by J. V. Jones
“What have you done with my daughter?” Maybor’s voice was charged with anger.
Baralis remained calm, pouring himself a glass of wine. “I do not know where your daughter is.”
“I have reason to believe that mercenaries in your pay took her from Duvitt.”
“Come, come now, Lord Maybor. You know mercenaries—one week they work for one man, the next for another. I do not deny having used the services of mercenaries. I have matters of my own that require their particular skills, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to hunt down your errant daughter.”
“You are lying to me, Baralis.” Maybor could barely contain his rage and frustration. His sword itched in its sheath.
“You, Lord Maybor, are in no position to call me a liar.” Baralis’ voice had gained a hard edge. “Now I would prefer it if you leave.”
Maybor stood and drew his sword. He had the satisfaction of seeing fear in Baralis’ face. The blade flashed brilliantly in the candlelight. Crope sprang forward, but Maybor had already resheathed the sword.
“Do not make the mistake of underestimating me, Baralis.” Their eyes met. The mutual loathing was unmistakable—it filled the space between them with the tension of a torturer’s rack. Baralis was the first to look away. Maybor held his head high and walked from the room.
Kedrac was waiting outside for him. “Did you find out anything about Melliandra from him, Father?”
“No, but I discovered something more useful.” Maybor slowly rubbed his chin with his hand.
“What is that?”
“Baralis is human; he can be scared by the edge of a blade just like any man.” His son was unimpressed by this pronouncement, but he knew its true worth. Ever since the incident with the assassin, Maybor had feared that Baralis had supernatural powers, yet today he had tested them and none had been forthcoming. He had not been smitten down by a bolt of lightning nor blasted into purgatory. Maybor walked back to his room with a light step, suddenly more confident about the future.
It took Melli many hours before she reached the eastern road. She had dragged Jack through the forest in the driving rain. They were both soaked to the skin; she had lost her shawl and was chilled to the bone. Her arm had ceased to cause her pain some time back, now it just felt numb and strangely heavy. She had broken the arrow shaft from Jack’s shoulder, but could not face the thought of removing the head. Instead she had pressed hard against the wound for some time until the bleeding had stopped. Unfortunately as soon as he began to walk again, the wound began to bleed once more, and the longer they walked the worse it became. Her own wound seemed quite clean. She could clearly see the outline of the arrowhead in her arm. It was lodged in muscle just beneath the skin. Her ear stung and had bled a little, but no real damage had been done.
Melli was bitterly disappointed when the road came into sight; there was no clearing of forest which usually marked the presence of farms or cottages. She had no way of knowing how far along from town and castle they were, and decided to continue heading east. She did not bother to leave the road for cover, for it would be some time before Baralis could get together more men to replace the ones he’d lost. As for her father’s men, let them come if they would—she had almost forgotten the reason she’d run away in the first place.
Jack had still not spoken a word. Melli supposed he was in some kind of shock. She was worried about him and anxious that he get help. It was his need for care that kept her strong. She could not recall a single time in her whole life when someone had needed her help before. She had always been the weak one, the one who was protected and cared for. She found she liked her new role and was determined not to let Jack down.
After a time, Melli spotted a dirt track leading from the road. She followed the path, which led to a small but well-maintained farmhouse. She decided it was best if she approached on her own and guided Jack behind some bushes, where she bid him sit and wait. She could not tell if he heard her, but he made no effort to move. Melli straightened her hair and dress as best she could, wishing the wind had not taken her shawl, for it would have served to hide the wound on her arm. Satisfied she could do no more for her appearance, she headed toward the farmhouse.
Melli could tell by the smell in the air that it was a pig farm. There were many such farms around the castle: Harvell liked its pork. Local custom held that it was unlucky for a farmer to have a door at the front of the house, so Melli made for the side of the building. She banged loudly on the door and stood shivering while she waited for an answer. An old woman opened the door. “What d’you want?” she demanded in a voice surprisingly strong for one so old. “If you’re a-beggin’, I’ll tell you now, you’ll get nothin’ from me. Be off with you.”
