The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “Well, the man turned nasty, said he couldn’t replace the ring because it was hundreds of years old. He gave us one week to dredge the lake and find the ring. We did what we could, but the ring couldn’t be found. For all we knew it could have been nestled in a fish’s belly. The man came back a week later, and when we told him we hadn’t found it he cursed the lake. He swore he would fill it in. Well, we just laughed at him—we never thought he’d do it.

  “Seven days later, four score men come into town. They had mules with them pulling cartloads of sand from the coast. One whole year it took those men to fill in the lake. One year they worked, dragging and dumping, filling the lake with yellow sand. One year to destroy the livelihood of every person in this town. One year.” The man knelt down and scooped a handful of sand, letting the wind gradually blow it from him.

  “Why didn’t anyone stop him?”

  “No one dared to. We just watched like fools as the lake grew smaller and smaller.”

  “Who did this?” Tawl felt he already knew the answer.

  “The archbishop of Rorn.”

  A sharp breeze picked up. It was time they were on their way. Tawl was eager to be gone from the abandoned town.

  Tavalisk dipped his fingers into the sauce and brought them to his lips. Perfect—just a hint of garlic, the merest trace of herbs, exactly the right balance to best flatter the snail. Snails were not found in Rorn; the hard, thin earth could not support them. Like many things of luxury, rarity made them all the more sought after and Rorn supported a prosperous snail trade. High prices were paid for the succulent creatures and snails graced many a wealthy man’s table.

  Tavalisk picked up his little silver hook and set about extracting himself a snail from its shell. He finally hooked the flesh and drew it out. It was a fine specimen, plump and shiny. His delicious anticipation was ruined by the approach of Gamil.

  “What do you want?” The archbishop chewed on the snail.

  “Well, Your Eminence, a rather interesting letter has come into my hands.”

  “Is it a reply from that lord you wrote to on my behalf? What was his name . . . Maybor?”

  “Oh, no, Your Eminence, I have not received his reply yet. This is more important.”

  “Go on.” Tavalisk threw a snail to his cat and watched with amusement as the creature tried unsuccessfully to get at the morsel within the shell.

  “Well, our spies in the north intercepted a letter from the duke of Bren to Lord Baralis. In the letter the duke of Bren asks what is causing the delay of the betrothal between his daughter and Prince Kylock.”

  “So, the marriage is definitely going to go ahead, then. I do not need to tell you, Gamil, how little I like the idea of those two places joining forces. Bren is already too powerful for its own good.” Tavalisk paused in mid-snail. He spat the creature out, suddenly unable to eat. When two mighty powers join as one. It was Marod’s prophecy coming true. How did the rest of it go? Something about a temple, something about the chosen one. When men of honor trade in gold not grace. It was the knights!—why had it never occurred to him before? The archbishop poured himself a glass of wine to steady his nerves. What else was there? The dark empire will rise. He didn’t like the sound of a dark empire one bit. He preferred his world a shady gray—it was better for Rorn’s trade.

  Baralis was trying to make it happen! The fiend was trying to forge a huge northern empire!

  Tavalisk stood up and, ignoring Gamil’s look of amazement, actually stoked the fire himself. He was chilled to the bone. It all fit: the knights, Bren, the Four Kingdoms. He’d always known Baralis was dangerous, but the scale of this was unthinkable. Nowhere in the prophecy was it mentioned that the dark empire was purely a northern one! What if Baralis and the duke planned to take over the south as well? The combined might of the north was awe-inspiring. Were the knights positioning themselves, too? Tyren was certainly friendly with the duke of Bren. There were plots everywhere and he was party to none of them!

  Tavalisk made a conscious effort to appear calm—he would not have Gamil think he was worried. He sat down again and took up his silver fork. “Anything else in the letter?”

  “Nothing in the letter, Your Eminence, but last time I communicated with our spy at Castle Harvell, he had no knowledge of the match between Kylock and Catherine.”

