by J. V. Jones
“Your Highness is most wise.” Baralis had little choice but to nod his approval. He was well aware that the queen’s speech was to warn him to withdraw his men. “I trust Your Highness realizes that time is running out on our little wager?”
“Lord Baralis, you have no need to remind me. Our wager has been in my thoughts constantly. My confidence is high that the girl will be found within the next few days. For some strange reason I believe that she may be in the very woods that the mercenaries were searching this morning.” The queen gave him a meaningful glance and turned her back on him.
Baralis took his leave and made his way back to his chambers. He could not help but admire the queen’s intelligence: she had deduced that because his men were in the woods they were in all likelihood looking for Maybor’s daughter, which in turn meant that they knew something of her whereabouts. He would have to move fast; the queen would waste no time ordering the Royal Guard to step up their search in the forest.
As soon as he reached his chambers he ordered Crope to tell the mercenaries to halt their search.
Once he was alone, he let himself into his study and mixed the drug he needed. He ground lichen in a mortar and extracted juices from a moss that grew in the darkness underneath the castle. Other ingredients were added: powders and extractions. Swiftly he sliced open the skin on the tip of his finger. His blood was a bright bead upon the flesh. He squeezed the wound, allowing three drops only to fall into the cup.
Baralis drew power into the cup—a mere trace, a catalyst. The liquid swirled within, moved by an unseen hand. Baralis daubed a streak of the drug on his forehead. Immediately the skin around the smear erupted into tiny blisters. His whole body broke into a cold sweat. Baralis drew the cup to his face and breathed in the fumes; his body recoiled from the noxious vapors, but he forced himself to breathe deeply.
He could feel the burning of nostril and lung. He swayed as the drug worked its effect, stealing through tissue and sinew into his mind.
Since they had escaped things had not gone smoothly. The weather had been so bad that they had been unable to travel far, and they were both soaked to the skin. They had run out of food and had not eaten in two days. The nights had been the worst: they had to sleep out in the open on the wet earth, pressed close against each other to keep warm.
Jack was well aware that the mercenaries were out looking for them—the whole forest seemed riddled with men on horseback. They had managed to conceal themselves so far—whenever they heard guards approaching they hid in ditches or undergrowth. Jack knew, however, that it was only a matter of time before some sharp-eyed mercenary spotted them cowering among the dead leaves.
They pushed onward, the rain pelting against their faces and the wind robbing them of any chance of warmth. The forest floor was thick with damp, decomposing leaves. Their smell was not unpleasant—a rich, furtive scent that spoke of growth and renewal. Jack found he had more appreciation of the forest since his stay with Falk. He saw the grace of the bare trees and the modesty of the undergrowth—brush and bracken, destined always to live in the shadow of their more glorious relations.
After some time Melli came to an abrupt halt. “Over there,” she said. Jack looked toward where she was indicating and could see nothing. “Behind that large oak tree.” She dashed off and he was obliged to follow. He soon realized what she had seen: a wooden hut. It was almost totally concealed by trees and bushes, and ivy vines snaked against its walls.
They cautiously approached the hut. There was no sign of a path leading to the doorway and the ivy vines extended over the door itself. Jack looked to Melli, who nodded her head enthusiastically and pushed at the door. It was very stiff; years of rainfall had warped the wood and corroded the hinges. The door gave way a little and then could be budged no further. They managed to squeeze through the gap and into the hut.
The inside smelled musky and damp. Once Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he realized they had stumbled upon an old hunting lodge. Before King Lesketh became ill, he and his men would often spend many days in the forest tracking game; huts were built so the men would not have to return to the castle at nightfall. They afforded some shelter and provided a place to keep their kills and equipment until the hunt was over. Since the king’s illness the huts had mostly lain unused and forgotten.
Jack forced the door closed, and he and Melli began to search the hut for items they could use. They found some old, dusty horseblankets and wrapped themselves up in them to keep warm. There was a selection of hunting implements: chains, prodders, spears and hoods, and even a rather battered brass horn. There were two wooden benches and an old table on top of which sat an empty oil lamp and the long-decayed carcass of a fox. In the corner was an old painted chest.
