by J. V. Jones
He needed to be very cautious. He would have preferred to enter Maybor’s chamber at night, with darkness as his ally, but that did not suit his plans. Twilight was the best he could manage. He slipped into the labyrinth by way of the beer cellar—no one marked his passing. He had a talent for going unnoticed; it was his natural disposition to search out shadow and shade.
He made good time and was soon approaching Maybor’s chamber. Baralis was surprised to hear the sound of voices and he moved close against the wall, putting his ear to a small crack in the stone. He was astounded to hear the voice of the queen. Arinalda in Maybor’s chambers—what intrigue was this? The queen never visited private chambers, she always called people to her. Baralis concentrated on listening to the rise and fall of their voices.
“I am well pleased to hear that your daughter, Melliandra, is willing for the match, as I had harbored a thought that she may have been reluctant.” The queen spoke with little warmth, her regal tones filtering through the breech in the stone.
“Your Highness, I can assure you my daughter wishes to marry your son more than anything else.” Maybor spoke with exaggerated deference. Baralis’ eyes narrowed with contempt.
“Very good,” the queen was saying. “We will hold the betrothal ceremony ten days from now. I am sure you will agree that we should move quickly on this matter.”
“I do, my queen. I also think, if you will pardon me for saying, Your Highness, that the betrothal should be kept a secret until it has taken place.” There was a slight pause and then the queen spoke, her cold tones carrying straight to Baralis’ ear.
“I agree. There are some at court who I would prefer kept in the dark about this matter. I will take my leave now, Lord Maybor. I wish you joy of the day.” Baralis moved his eye to the crack and saw Maybor bow low to the queen. After the door closed, Maybor’s expression of humility changed to one of triumph.
Baralis smiled coldly as the lord poured himself a glass of wine. “Enjoy your wine, Maybor,” he murmured. “You might not relish your next cup as much.” Baralis settled down to wait for Maybor to take his leave, the vial of poison warming in his hand.
Melli was in a turmoil. Her brother Kedrac had just left. He had informed her the betrothal was agreed upon—the queen had set a date for the official announcement.
On hearing the news of her fate, decided upon without her consent, rebellion stirred within her breast. She would never in a million years marry the cold and arrogant Prince Kylock. She had no wish to be queen of the Four Kingdoms if Kylock would be her king. She couldn’t exactly say why she disliked him so much—he was always polite to her when they met. But there was something about him that touched a nerve deep within her. Whenever she caught sight of him around the castle, she shuddered inwardly. And now her father had finalized the match.
Oh, she knew well what her father’s plan was. With the king weak, every lord was grabbing for power, and her father was no different: when he was not at war, he was plotting and scheming. Now he had decided upon the ultimate move, to place his daughter in the role of future queen. Maybor cared not a jot for her; his only interests were his precious sons. One of the reasons the war with the Halcus had taken place was because he had wanted to secure land for her brothers.
The war had backfired on him, however, for his lands along the River Nestor were now a battlefield and the yields of the famous Nestor apple orchards were at an all-time low. Her father would be feeling the cruel pinch of war upon his pocket.
She hated him! But she was not sure if she meant her father or Kylock. Last night, when she had refused point-blank to ever marry the prince, her father had actually slapped her. In the gardens! Where anyone could have seen. She had noticed of late her father often held his meetings in the gardens. It appeared nowadays that he didn’t even trust stone walls.
To Melli the past five years had been a great disappointment. She had longed to become a woman, but when her breasts swelled and her blood flowed, she found that she was still a young girl. Her presentation to the queen had not been the glorious triumph she had imagined. The country was at war and no one had much time for frivolous ceremonies, so there had been few to admire the beauty of her gown. That had not been her biggest disappointment, though.