  “So, Gamil, what are you getting at?”

  “I believe that Baralis has arranged this marriage without the knowledge or permission of the king or queen.”

  This news did nothing to allay the archbishop’s fears. “Hmm, that is interesting. Baralis has always been a sly one. Unfortunately, I’m sure that such a marriage will be looked upon most favorably by the queen.” Tavalisk stabbed at the snails with his fork, not stopping until every shell on the tray was destroyed. “An alliance with Bren would be quite an achievement for her.”

  “There is good news, Your Eminence. Marls is seriously considering expelling the knights. A law has already been drafted.”

  “And what of Toolay?” Tavalisk ground the splinters of shell into the snails.

  “There have been confrontations between those who are pro-knights and those who are against them. The largest crowd was reported to be those calling for their expulsion.”

  “Enough of this matter, Gamil.” Tavalisk stood up. He was anxious to secure a copy of Marod’s prophecy and study it further. “I would go for a walk in the gardens. This news of an alliance between Bren and the Four Kingdoms weighs heavily on my mind.” The archbishop made his way toward the door. “If you would be so kind as to do me a favor?”

  “Certainly, Your Eminence.”

  “Pluck the splinters of shell from the snails and feed them to my cat. I would hate for them to go to waste.”

  Baralis sat close to the fire. It was no use—the warmth he felt on his face could not penetrate the coldness in his bones. He sipped on his mulled holk, hoping that might relieve the pain a little. He was weary. It had been a mistake to draw himself from his body; he had expended too much energy and left himself with so little. The mind-altering drug was only supposed to be used for a short period of time; he had stretched for boundaries, gone too far, left his body too long. And now he was paying the price.

  It had all been for nothing. They had managed to escape from him, and by all accounts what an escape! Four mercenaries had come back alive, one of them with a leg so badly broken he would never walk on it again. They told tales of a mighty whirlwind, a blast from heaven. Baralis had known something was wrong. Hours before they returned he’d felt the aftermath. It was the baker’s boy once more. Baralis had the feeling he would live to regret not killing the boy when he’d had a chance.

  Who was Jack? He’d come from nowhere and yet had powers at his command that defied reason. There was something more to this. The boy had secrets to reveal, Baralis had felt it the moment he entered Jack’s mind. Things were concealed, shadowy figures protected him. Did he have some role to play in what was to come?

  Baralis massaged his hands. The skin would need splitting. Why should a baker’s boy have a capacity for such destruction? Jack had spoken the truth when he said he’d not been taught. The drawing was crude—he used a bludgeon when a paring knife would do. But such power! Baralis was envious. Even now he could still feel the subtle pressure of the aftermath, prickling the hairs on his neck.

  There was, of course, a good side to this: Maybor’s men were not likely to capture Melliandra as long as she traveled with Jack at her side. Perhaps destiny, in the shape of the boy, was working for him. No. A spark of instinct deep within Baralis always told him who his enemies were: the baker’s boy was his enemy. He was sure of it. They would meet again, and next time he would destroy him.

  Enemies were his stock in trade. Ambition bred them. Even one-time allies had a tendency to turn. Maybor had been an ally, without his help King Lesketh would never have been disabled, but now the man was dangerously close to feeling the full force of his wrath.

  How he
hated the man. He had actually drawn a blade on him! Baralis cursed his frailty. He had been unable to do anything. Maybor could have snuffed him out in an instant and they both knew it. Baralis had shown humiliating weakness, and to one whom he despised above all others.

  He counted the days off on his fingers: less than a week before the deadline of the wager; at least then he would have some satisfaction at Maybor’s expense. Until then he would concentrate on regaining his strength. Next time Maybor came at him with a blade he would be ready.

  He called for Crope. The servant came lumbering in, his big hands wrapped around his beloved box.