Jack pried the chest open with a spearpoint. Inside were various men’s clothes: breeches, waistcoats, and tunics. Right at the bottom, buried beneath the blankets and oilskins, was an ancient-looking book. Jack drew it forth from the chest. Its bindings were loose and mold grew on its pages. He opened it up, the paper thin and brittle between his fingers.
“What’s that?” Melli came up behind him. “Here, give it to me.” Jack handed the book over to her and she turned to the title page, elaborately decorated with depictions of the stars in the heavens. “The Book of Words by Marod. Oh, how disappointing. I thought it might have been some juicy revelations about the king’s ancestors. Instead it’s just boring old Marod.”
“Who is Marod?” asked Jack, who had never heard of him.
“Oh, I thought everyone knew about Marod. As a girl I had to learn the poems. Of course, it’s mostly for the priests and scholars—they read and study it. It’s a load of old nonsense if you ask me.” Melli flicked through the pages. “This is a pretty bad copy . . . the paper has been used twice. You can still see writing from the first script.” Melli carelessly dropped the book back into the chest. “Let’s see if we can find anything to eat.”
She began to search the planked floor. “I remember one year when I was very young, my father took me out on a hunt—of course, it wasn’t a real one, more a treat for my brothers.” Melli dropped to her hands and knees and started knocking on the wooden boards. “Anyway, we came to a hut like this. We were tired and hungry and Father surprised us by lifting up some of the floorboards. Underneath was a small store of food. Apparently food was kept underground because it stayed fresher longer, and it kept any animals from stealing away with it. Aha!” Melli excitedly pulled up a length of wood. “What have we here?” She reached down with her arm and pulled out a stoppered flask; she opened it. “Wine.” Jack took it from her. It was indeed wine; he poured a little into his palms and then tasted. It was a little sour but still drinkable.
Melli meanwhile had brought forth other items from the hold; bags of oats and grain and several items wrapped in linen cloths. “It would appear that the hunters of old cared little about their own refreshment and more about their horses. Oats and wheat are of no use to us.” Jack ignored her comments and checked around the hut. There was a primitive brick stove. He smiled. All he needed now was some firewood and a pot. He found an iron cauldron thrown in with the hunting equipment. There was not, however, any firewood in sight.
“Why not burn that old book?” quipped Melli as she busily opened the various packages.
“No.” Working as Baralis’ scribe, Jack had grown to treasure books and didn’t like the thought of burning one, especially one that looked so old. “I’ll break up the chest, instead. That will burn well.” He picked up the book and flicked through its pages; as he did so a loose leaf fell onto the floor. He crouched down and picked it up. It was a letter. Melli came over and snatched it from him.
“It’s signed with a wreathed ‘L.’ That’s King Lesketh’s signature.” She read the short note: “My sweetest love, I can see you at the lodge no more. The queen is with child, and our meetings must end. Take the book, it is yours, I know how much you loved reading it. Let it be a parting gift. L.”
Melli looked at him. He could tell from her face that she felt the same way he did: ashamed. They had pried into someone else’s life. Jack took the letter from Melli and carefully replaced it in the book. Reading the letter wasn’t right. Its secrets were not meant to be shared. He put the book on a shelf and began breaking the chest down for firewood.
It grew dark quickly and Jack began to feel safer; the mercenaries would call off their search until the morning. The fire burning in the stove warmed the little hut and the smell of cooking filling the air. He prepared porridge, enriching its flavor by throwing in a length of dried meat. He was not entirely sure if the drymeat was still edible, but decided to take the chance. Melli turned up her nose at the porridge at first, but hunger changed her mind. Once she had tasted it, she finished off the whole pot, eating far more than he did. She then curled up close to the stove and fell asleep.
Jack sat for a while, wondering what would be best to do tomorrow. The idea of spending another day in the refuge of the hut was very tempting. Outside the wind howled and the rain fell. He decided he would wait and see what the morning would bring.