She was most disillusioned with her life as a lady of the court. She’d come to realize that the very dresses and jewels she had once dreamed of now bored her. The young men at court were naive and pompous fools, and she wanted none of them. But what she most hated were the restrictions placed upon a woman of her rank. As a child she could race down the corridors, steal to the kitchens for an illicit treat, and laugh loudly at the top of her voice. Now, as a young lady she might as well not leave her rooms for all the freedom she was afforded elsewhere. It was always:
“Walk with your head up, Melliandra.”
“Keep your voice low and pleasing, Melliandra.”
“Never, ever contradict a man, Melliandra.”
The rules for women were endless. She was expected to change clothes three times a day, she was not allowed in the gardens without a servant accompanying her, she could only ride sidesaddle, she must drink her wine watered and eat her food like a bird. To top it all off, she was forced to spend all of her days cooped up with old matrons, sewing and gossiping.
Her friends might love to dress up and flirt, but playing the role of dumb female was beneath her dignity, and she would never, ever pretend a man was right when he was wrong. She hated it so much, she even hated the sound of the very name she had so desired and now longed to be just plain Melli again.
She sat on the corner of her bed and wondered what she would do. She had no choice about the betrothal. Her father was insisting upon it and she dared not defy him. She’d heard chilling stories of daughters who defied their fathers, tales of floggings and starvations and worse—stories told with relish by her aging nurse.
She’d harbored the distant hope that the queen might object to the betrothal at the last minute, deciding she was not good enough, or pretty enough, or well bred enough for her son, but it appeared that the queen was as anxious for this match as her father.
Queen Arinalda was in a weak position and the country was ripe for invasion. The duke of Bren’s greed for land was making her nervous. The city of Bren was becoming too big to support itself and was starting to look elsewhere for food for its tables. The Four Kingdoms were a feast for the taking. The queen needed the country to appear strong in order to curb any thoughts of conquest the duke might be harboring. To this end she needed to ally herself with the most powerful lord in the kingdoms: Melli’s father. Maybor would then be forced to defend the weak king from those who sought to challenge or invade. Whatever the reasons for the match, Melli was sure of one thing: she was just a pawn.
She had tried to reason with her father last night: she’d pleaded with him to give up the idea of the betrothal. He would not listen to her. He’d pointed out that he owned every scrap of fabric on her back, every ring on her finger and, although he didn’t say it . . . every breath in her body. She was no more than a possession, and the time had come to bring her to market.
No, Melli thought, I will not be traded like a sack of grain.
She would run away. Kedrac’s visit had been the final straw. Her brother had told her, in his condescending manner, that the betrothal was a great honor for their family, a great advancement, a chance to acquire more land and more prestige. Not one word about her. He’d just droned on about his future, his increased prospects, his expectations. She was nothing to him, merely a means to bring greater power and glory to himself. The same was true of her father. The very fact that he had sent Kedrac to break the news instead of coming himself showed how little he thought of her.
Melli took a deep breath. She was going to leave the castle. No longer would she be beholden to her father and brothers, no longer would she be a chattel, a pawn in their games of power. They had misjudged her if they thought she would quietly submit to their plans.
Pacing the room, she tried to hold onto her anger. It strengthened her, made her want to take charge of her own life. She moved to the window, wanting to look upon the outside world, a world that she would make herself part of. It was dark and quiet, a light rain was falling and the chill of night caressed her cheek. Instead of feeling exhilarated, she found herself afraid: the world outside beckoned . . . ambivalent and unfamiliar. Melli shuddered and pulled the heavy brocade curtains together.
She would go ahead with her plan. She would leave the castle tonight.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of her maid. The sly-eyed Lynni busied herself laying out a dress for the evening. “You’d better hurry, my lady, or you’ll be late for dinner.”
“I am not feeling well, Lynni. I will take a cold supper in my room.”
“You look well enough to me. You must go down. There are visitors from Lanholt and your presence will be expected.”
“Do as I say,” said Melli sharply. The girl left the room, swinging her hips with studied insolence.
Melli began sorting through her things, deciding what she would take with her. She had no money of her own, but was allowed to keep a modest amount of jewelry in her room, and these she placed in a small cloth bag. She scanned her chamber. She now possessed a mirror of her own, and her reflection caught her eye; she looked small and frightened.
