by J. V. Jones
Yes, he had changed, thought Melli, as she watched him cut the wet bark from the firewood. He had become more mature, more self-assured. He no longer had the smooth brow of youth, and he bore the marks of worry upon his temples. She came and knelt beside him, spreading out her blanket on the damp earth. “It isn’t a pleasant night to spend outside.” She took the salted pork from her pack and began to slice it.
“That’s why I thought we’d have a fire.” He hacked at the bark, revealing the raw wood beneath. “This should burn now.”
“Are you sure it’s safe to have a fire? What if Baralis’ men see the smoke?”
“If they’re in the forest like us, they won’t be able to see beyond the cover of the trees. I know it’s a risk, but we’re quite a way from the road, and you look in need of a little warmth.” He smiled a little, his first that day.
“Please, don’t light a fire on my account. I’m really quite warm. The dress the old woman gave me is thick and keeps out the cold.”
“Melli, your nose and hands are blue with cold. Here,” he handed her his blanket, “put this around you.”
Melli accepted the blanket and watched as he built the fire. Eventually the flames took hold and the wood crackled pleasingly, giving off a pleasant aroma of smoke and forest. They both drew close, warming their hands and feet, Melli put the blanket over her head to keep off the falling snow. “What will you do once you get to Bren?” she asked.
“You mean what will I do if I get to Bren.” Jack whittled away at a length of wood. He sighed deeply and then spoke again. “I don’t know. I could become an apprentice baker I suppose, but I think I’m a little too old to be taken on as a new apprentice now.” He sounded bitter.
“Surely there must be some other way you could make a living?” Melli thought quickly. “Once we reach Annis I could get money from my relatives there and you could use it to set yourself up as a farmer.”
“I’m almost certain your relatives will not be prepared to give you money so you can loan it to a baker’s boy.” Jack threw the piece of wood on the fire. “Melli, my future is not your responsibility.” His voice grew soft. “There is no need for you to worry about me. Better worry about yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“How long ago did you hear from your relatives? How do you know they will take you in? They might send you straight back to your father.”
“These are not my father’s relatives. My mother had a younger sister, Eleanor, I think her name was. She married a minor lord from Annis. I’m hoping she or some of her family will still be alive. We never received letters from her. I don’t even know the name of the man she married, but I’m sure when I find her she’ll take me in—my mother told me they loved each other deeply as children.”
“Your mother is dead?” Jack spoke gently.
“She’s been dead for over ten years. My father drove her to the grave. He only married her for her father’s land. She had a miserable life; shut up in the castle, never loved, my father dallying with any woman who took his fancy. She was never a strong woman; the constant worrying just wore her out.” Melli looked deep into the flames of the fire. “I would rather be here, freezing in this forest, penniless, than live the life that she did.”
They were silent for some time, both caught up in their own thoughts. The snow stopped falling and the wind died down, leaving the smoke to tarry by the fire. “What about your family, Jack? Where are your parents?” At first she thought he hadn’t heard her. Moments passed with no reply. Jack’s face was turned to the fire, and his profile gave nothing away. Just as she opened her mouth to repeat the question, he spoke:
“My mother has been dead for eight years. I have no father.”
Melli waited, surely there was more? The fire crackled and brightened, throwing a halo of warmth into the cold of the night. She could hear Jack breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest. She followed his gaze to the stars.
“Somewhere under this sky lie the answers.”
“The answers to what?”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know, Melli. There’s so much I don’t understand. It’s as if I’m not allowed to know the things that everyone else takes for granted.”
“What things?”
“Simple things,” he said. “Like knowing where your mother was from.” He stood up, suddenly agitated. “You’ll never know what it’s like not to have a father, to grow up with no background, to have no idea who you are. It’s easy for you, Melli. You’re so confident, so sure of yourself. When you meet people, you don’t dread them asking about your family.” Jack turned and faced her full on. “I do.”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“What for? It’s not your fault, you only asked the same thing as everyone else.” He came over to her, crouching down by her side. She felt his hand searching for hers. “And now this with the mercenaries. What’s inside of me, Melli? Why am I different?”
His hazel eyes held a simple appeal. But what could she say? She had no words of comfort, there were no answers to disclose. For some reason, Melli’s mind returned to her premonitions of a week earlier. Squeezing his hand gently, she said, “Perhaps it’s all for a purpose.”
“If my life is meant for a purpose,” said Jack, “then why have I no say in it?”
The wind picked up, drawing the flames from the fire. Melli was suddenly aware of the cold. Jack had answered his own question: fate never asked a man if he were willing to dance.
Twenty-seven
The queen regarded her reflection in the mirror. She looked far more self-possessed than she felt, but she would have it no other way—show was an integral part of her position. She must appear calm, regal, and above all in control at all times. The queen had learned much about the importance of outward composure in the years following her husband’s hunting accident. She had learned it was not just enough to be strong, one also had to appear strong. People set great store by appearances.