He soared high above the clouds, the firmament twinkled with the cold brilliance of the millennium. Never had he seen it so beautiful, so terrible: it taunted him with its nearness. He was without body, without soul, a wisp of smoke, a scattering of particles, borne upward by the strength of his own will.
It was time to descend; madness came to those who looked too long upon the heavens. He raced downward, leaving the stars and the blackness of space behind him. He moved through the clouds and was untouched by their wetness. Down he went, the earth a vague darkness below.
He began to discern shapes and forms: the gray quadrangle that formed the walls of the castle, the sprawl of the town. He turned his gaze southward and spied his hunting ground, the shadowy blackness of the forest.
Lower and lower. The canopy of the forest, which at first had seemed without feature, began to take shape. He perceived the patterns of the tree and bush and sapling. He saw the glow of life moving within; from the largest stag, standing magnificent on a grassy rise, to the smallest earthworm burrowing its way through the hard earth. The abundance of nature was laid out beneath him, teeming and striving.
He moved inward, searching. Through the trees he raced, bare branches caressing the air as he passed. He spied the flicker of possibility and changed his course. He drew close and recognized the work of man. It was a building of some sort, almost hidden by a dense growth of trees. He floated downward and then slipped his tenuous form between the cracks in the wood.
His suspicions had been proven right. The boy and the girl lay sleeping by a low-burning stove. He passed over them, each in turn stirring but not waking.
Content that he had accomplished his task, he withdrew, willing his shadowy insubstance back to meet his body. Once more he sped across the skies, not pausing to admire their spectacle. His time was limited and he would not risk being stranded, bodiless, for all eternity.
He began his descent into the castle. Down he came through the many layers of stone, anxious to be reunited with flesh and blood once more. He floated above his body. How shallow his breaths were, how pale his skin. Down he came, joining himself, penetrating deep into the soft grayness. He knew such weakness, such fatigue, and then no more.
Twenty-one
Melli shifted her position; the wooden floor was hard and she was seeking to make herself comfortable. Through closed eyes, she was aware of the onset of dawn. She was reluctant to get up. She had been having such a pleasant dream and did not want to break the spell. She knew that getting up would mean another day of running and hiding, being chased by Baralis’ mercenaries and her father’s men. She would be cold, hungry, scared, and exhausted. It was pleasant just to lie here in the dying warmth of the stove and pretend that none of it existed.
Melli found that she could not pretend; images intruded into her peace, confusing and distressing her. Images of being flogged, images of being locked in a small, dark room and, most disturbing of all, the image of Baralis running his fingers down her spine. She shuddered, repulsed at the memory, but she knew she was not being honest with herself: for a brief instant she had wanted, even willed him to caress her. She had stood and let him touch her, and part of her had thrilled at that touch. Baralis was widely held to be a powerful and seductive man, but she had never thought she would succumb to his allure. It was better, Melli considered, to get far away from Castle Harvell and to put all pain and bewilderment behind her.
She gradually became aware of a vague murmuring. She listened and it grew louder—the noise of horses at the gallop. She felt a bitter churning in her belly; they had come for her. She looked to Jack, who had been awakened by the noise. He sprang up and began to gather some food into a cloth bag.
“We haven’t got time,” cried Melli. “They are almost upon us.” She rushed over to the door and began pulling on it. It would not budge. “Jack, hurry, help me with this!” Together they dragged the door open and forced their way through the narrow gap.
Outside, trees were lashing frantically in the wind, fallen leaves were whipped into a frenzy, and rain beat against their faces. The sound of horsemen was now an insistent rumbling and Melli could tell there were many. She grabbed Jack’s hand and they plunged deep into the forest.
The wind was against them, seeming almost to force them back. The riders were gaining, and the sound of them, charging through the undergrowth, struck fear into Melli’s heart. There would be no hiding this time. Jack dragged at her arm, pulling her to him with all his strength. The wind would not let them go. It held them in its thrall, lashing against them whenever they managed a step forward.