Melli took a deep breath. “Please, I need help.”
“Be off with you or I’ll get my son.” The woman made a shooing gesture with her hands.
“Please, I’m injured and—”
“Your troubles are not mine,” interrupted the woman. “I’ll get my son if you’re not off my land in three seconds.”
“If you could just—”
“If you don’t remove yourself from my doorstep this instant, I’ll have my son come after you with a carving knife.”
“Get your son, then,” cried Melli, angry at the woman’s attitude and close to tears. “See if I care. He can’t do any more harm than has already been done.” The woman hesitated. Melli became slightly hysterical. “Go on, bring him out, make sure he’s got his sharpest knife!” The old woman was looking afraid.
“You’d better come in,” she said wearily.
“I have a friend who is wounded; he’s in the bushes over there.” Melli couldn’t understand the woman’s complete turn of face, but she was not about to question her luck. “If you wait a moment, I will bring him over.” The woman nodded and Melli dashed off to get Jack.
She was relieved to find the door still open when she returned.
“He’s in a bad way,” commented the old woman looking at Jack. She led them into a warm and cozy kitchen: a fire burned brightly and there was stew on the boil. “Sit down. I will bring you something to dry yourselves off with.”
Melli made Jack sit and then looked around the kitchen—something caught her eye. The table was set for one: one plate, one mug of ale, one knife. The woman came back with an armful of woolen blankets. “I thought we might have seen your son,” said Melli, feigning casualness as she took the blankets from her and began to dry off Jack.
“He’s gone to Harvell for the day.” The woman turned her back on Melli and proceeded to stir the stew.
“I thought he was in the house.” Melli winced as she dried her wounded arm.
“Well, he’s not,” said the woman flatly. “And I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“You have no son, do you? You live alone here. Don’t worry—I’m not about to tell anyone.” Melli knew there were strict laws against women holding farms in the Four Kingdoms. A woman who was widowed had her farm confiscated by the authorities unless she had a son to pass it down to. Any woman who was caught in defiance of the laws faced severe beating and even hanging. The laws were not limited to farms—no woman could hold either land or property in the Four Kingdoms. Melli herself had not even owned the dresses and jewels that she had worn at court; they had all been the property of her father.
“I have worked this farm on my own for the past twenty years. No man could have done a better job.” There was pride in the old woman’s voice.
“What about going to market? How can you sell your pork?”
“I have an arrangement.” The old woman ladled the rich, brown stew into bowls. “I pay dearly for it.” She sighed heavily. “But I have little choice. He could go crying to the authorities at any time and then I’d have nothing. So he sucks me dry, little by little, leaving me just enough to get by on.” The woman dropped a spoonful of pig lard into each bowl to enrich the stew. “Everyone in Harvell thinks the reason they don�
�t see my son is because he’s lame.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me, girl. I’ve got a better life than most widows. I have my own place, I have good food on my table, and no son-in-law to make my life miserable by constantly reminding me I live off his generosity.” The woman shook her head. “No, girl, save your pity for one who deserves it. Come on now, eat up your stew before the fat melts.”
Melli took a bowl to Jack, placing the spoon in his hand. To her surprise he took it up and began to eat.
“We’ll have to see to your friend’s wound. If it’s left too long it will fester.”
“So can we stay the night?”
“It would seem, girl, that we both have things to hide.” She looked pointedly at Melli’s arm and then to Jack. “I can see no harm in us hiding them together for one night.”
Once they had finished eating, the woman boiled a kettle of hot water and then chose a thin-bladed knife from a high shelf. “This should do the job. It skins the pigs nice enough.” She dipped it into the hot water for an instant and then wiped it clean. “Strip the lad’s shirt off.”