She caught hold of her straight, dark hair and pulled it back with a leather thong, thinking it suited her a lot better than some of the overelaborate court styles. Next Melli put on her plainest woollen dress, tied the cloth bag containing her jewels securely around her waist, and then selected her thickest riding cloak. All she had to do was wait for Lynni to return with her supper and she would be off, stealing out of the castle under the cover of darkness. Never for a moment did she consider leaving without her supper—that would be foolish.
Melli slipped beneath the bedclothes to wait, and thought of where she would go. Her mother, before she’d died, had spoken of relatives in Annis. She would head there.
Lord Maybor was having a very good day. The queen had approved the match between Kylock and his daughter. He had supped well this night.
As he dined, he looked around the hall. The huge tapestries caught his eye. They showed the story of how the Four Kingdoms had been ripped asunder during the terrible Wars of Faith. They went on to depict the one man who, over a hundred years later, was responsible for reuniting the four glorious territories in defiance of the Church. The Four Kingdoms boasted the most fertile soil in the north. It was well placed for farm land and timber, its people were plump and prosperous, its armies well trained and well fed. Harvell the Fierce had been the driving force behind the Wars of Reunification. Thanks to him, the green and vibrant country was made whole once again.
Maybor fancied there was a little of Harvell’s nature in himself, and certainly before the year was out he would form part of the great tradition that was the lineage of kings. He would be father to a queen! He could barely contain his excitement.
He noticed that many of the lords gathered around the great table were puzzled by his uncharacteristic good humor, and it pleased him greatly that they were ignorant of his impending elevation. Maybor felt an overflowing of goodwill. He called for more venison and ale, and even cheered the minstrels, who he normally enjoyed pelting with vegetables and chicken bones.
The king must be made to step down, he thought. He is an empty vessel and has no place on the throne of the Four Kingdoms. Fresh blood should flow into the leadership, the blood of his future son-in-law, Kylock. True, Kylock was young, but Maybor had plans to use that youth to his advantage, guiding Kylock’s decisions, molding the new king. He, Maybor, would be the power behind the throne.
He paused in his delicious reverie for a moment and considered Prince Kylock. There was something about the lad that gave him the shivers, but no mind, he thought, he will make a fine king with me to guide him. Melliandra, his ungrateful rebel of a daughter, had actually said she would not marry him. Well, it was too late for her objections now. He would personally beat the defiance out of her if necessary.
The first thing he would urge the new king to do would be to end the war with the Halcus once and for all. He was tired of his lands being used as campsites and battlefields. Once the war was over, he would claim the land to the east of the River Nestor for himself: it was fine land for growing cider apples.
Personal profit aside, there were other more pressing reasons why the war should be won quickly. Bren was up to no good. The duke had already started a program of annexation to the southeast, and it wouldn’t be long before his eye turned west. Highwall and Annis were strong and well armed. The kingdoms, however, were so distracted by warring with Halcus that they were practically asking to be invaded. No matter they were a distance apart, the good duke’s ancestors had once held land west of the Nestor, and a prior claim, no matter how tenuous, always served to incite the indignant passions of would-be invaders.
Maybor drained his cup. It was getting late, and he took his leave of his dinner companions, his feet a little unsteady from the large amount of ale he had drunk. As he returned to his chamber, the only thing he wanted to do was have a glass of lobanfern red to aid his digestion and then to bed for a deep sleep.
“Kelse, you idle lout,” he shouted before entering his chamber. “Come and turn down my bed and stoke up my fire. There is a bite in the air tonight.” Maybor was surprised not to hear the scurry of his servant’s feet on the stone; Kelse was usually quick to respond. He might already be in the chamber, warming the sheets with hot bricks.
Maybor entered his room. It was cold; the fire had gone out. “Damn!” he muttered. “Kelse, where in Borc’s name are you?” Maybor crossed to the table where he kept a jug of his favorite wine. He poured himself a generous cup and moved through to the bedchamber.
