by J. V. Jones
Baralis decided he would not waste any more time trying to poison Maybor. The lord appeared to be almost charmed against such methods. He would arrange instead for his attentions to be diverted from the court. He knew the one thing that Maybor loved more than himself was his eastern lands. They were rich and fertile, planted with seasoned apple orchards from which the best cider in the Known Lands was produced. A curve of a smile stole across Baralis’ face: he would arrange for Maybor’s attention to be diverted eastward for a while.
* * *
Tawl squinted in the direction that Fyler indicated. “I can’t see a thing,” he said. Fyler had told him that Larn was on the horizon, but Tawl could spot no sign of it.
“You from the Lowlands, boy?” asked Fyler. Tawl nodded, amazed at how the seaman could know such a thing. The navigator winked and then explained, “People from the Lowlands are known for their bad eyesight. All those marsh gases affect the eyes. It was just as well you left home before they had a chance to do worse damage.”
The two men were on the bow of the boat. All day the waters had been growing choppier. A strong easterly wind was blowing, whipping up the waves, causing them to crash mightily against the hull of the small boat. The Fishy Few, which for the first two days had seemed so sturdy to Tawl, was now at the mercy of the restless sea.
The crewmen, who had come to accept Tawl’s presence, were now grave and silent. All hands were on deck. The sails needed to be constantly turned to accommodate the unruly wind.
Even as Tawl and Fyler stood on deck, conditions were worsening. The sky darkened ominously and the first spits of rain were felt. The wind blew hard and picked up the waves in its path, driving them high and rough. Tawl was forced to hold on tightly to the railing.
“How far before we reach Larn?” he asked. Fyler, who was much more used to the unstable sea than Tawl, stood with his arms folded.
“Well, I’m sure it was on the horizon, only it’s gotten so damned dark and nasty that I can’t see it no more. I’d say we’re half a day away. Course in these sort of conditions it could take a lot longer. The wind is against us. And I don’t fancy navigating low waters in a storm.”
“How dangerous are the waters around Larn?” Tawl was now having to shout to make himself heard.
“Well, I’ve navigated worse waters, but Larn’s are pretty bad. It’s not just the shallows . . . though if you’re not careful you could find yourself run aground.” Fyler looked to the horizon. “No, the real problem is the rocks. The sea bounces off ’em and becomes unsettled. There’s no telling which way the current runs, but one thing’s for sure—if you’re not careful, it’ll run you onto the rocks.”
“Captain Quain said he wouldn’t take the ship too close.”
“Aye, lad. Captain’s no fool. Still, it won’t be easy. You can see what’s happening to the boat already.” As if to illustrate this point, the sea swelled suddenly, causing the boat to roll beneath their feet.
“I thought it was just bad weather,” shouted Tawl. “There’s always bad weather around Larn, boy. That’s the problem. I can navigate shallows and rocks in a calm sea with my eyes closed. Larn’s one of those godforsaken places that allows the sea no rest.”
“Is is because of where Larn is?”
“No, it’s because of what Larn is.”
Tawl watched as Fyler walked away, marveling at the man’s ability to walk so steadily with the boat heaving as it was. Tawl stayed at the bow, the wind and rain driving into his face. He looked ahead, trying to spot the island on the horizon. He could not see it. Something within Tawl knew that Larn was there: it called to his blood, beguiling and inviting. He looked ahead at the bleak gray of sky and sea, and he became afraid.
He did not know how long he stood, blasted by the elements. A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts: “You there! What d’you think you’re doing? You’ll catch your death there in this storm.” Tawl looked round to see Carver. “Best get belowdeck, captain’s askin’ after you.” Tawl realized that he was cold and his cloak was soaked through. The sky was growing darker, the waves higher, and the rain was now driving in sheets against the ship.
“See what trouble Larn brings,” muttered Carver as Tawl made his way belowdeck.
The captain’s cabin was warm and cozy and smelled of old leather and rum. “By Borc! You’re soaked to the skin, lad. What have you been up to?” The captain swiftly poured Tawl a full cup of rum. “Take your cloak off. Here, wrap yourself in this.” Quain handed Tawl a rough blanket.