Cries could be heard; they had been spotted. The wind caught Melli’s shawl and dragged it from her back. She tried to hold on, but it was too late—the shawl blew away. The rain soaked her dress, but she paid no heed. Her hair came unpinned, but it did not matter. All she could think of was getting away; she could not bear to be caught again. They pushed ahead, their pursuers fast approaching.
Melli looked back: the horsemen were in view now—spears poised, ready to strike. She glanced toward Jack. His grim expression confirmed her fears; the men were sent not to capture but to kill, to slaughter them like wild animals.
An arrow whirred past her cheek, missing by a finger’s breadth. She stood, dazed with shock for an instant before Jack dragged her forward. With horror, she realized that he had been hit, a shaft was embedded in his shoulder. He did not cry out, but his face registered the pain of the blow. The horsemen charged forward. They desperately scrambled up a muddy hillock—Melli felt a sharp pain in her arm. She screamed with panic as she saw the arrow sticking out of her forearm. She felt the strength ebb from her body and willed herself not to faint. Blood gushed forth, soaking her dress, and tears prickled in her eyes. Jack, seeing what had happened to her, lifted her to the top of the rise. She leaned on him for support, and to her amazement he turned and faced the horsemen.
His face was ashen with pain and anger. Arrows shot past them, Melli felt one graze her ear. She raised her arm to check for blood, and as she did so she felt a shifting of the air. Time seemed to slow down; the wind calmed for a fleeting moment; the mercenaries’ horses reared in fear. The air shimmered and thickened and blasted into the horsemen, knocking them from their horses. Leaves took flight from the forest floor, tender saplings were uprooted, and branches snapped from trees.
The mercenaries were thrust back. One man’s neck was broken as he was flung against a tree trunk, another man was impaled on his own spear. Melli looked on, as a horse fell on one man; the creature tried frantically to stand once more and in doing so kicked the man’s skull in. She grabbed hold of Jack’s arm for comfort: his flesh was cold and rigid. She pulled at him to come away, but he did not move. Frightened, she shook him. “Jack, come on, let’s get away from here.” There was no response. He stood, staring ahead, his face slick with
sweat. “Jack, please, wake up.” She shook him with all her might, ignoring the pain in her arm.
He turned to look at her. Relief flooded through Melli. “Come on, Jack, let’s go.” There was no comprehension in his eyes, no sign that he recognized or even understood her. She led him away, eager to be gone. She could not resist looking back, though—men and horses lay dead or bleeding on the ground below. One man was crawling away, his left leg trailing after him, useless. The air was still now: no wind, just the relentless pour of rain. Melli shivered, not wanting to think about what had happened, or why she and Jack had remained unaffected.
Taking hold of Jack’s arm, she began to guide him down the side of the slope. By the time they reached the bottom, Jack’s tunic was soaked with blood. Melli decided to head toward the eastern road—they both needed help and shelter and would find neither in the forest. She knew it was a risk, but the road was their only chance of finding someone willing to aid them.
Tavalisk was dressing in his most dazzling robes. Expelling the knights had proven such a popular move that the city had organized a parade in his honor. The people of Rorn loved spectacle and expected their leaders to look magnificent on such occasions. Once, many years before, Vesney, the first minister at the time, had turned up for a parade wearing only a plain brown robe, no adornments, no jewelry, not even a hat. The people of Rorn took this as a grave insult. They had put on their best clothes. The fact that the first minister had not put on his showed how little he valued their approval. The crowd had turned into an indignant mob, pulling the unfortunate Vesney from his horse and beating him to death.
The irony was that Vesney had thought the people would appreciate his gesture. He thought he was showing them that he was a frugal man, who would not spend their taxes unwisely on the frivolous trappings of power. Tavalisk knew better. The people of Rorn required little else from their leaders: they needed to be dazzled by wealth and pageantry and then bask in reflected glory. Rorn was the richest city in the Known Lands: its people liked their leaders to be an embodiment of that fact.