  “Go to the village and see if there are any mercenaries hanging around the tavern. I will need more men. Tell them I will pay them well.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Oh, and Crope, I am interested in finding out the name of Lord Maybor’s latest dalliance.” Maybe he would extract a small measure of revenge before the week was out. Maybor was a notorious lecher. It would prove most distracting to banish the heat from his loins.

  * * *

  Lilly was reeling her big fish in. She had thought herself lucky to be bedded by Kedrac, but now she had her eye on a grander prize: his father, Lord Maybor. The wealthiest man in the country desired her.

  She knew well how to play the game; she had failed to turn up at his apartments when he asked—it did not do to appear too eager. The following day she had designed to cross his path in the gardens. The great lord had begged that she visit his chambers and had even slipped a silver bracelet upon her wrist. She’d said she would consider his proposal and mentioned her preference for gold.

  She was ready to move up in the world once more. Lilly had started out as a milkmaid. Bedding with the master dairyman had ensured that she did not roughen her hands carrying straw for the cows to eat. Instead, she had spent her days forming freshly churned butter into pats, and the constant greasing of her palms left them as soft as velvet. Soft enough for her to be a lady’s maid.

  To be a lady’s maid was her ambition. A lady’s maid had the highest status of any female servant. They were allowed, and even expected, to wear pretty clothes and have their hair styled in ribbons. They accompanied their mistresses for walks in the grounds and were greatly admired by all the young men at court. Lilly knew that Lord Maybor had the power to make her one. He could force his daughter, or some other female relative, to take up her services. She flushed with excitement. She would not be a mere chambermaid much longer. Better things were in store for her now that she had managed to capture the eye of one so high and mighty.

  She’d had her fair share of dalliances with minor lords—each one had seduced and gifted her, and one or two had even offered to keep her in a tavern at town. That was not what she wanted. She knew how fickle men’s desires were; one day they could not live without you, the next you were an unwanted hindrance. No, she wanted more than to be kept. She knew she was close to getting it—a man was at his most generous when swayed by unfulfilled ardor, and Lord Maybor was a man who could afford to be most generous.

  Lilly spared little thought for his son. Kedrac, as an unlanded lord, did not enjoy high status at court, and he would not have been able to secure the position she wanted. Besides, she thought wickedly, he had been useless in bed. She hoped that his father would prove more skilled.

  Lord Maybor! There would only have been one man she would have preferred more—the king’s chancellor, Lord Baralis. Lilly shrugged. She might not have the most powerful man in court in her pocket, but she had the richest.

  She pushed back the golden curls from her forehead and admired her reflection in Lady Helliarna’s mirror. She looked perfect, her only complaint was that her waist was a little thick, but she knew many men regarded a plumpness in the belly as an extra curve, and so was not too worried. She dashed out of the chamber and down into the gardens; she expected Lord Maybor would be taking his afternoon walk.

  She was not disappointed. She spotted him in the distance conferring with someone and hesitated for a moment before she approached, checking that the other man was not his son, Kedrac. As soon as he noticed her, he took leave of his companion and came toward her.

  “My sweetest Lilly.” He caught his breath for a moment. “I was sure that you would have visited me last evening. I was disappointed when you did not come.” He took her hand and kissed it. As he let it go, he placed something cold and heavy into it. Lilly restrained her desire to see what it was and slipped the object, unseen, into her bodice.

  “My lord, I cannot help but feel that I am unworthy of you.” She bent her head low and fluttered her eyelashes in a way she knew to be most becoming. “I am only a chambermaid. I am not fit to dally with great lords.”

  “You dallied with my son.” Lord Maybor seemed a little unsympathetic to her plea.

  “Ah, but we both know you are far greater than he.” She had said the right thing, for the lord nodded his head judiciously.

  “What do you want from me, my pretty poppet? I would rather you speak out than be forced to bandy words with you.” It was not quite what Lilly had hoped for, but she was not about to let such an offer pass her by.

  “I feel I am good enough to be a lady’s maid; my hands are soft and I am gently spoken.” Lilly made her eyes as big as saucers and bit her full bottom lip with a becoming show of modesty.