“I was on deck. I didn’t realize how long I was there.”
“Lost in thought, eh?” The captain gave Trawl a questioning look.
“I was thinking about Larn.”
“You’re not the only one, boy. Larn’s the sort of place that’s hard to put from your mind.”
“You’ve been there before?”
The captain nodded. “I came close as a lad and it’s haunted me ever since.”
“What purpose did you have with the island?”
“No purpose at all, it was my first job as navigator and I was as green as seaweed. We were bound for Toolay, but I was so nervous the ship veered off course.” The captain took a deep draught of rum and was silent for so long that Tawl was surprised when he spoke again. “Can’t say that I was sorry, though. To this day, I still hold that it was fate, not I, who steered the ship that cold and windy morn.” Quain slammed his glass down on the table, effectively ending the subject.
“You’ll be there tomorrow. Course if the seas don’t calm you’ve no chance of landing. No one in their right minds would set a small rowboat on these waters. I’m beginning to think I’ve lost mine coming here with The Fishy Few.” Quain lifted his glass. “Come on, lad, drink up. That rum will warm you better than any fire.” Tawl obliged the captain, finding his words to be true. The rum warmed him to his toes.
“Once you’re on the island, you know I won’t wait longer than a day for your return. The waters are just too treacherous. I’m sticking my neck out putting down anchor. If the waters don’t calm by the morrow, no anchor will be able to hold her. That’s not your concern, though, lad. I just want to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. If you’re not back within one day, then I’m off. And God help you; you could be stuck on Larn for many months.” Quain gave Tawl a hard look.
“There is no misunderstanding, Captain. I’ve decided I’ll go alone—you’re one man short as it is. I can row myself.” Quain grunted and poured them both another cup of rum.
“Pray for calm waters, boy.”
* * *
Tavalisk was taking an afternoon stroll in the palace gardens. The gardens were famous throughout the east for their spectacular beauty. Tavalisk was more interested in what he was eating than the breathtaking surroundings. Walking a few steps behind the archbishop was a liveried servant holding a platter of delicacies.
“Boy, be careful no flies land on the chicken livers.” Tavalisk beckoned the boy forward so he could pick what he would eat next. The brisk air had given him quite an appetite. Tavalisk decided on a large, juicy specimen and popped it in his mouth. It was just as he expected—rare and tender.
The archbishop sighed heavily as he noticed the approach of his aide, Gamil. “Come, boy,” he said to the servant. “Let us make haste.” Tavalisk hurried away in the opposite direction, his voluminous robes flapping in the breeze. “Do not drop the platter, boy,” he warned as they turned into a hedged walk. Gamil’s feet proved faster than Tavalisk’s, and he eventually caught up with master and servant.
“Gamil, what are you doing here? I didn’t see you approach. Did you see him approach, boy?” Tavalisk looked to his attendant; the boy obediently shook his head. The archbishop reached forward and took another liver from the tray. “Though I must admit you’re difficult to miss in your splendid new robe. Silk, if I’m not mistaken. I didn’t realize I paid you so well.”
Gamil became a little red of face. “It’s nothing, Your Eminence. I picked it up c
heap in the Market District.”
“Well I’m not at all sure I like my aides dressing better than I.” The archbishop could not resist the exaggeration: his robes were by far the finest that could be bought in all of Rorn. “Now tell me why you’re here.” Tavalisk daintily spat out a piece of gristle.
“About the knight,” said Gamil, brushing the offending piece of gristle from his robe. “My spies . . . ”
Tavalisk cut him short. “Your spies, Gamil? You have no spies. I am the one who has spies.” Tavalisk’s small eyes took in the look of animosity on his aide’s face. He pretended not to notice, though, and busied himself picking out another delicacy.
“Your spies have confirmed our suspicions, Your Eminence.”
“What suspicions are those?” Tavalisk had now turned to admire a late-blooming flower.
“The Old Man paid for the boat that sails for Larn.”
“This is indeed interesting. Do you think the Old Man knows I am having the knight followed?” Tavalisk picked the flower, smelled it, and then threw it away.
“I think he must, Your Eminence.”