Melli was a little alarmed at the sight of the woman wielding the knife, but she had little choice. She herself knew nothing of surgery or doctoring; she would have to trust the woman. She was more than a little relieved, though, that the woman had chosen to attend to Jack first: she would watch her performance on him before committing her own arm into the old woman’s care.
“Now don’t be anxious, boy.” The old woman washed the dried blood away with a clean rag. “This will hurt, I won’t lie to you, but it’s necessary.” She turned to Melli. “Girl, bring the jug of spirits from the dresser.” She peered closely at Jack’s wound. “At least the point is not barbed.” Melli handed the woman the jug. “Here, take a swig of this, lad, it will help to relax you.” The old woman then took a mouthful of the liquor herself.
She cut deep into Jack’s shoulder, ignoring the circular entrance wound, and slicing directly above where the arrowhead lay. Melli was horrified. “Couldn’t you take it out the way it came in?”
“Hush, girl, you will ruin my concentration.” The woman pulled back the skin and began to cut into the muscle. She ignored Jack’s heavy bleeding, concentrating on freeing the arrowhead. She scraped the last of the muscle and sinew from around the point and then pulled it out with her fingers. “There. Got the little devil.” She dropped it unceremoniously on the floor. “Hand me the twine and needle, girl. He’ll bleed to death if we don’t stitch him up.”
The woman pinched Jack’s skin together with one hand and drew the thread with another, making large irregular stitches. “Course I can’t guarantee he’ll look too pretty afterward. I’ll be more careful with yours. Can’t have such a pretty girl with a nasty scar on her arm. With men it doesn’t matter; a few scars only serve to make a man more appealing to the ladies.”
“How did you learn to do this?” Melli did not care for the subject of scars.
“The sows, of course. You can’t be a pig farmer and not know how to tend creatures.” The woman did not look up; she was intent on finishing her work. She cut the thread with her teeth and then turned her attention to the entrance wound. The woman drew the knife twice over the wound, forming a cross.
“What are you doing?” Melli was distraught. “You’ve made it worse.” Fresh blood gushed forth.
“Girl, do you not know anything of surgery? The wound was round—a round wound will take forever to heal. Better to make it bigger and change the shape.” The old woman took up needle and thread once more. “You mark my words, the cross will heal in half the time, and it will be a nice, clean scar. Round wounds heal messy.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Melli did not doubt the woman’s words.
“No matter, girl.” The woman finished stitching the wound. “Now help me get your silent friend to the pallet over there; he needs some rest. Then I’ll see to your injuries.” Melli did as she was asked, but dragged her feet as she did so. She little relished the idea of being cut and stitched.
Twenty-two
Tawl was finding himself enjoying his journey—it was good to be on horseback again. He even liked the company of the boy, and it never failed to make him smile to look upon the way Nabber clung miserably to his pony. The boy was obviously not a born horseman. Tawl had tried to give him some advice on how to ride, but Nabber had ignored his pointers and continued to ride as though he were afraid he would fall off any second.
The mountains loomed nearer, but Tawl was sure that if they made their way to the western coast of the peninsula they could avoid most of them. The western coast missed the worst of the mountains, although the terrain was still rocky and hilly.
He calculated that their next main stopping point would be Ness. It occurred to Tawl for the first time that Bevlin was not far from that city—three days hard ride. He wondered if he should pay the wiseman a visit and tell him of his progress. There was, however, little to tell. What could he say—there is a remote chance that the boy might be somewhere in the Four Kingdoms? No, he thought, better not to see the wiseman at all.
He tried to put Bevlin from his mind, but something nagged at him, something in the back of his mind. He felt as if he did have something to tell to the wiseman, only he could not remember what it was. He racked his memory—he had not discovered anything that Bevlin might be interested in, and the Old Man had given him no message. Maybe he should inform him that the knights had been expelled from Rorn. Tawl shook his head; Bevlin would probably already have heard about the knights. Wisemen had their own ways of acquiring information. The more he thought about Bevlin, the more certain he was that he should visit him—it felt right to do so. It would add but a few days to his journey.