As he lifted the cup to his lips, he caught sight of a body on the floor near his bed. It was his servant Kelse. Puzzled, he put down the cup, moved toward the body and slapped Kelse hard on the cheek.
“Kelse, you drunken malingerer. Awaken this instant, or I swear I will have your innards on a platter.” Kelse did not respond. Maybor grew alarmed; the man had not moved. “What treachery is this?” His eyes alighted on the upturned cup that lay beside Kelse’s body. Maybor drew the cup to his nose and smelled it: lobanfern red. He felt his servant’s lifeless body: it was cold. “Poison,” he spoke.
Maybor felt the hairs on his neck bristle. He was in no doubt that the poison had been meant for him. The unfortunate Kelse had stolen a glass of the tainted wine and had paid for it with his life. Maybor smiled grimly. Kelse had unknowingly performed the greatest service a servant could do for his master: lay down his life. He trembled to think what might have happened if the drugged wine had passed his lips. He would be the one lying on the cold stone, dead. He knew who had done this.
“Baralis,” he whispered under his breath. He had almost been expecting it. For many months now he had seen the look of hatred on Baralis’ face. They both had scores to settle, and it seemed that the king’s chancellor had made the first move to resolve them.
Poison was just the sort of cowardly method that Baralis favored. Maybor was a fighting man, a veteran of many campaigns, and had only contempt for such underhanded tactics. If he were to plan an assassination—and, after the events of tonight, it would seem likely he would have to, a man could hardly be expected to ignore an attempt on his life—he would resort to more conventional techniques. There was more beauty and certainty to be found in a knife to the throat than in a jug of poisoned wine.
“Your plans have gone wrong on this dark night,” he murmured softly. “Sleep soundly in your bed, Baralis, lord and chancellor, for there may not be many nights left for you to dream in.”
Jack was, as usual, up at four. He no longer had to keep the ovens fueled all night—that job had passed on to a younger boy. He was now in charge of supervising the first bak
ing and, after the oven-boy left, he usually had the kitchen to himself for an hour before Master Frallit and the other bakers appeared.
He dressed quickly, the temperature in his room giving speed to his actions. His breeches were four months old and he was pleased to notice they fitted him now exactly as they did when newly made, which meant he’d finally stopped growing. About time, too. It wasn’t much fun being the tallest person in the kitchens. He was always the one called upon to chase spiders from their webs and to shake the moths from slow-drying herbs.
Pulling on a light tunic, he noticed it smelled a little too strongly of sweat. He’d hoped to cross the path of the tablemaid Findra later on in the day, and had recently found out that girls didn’t appreciate too generous a smell. Of course the confusing thing was that Grift had informed him that no smell at all was worse than the most terrible stench: “Women choose a lover with their noses first, so a man’s odor must declare his intentions,” was a favorite saying of his. Deciding that he’d flour his tunic down later to create the delicate balance needed for wooing, Jack made his way to the kitchens.
The first thing he did was add fragrant woods to the furnace. Frallit maintained there were only two types of wood in the world: one for heating and one for cooking. Overnight the oven was fueled with plentiful woods such as oak and ash, but a day’s baking called for more delicate fuel. Hawthorne, hazel, and chestnut were added before the bread was put to bake. The master baker swore by them: “They give a fragrance to the dough that becomes a flavor when the flame is high,” he would say.
Once that was seen to, Jack brought the dough down from the shelf above the oven. The shelf benefited from the heat of the furnace and the dough rose well overnight. He removed the damp linen cloth from the tray and absently punched each individual portion of dough down and then kneaded them, his hands deft with experience. Quickly, he formed neat rows on the baking slabs and then opened the huge iron door of the oven, its blazing heat hitting Jack in a familiar wave. He had singed his hair on more than one occasion in the past. He loaded the slabs onto shelves and closed the door. Next, he threw a measure of water into the furnace; the steam produced would add extra vigor to the crust.