“His friendship with Bevlin aside, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Old Man helped the knight merely to irk me, Gamil.” Tavalisk now stepped on the flower, grinding its delicate petals into the ground. “He knows I have no love for the knighthood. Not that the Old Man is their greatest advocate, but he’s not averse to doing a little business with them from time to time.”
Tavalisk walked off, beckoning his servant to follow. As he had not been excused, his aide was forced to keep up with them. Tavalisk stopped a little later and chose another tasty morsel from the tray. “Oh, by the way, Gamil, what news have you of the drawing the other night?” Tavalisk threw a chicken liver into the air and nimbly caught it between his teeth.
“It appears, Your Eminence, that others felt the ripple of power several nights back. I have spoken with one who knows of these things, and she was certain that the aftermath came from the northwest.”
“The northwest, indeed. If I am not mistaken, there is little else in the northwest beside the Four Kingdoms. They have that particularly fertile corner of the world all to themselves.” Tavalisk began to feed the sweetmeats to the birds. “How soon can you question my spies about this matter?”
“If anything remarkable has happened in the Four Kingdoms, I will soon know of it, Your Eminence.”
“If the incident of a few nights back was Lord Baralis’ doing, then I will have to revise my estimation of him, Gamil. Great power was drawn that evening. Whoever is responsible bears watching closely. Power is seldom found in those without ambition.” Tavalisk found it was more fun to throw the sweetmeats at the birds rather than to them. “It is all the more reason to track down his enemies.”
“I will know who they are in a matter of days, Your Eminence.”
“Good. Before you go, Gamil, may I be so bold as to offer you a piece of advice?”
“Certainly, Your Eminence.”
“Red is a most unbecoming color for you. It shows up the pock marks on your cheeks most unpleasantly. I would try green next time, if I were you.” Tavalisk smiled sweetly and began to walk back to the palace.
Lord Maybor was beginning to feel much improved. His breath still came in wheezes and his throat burned hot and sore, but he knew he was feeling better when the queen’s wisewoman rubbed warm oils into his skin. The wisewoman was not a great beauty, and she had passed her prime some years back; however, when her skillful hands worked on Maybor’s body, he began to find her most appealing.
With a firm touch she worked the fragrant oils into Maybor’s flesh. She noticed the lord’s reaction and smiled pleasantly, showing small, white teeth. “I see you will be up soon, Lord Maybor,” she said softly. She leaned over him, her breast brushing against his face. He could not resist and squeezed the roundness gently. The wisewoman smiled on, moving her agile hands lower. Maybor drew more bold and squeezed the breast vigorously.
The woman laughed: a bright, pretty sound. “I do not think, Lord Maybor, that you are quite ready for a tumble yet. Maybe in a few days.” Maybor was disheartened; the wisewoman was looking very attractive to him now. “It is a good sign though—when a man’s urges return, his good health will soon follow.” She stood up and smoothed her dress. “I must be off now. Be sure to drink your honey balm.” She patted him lightly on the shoulder and left the room. There is a lot to be said for older women, thought Maybor regretfully.
When she had gone, Maybor called his servant, Crandle, to bring him his mirror. Maybor had always been very proud of his appearance; he considered himself to be strong boned and handsome. His greatest fear now was that the terrible sores that blighted his face would leave scars. He regarded his reflection carefully. There seemed to be a slight fading of the redness. His face was hideous; the sores had formed mostly around his nose and mouth. Some of the sores had started to heal, but some were still open and wet. The wisewoman had given him some herbal water, and it appeared to help a little.
He was still contemplating his reflection when Crandle rushed into the room and announced the queen. She followed directly after the servant, her beautiful face pale and unreadable.
“No, Lord Maybor, do not try to rise.” She turned to Crandle and bid him leave. The servant scuttled away quietly.
“It is indeed an honor, Your Highness.” Maybor was trying hard to keep his voice and breath steady. He did not like appearing ill to the queen.
“I have come this day because I have just spoken with my wisewoman, and she has advised me you are much improved.”
“Your Highness was most gracious to send her to me.” Maybor succumbed to a fit of coughing. He held his handkerchief up to his lips—he did not want the queen to see he was coughing up blood.