They approached a small settlement, barely a village: a few run-down shacks and no inn.
“Why don’t we stop and buy some fresh food?” Nabber had little taste for dried meat and hard biscuits. Tawl looked around the village. There was a woman on the road with three children; they were poorly dressed and thin.
“I don’t think we’ll find fresh food here.” He could not remember passing any farms or herds recently, and he wondered how the people lived. “I think we will head on and try to reach the coast by nightfall.” Tawl looked around and found to his annoyance that the boy had already dismounted his pony. He watched as Nabber spoke with the woman and then returned.
“Tawl, she says there is a small town just over the hill there. She said it would be worth a visit.”
“Let’s just be on our way.” Tawl had a vague feeling of unease.
“It won’t take long for us to reach the town, and if we did, we’d be sleeping on feather pillows tonight and eating hot food.” The boy looked so eager that Tawl could not refuse him. He nodded and they headed off.
After about an hour’s ride they finally crested the hill, and there was a fair-sized town nestled in the valley below. As they rode closer it was obvious something was wrong: there were no people on the streets. There were no signs of life; no smoke, no hens or goats, no cultivation. Tawl’s hand rested upon the hilt of his knife as they rode into the town.
The deserted town had obviously once been prosperous. There were several inns—which were usually a sign of good trade—two blacksmiths, a wheelwright’s shop—all deserted. In the center of the town was a square which boasted a fine marble statue.
Tawl read the sign hanging above one of the inns: “The Water’s Edge.” He could not remember seeing any water and they were still some distance from the sea.
He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see an old man in rags. “Got any food to spare?” The man looked as if he would collapse at any moment.
“Here take these, friend.” Nabber brought the sea biscuits from his pack and gave them to the man. Tawl suspected the boy’s motives were less than charitable—Nabber hated the hard and tasteless sea biscuits. The man grabbed them from him and sniffed them apprehensively, t
hen he proceeded to cram them into his mouth.
“Where is the water? Is there a lake or river nearby?” Tawl was thinking he could at least fill his water flasks. He waited as the man gobbled down the last of the biscuits.
“Ain’t no water here anymore.” The man smiled, showing blackened teeth.
“What happened to it? Did it run dry?”
“It’s dry now, that’s for sure.” The man laughed as if he had made a joke. He then moved next to Nabber and tried to grab his pack from him. Nabber snatched it away, but gave him a length of drymeat.
“Was there a drought?” Tawl had heard of towns ruined by the cruel hand of drought.
“No, this was not nature’s work. Come, follow me.” The man scurried off with surprising speed. Tawl was reluctant to follow, but Nabber had already dashed after the man, leaving him little choice.
The man led them through the town and onto a sandy plain. “This was the lake, you’re standing on it.” Tawl and Nabber both stared at their feet: the ground was level. The man chuckled at their surprise. “Aye, it was the most beautiful lake on the peninsula. Not large by any man’s reckoning, but breathtaking to behold. Famous it was for its therapeutic properties. People came from great distances to bathe in the clear waters. They were said to heal the sick and soothe the old.”
The old man sighed wistfully. “You should have seen the lake then. Just to look upon it filled a man with joy. Fishes, such fishes, the color of rainbows, so eager to be caught they’d leap straight into your net.” He kicked the sand beneath his feet.
“It was a mighty wealthy town back then. All gone to dust now. Nothing to live off now the lake is dry. Everyone told me I was mad to stay. I think they were right, I am mad.”
“What happened?”
“A man came to town to bathe in the waters. A rich and powerful man from a big city. Dressed like a king he was, bedecked in the finest silks. He went out on the lake trailing his fingers in the water. When he gets back to shore he finds his ring has slipped off his finger. He started to get angry, saying it was some official ring or something, and orders the lake to be searched. That’s when we made our mistake. We told him he didn’t have a chance of finding his ring. We told him to go and get another made, said it was his own fault for losing it.