bedchamber when she heard the sound of footsteps and then voices in the other room. Her father! He would be most annoyed to find her here and might even punish her. So, rather than make her presence known by leaving, she decided to stay put until her father and his companion left. She heard the deep, powerful voice of her father, and then another voice: rich and beguiling. There was something familiar about the second voice. She knew she’d heard it before. . . .
Lord Baralis! That was who it belonged to. Half the women at court found him fascinating, the other half were repulsed by him.
Melli was puzzled, for although she knew little of politics, she was aware that her father and Baralis hated each other. She moved closer to the door to hear what they would say. She was not an eavesdropper, she told herself, she was just curious. Lord Baralis was speaking, his tone coolly persuasive.
“It will be a disaster for our country if King Lesketh is allowed to make peace with the Halcus. Word will soon spread that the king has no backbone, and we will be overrun with enemies knocking at our door, snatching the very land from under our feet.”
There was a pause and Melli heard the rustle of silk followed by the pouring of wine. Baralis spoke again. “We both know the Halcus won’t be content with stealing our water—they will set their greedy eyes upon our land. How long do you think Halcus will keep this proposed peace?” There was a brief hush, and then Baralis answered his own question. “They will keep the peace just long enough for them to mass and train an army, and then, before we know it, they will be marching right into the heart of the Four Kingdoms.”
“You need not tell me that peace at Horn Bridge would be a disaster, Baralis.” Her father’s voice was ripe with contempt. “For over two hundred years, well before any family of yours came to the Four Kingdoms, we had exclusive rights over the River Nestor. To give up those rights in a peace agreement is a serious miscalculation.”
“Indeed, Maybor,” Lord Baralis again, his tone calming, but not without irony, “the River Nestor is lifeblood to our farmers in the east and, if I am not mistaken, it runs through much of your eastern holdings.”
“You know we
ll it does, Baralis!” Melli caught the familiar sound of anger in her father’s voice. “You are well aware that if this peace goes through, it will be my lands, and the lands set aside for my sons, that will be affected the most. That is the only reason why you are here today.” Maybor’s voice dropped ominously low. “Mistake me not, Baralis. I will be drawn no further into your web of intrigue than I deem fitting.”
There was silence for a moment and then Lord Baralis spoke, his manner changed from moments earlier. It was almost conciliatory: “You are not the only lord who will suffer from peace, Maybor. Many men with eastern holdings will support us.”
There was a brief pause, and when Baralis continued, his voice was almost a whisper. “The most important thing to do now is to disable the king and prevent the planned meeting with the Halcus at Horn Bridge.”
This was treason. Melli was beginning to regret listening in; her body had grown cold and she found herself trembling. She could not bring herself to move away from the door.
“It must be soon, Maybor,” murmured Baralis, his beautiful voice edged with insistency.
“I know that, but must it be tomorrow?”
“Would you risk Lesketh making peace at Horn Bridge? He is set to do so and the meeting is only one month hence.” Melli heard her father grunt in agreement. “Tomorrow is the best chance we have; the hunting party will be small, just the king and his favorites. You yourself can go along to avoid suspicion.”
“I can only go ahead with this, Baralis, if I have your assurance that the king will recover from his injuries.”
“How can you ask that, Maybor, when it will be your man who will aim and fire the arrow?”
“Don’t play games with me, Baralis.” The fury in her father’s voice was unmistakable. “Only you know what foul concoction will be on the arrowhead.”