The queen waited until the coughing stopped before continuing, “My wisewoman is better than any physician. I am glad to see her remedies have helped you. You seem much better than when I looked upon you last. I am well pleased.”
The queen moved away from Maybor and began to pace the room, her back rigid and her head high. “Lord Maybor, I must ask an unpleasant question and I require a straightforward answer.”
Maybor began to feel a little apprehensive. “What would you ask, Your Highness?”
“I would know the truth about your daughter, Melliandra. I have heard say she has run away from the castle.” The queen turned and looked Lord Maybor in the eye. “Is this true?”
Maybor instantly realized that if he lied and told her his daughter was in the castle, she would demand proof. He had no choice but to confess. Sick though he was, he rallied his wits about him. The queen was already sympathetic to him. His best defense would be to play on that sympathy. “Unfortunately, Your Highness is right. My daughter has run away. She has been gone seventeen days now.”
“Has she run off with a lover?” The queen’s voice was hard and unyielding.
“No, Your Highness. She has had no lovers. Melliandra is a virgin.”
“Why did she run away, then? Was it because she didn’t want to enter into the betrothal with Prince Kylock?”
Maybor thought quickly, glad that his affliction had not affected his sharpness of mind. “No, Your Highness, her fleeing had nothing to do with Prince Kylock. At the time she left, she knew nothing of the match . . . I thought it better not to mention the betrothal until the matter had been fully decided.”
“So why then did your daughter flee, Lord Maybor?” The queen looked skeptical.
“Regrettably, Your Highness, I am to blame.” Maybor hung his head low, coughed pathetically, and tried hard to bring a tear to his eye. “I have not treated my daughter as well as a father should.” A single tear glistened forth. “I have been a bad father. All Melliandra ever wanted was my love and affection, for she is a sweet and lovely girl.” The tear made its noble descent down Maybor’s cheek. When the salty tear encountered one of his open sores, he winced in pain—a gesture easily mistaken for a shudder
of remorse.
“Melliandra would come to me, begging for my attention, wanting to play me the latest tune she had learnt on her flute, or to show me how pretty she looked in her newest dress. I would send her away, unregarded. My sons were all my eyes could see. I am ashamed to say I neglected her badly.” Maybor was warming to his theme: a second tear conveniently welled in his eye.
“It was I who drove her away. All she ever wanted was a father’s love. I failed my daughter, Your Highness. I all but sent her away. She fled purely to gain my attention. I would give up my lands for just one chance to tell her that I love her. I would give up my life to have her back, safe within the castle.” The second tear dropped, with perfect timing, off the end of Maybor’s nose.
The queen came over to Maybor’s bedside and placed her cool hand on his shoulder. She appeared deeply moved. “Lord Maybor, I am ashamed for having doubted you. We will find your poor daughter together. I myself will send the Royal Guard to look for her. I will not rest until she is brought safely back into your arms. Have no fear, the betrothal will go ahead as planned once she is found.” The queen bent and kissed Maybor’s forehead lightly before leaving.
After she left Maybor slumped back against his pillows. He smiled broadly, disregarding his painful sores. He would be father to a queen after all.
Jack watched as Traff laid Melli on the cold earth. He longed to be able to go and help her. He could see she was in a terrible state: she was hot and fevered, her face covered in a film of sweat. The worst thing was her back, where six welts were seared into her flesh. Two of the welts were scabbed with blood and badly swollen—a sure sign of infection.
The mercenaries had done nothing for her, save provide her with a blanket to draw around her torn dress. They appeared not to realize the seriousness of her condition. All Jack wanted to do was go to her. He hated to see anyone suffer, but to watch Melli’s rapid descent into fever was almost more than he could stand. There was one point yesterday, when the mercenaries had laid her on the ground, heedlessly banging her shoulder against a hard stone, that he’d felt something building up inside him. Anger at her treatment became tension in his head. It was the same sensation that he’d felt two days earlier. He tried to hold onto it, knowing power was at its core: so close, he could feel the burn at his throat, so overwhelming that he nearly lost himself to it.