  “So that is what you are after, eh?” Maybor smiled with satisfaction. “And what if I were to attain such a position for you?”

  “I would be most grateful to your lordship.” She curtsied low, showing off her bosom to its best advantage.

  “You are indeed a bewitching wench. I think we shall have a most pleasing time together.” He laid a hand on her cheek. “Be waiting in my room at sundown one night hence. I will have secured you a position by then.” He moved forward and kissed her full on the lips. “Until the morrow.” Lilly pulled away, knowing full well that nothing fired desire in a man more than a show of virtue.

  She watched as Lord Maybor walked away, his cloak flapping in the wind. Once he was out of sight she pulled the object he had given her from her breast. It was a stone: a beautiful honey-colored topaz. She laughed merrily and skipped her way back to the castle.

  Jack awoke with a start. He had been having a bad dream. He sat up and looked around. He had no idea where he was. He was in a kitchen, there was something cooking on the fire, and bright copper pots hung from the rafters. An old woman came into the room.

  “Well, it’s about time you were awake, young man. You slept all night and the better part of a day. Here, let me look how your shoulder’s doing.” The woman bent over him and he pulled the blanket close around himself. “There’s no need to be shy with me, boy. I’m too old to put up with such modesty.” She pulled the blanket from him and looked at his shoulder. Jack tried to see what she was looking at, but it was too painful for him to move his neck. “They’re both doing nicely. I did a good job, if I do say so myself.” The woman made her way to the fire. “I suppose you’ll be hungry. I’ll fix you a spot of dumpling stew.”

  “Who are you?” Jack tried to recall how he had come to be here. He remembered being chased by Baralis’ men and then he had seen Melli get shot. “Where’s Melli?” He tried to stand up, but his legs were too weak.

  “Calm down, lad. The girl has gone outside for a touch of air.”

  “How is she?” He vividly remembered seeing an arrow jutting out from Melli’s arm.

  “Oh, fine. She’s doing a lot better than you are. The arrow came out nice and clean.” The woman handed him a bowl of stew. “Here, lad, eat this. It will build your strength up.”

  Jack took the bowl and began to eat. He tried to remember what had happened after Melli was shot. He had been angry—angry about being chased, hurting from the sting of an arrow, furious when they shot Melli. His mind showed images of destruction, of men being flung from their horses, of saplings being uprooted. He dismissed them; they had been part of his nightmare. How had he c
ome to be here? How had they escaped from the mercenaries?

  “Hello, Jack.” Melli walked in the door. “How are you?”

  “What happened . . .” Jack realized he did not even know what day it was.

  “During the hunting accident, you mean?” Melli looked relieved to hear his voice, but warned him with a flash of her eyes not to contradict her. “Well, I think you went into shock. You lost a lot of blood. We were too far away to take you home, but I managed to bring you here and this kind lady offered her help.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Oh, we’re just off the eastern road.”

  Jack could hardly believe what he had been told. When the men had attacked they had been leagues away from the road. How had Melli managed to bring him all this way? The old woman obviously decided to leave them alone to talk. She took her leave, muttering about pigs to feed.

  “Tell me what happened, Melli.” He looked at her and found she could not meet his eyes.

  “I don’t know what happened. One minute we were being chased, the next—” she made a small gesture with her hands “—there was chaos. It looked like a blast of air. It knocked everyone from their horses.”

  “And us. What happened to us?” Jack began to tremble as his nightmare solidified into reality. “Melli, what about us?”

  “We weren’t touched.” She looked down at the floor.

  The truth hung between them, unspoken. Both he and Melli knew what had happened. Both knew that he was responsible. Jack realized it was time to accept what he was. He was more than just a baker’s boy; there was a force within him that set him apart. Although it was unasked for, he still had to learn to live with the consequences. Twice he had caused things to happen, twice he had changed the course of events. There was blood on his hands now.