She had ruled in his place for five years now, and it was not self-flattery to say she had done well. She had managed to keep the various rival factions at court from each others’ throats, although she had to admit the war with Halcus must take some of the credit: men will bicker less between themselves when there is a war to be fought. Despite the war she had kept good relations with other neighboring powers, tax revenues were up—except in the east—and her own popularity was high.
The queen had been aware for many years now of the need to consolidate her position and the position of her son. The Known Lands were becoming increasingly unstable. The Knights of Valdis were stirring up trouble in the south, and the duke of Bren’s avarice was causing apprehension in the north. Not only were there threats from outside to contend with, but there were also those closer to home who sought to overthrow her. It had not been unknown in the Four Kingdoms for the throne to be usurped by a forceful challenger. The people considered the throne vulnerable without a strong king in power. So the queen had deliberately courted the most powerful lords in the country, the ones who had lands and men at their disposal and wealth enough to constitute a threat. She knew it was better to keep her enemies within the fold. The queen had played a delicate game and played it well—there had been no challengers to her rule, the kingdoms had remained stable, and her son’s position as heir had seemed assured.
The final element to her plan was to have her son wed the daughter of the mightiest of these lords, Lord Maybor. However, things had gone awry. It was undeniably the fault of Maybor’s headstrong daughter. The foolish girl had taken it into her head to run off, and in doing so wreaked havoc with the strategies of queen and country. If Maybor ever found the girl, she sincerely hoped he would give her a sound beating and then disinherit her—there was nothing worse than a disobedient daughter. The Lady Melliandra had a lot to answer for; because of her, the queen was forced to deal with a man she loathed above all others, Lord Baralis, King’s Chancellor.
She had made a wager and lost. She had
to pay up; her pride dictated that she would. In one sense she did not regret the wager—her husband needed Baralis’ medicine, and nothing he had tried had improved his condition as much. It was in a way an equitable bet and one she had been sure of winning. Now, though, she realized it was naive of her to think that Baralis would play anything fairly. She strongly suspected that he had tipped the scales in his balance—and was sure he’d ordered his mercenaries to pick up the girl before the Royal Guard got to her. Unfortunately she could prove nothing and was therefore forced to concede defeat.
What price would she have to pay for her desire to cure her husband? What price for her gullibility?
She was expecting Baralis at any moment. She had called him to an audience and he would not keep her waiting. She smoothed her hair and looked upon her image. She could take comfort in the fact that she looked cool and self-assured. She would not give Baralis the satisfaction of seeing her anything less. Her steward walked in, bowed, and then announced: “Lord Baralis is awaiting Your Highness’ pleasure in the audience chamber.” She nodded and the servant left.
She had decided not to be present when Baralis arrived; she would let him sit and wait. There was only a small advantage to be gained by such a move, but she would take it nonetheless. The queen poured herself a quarter cup of wine and watered it heavily, she would need all her wits about her.
She sipped slowly at her drink, determined not to hurry. Once she gauged that sufficient time had elapsed to cause Baralis displeasure, she stood up and took one final look at her reflection—the queen had taken great care to dress most regally, and the crown jewels flashed brilliantly at her throat. She took a deep breath and went to meet her adversary.
She entered the audience chamber. Baralis was standing by the window. He rushed forward and bowed low. “Lord Baralis,” she said with a slight incline of her head. She would offer no apologies for her lateness.
“Your Highness, it is indeed a pleasure. I hope I find you well?” The queen thought she detected a slight edge to his voice—he had not liked being kept waiting.
“I am well, Lord Baralis, unfortunately I cannot say the same thing for my husband. Your presence in his chamber was most disagreeable. I will not tolerate any other such infringements.”
“You may rest assured, Your Highness, it will not happen again.” He was so polished, so sure of himself. She was not about to make things easy for him. She turned her back on him and walked toward the window.
“I’m sure Your Highness is aware that the deadline for our little wager is past.” There was a slight pause, and then he added, “Tell me, has the girl been found?”
The queen had to stop herself from whirling round in anger: has the girl been found, indeed!
“Come, come now, Lord Baralis, you know only too well that the girl has not been found.” She kept her voice calm but loaded with warning. “Do not presume to play games with me, sir, for you will find it to your detriment if you do.” He was about to reply, but the queen halted him by raising her arm. Her page walked forward and poured a glass of wine. She made no effort to water it. It suited her that Baralis believe she was drinking it unmixed—she had arranged that the wine be previously watered. She made no offer of refreshment to Baralis. She indicated that the page should leave and they both waited in silence for the door to close behind him.
“Since the girl has not been found, then I must claim payment of the wager. I know Your Highness to be a woman of great integrity, one who would not fail to honor her debts.”
“Save your breath, Lord Baralis. I place little value on your flattery. I would rather get down to the meat of the business.”
“You are most forthright.”
“I would request the same from you.” The queen noticed Baralis’ hands. He tried to keep them behind his back or in his robe, but he could not hide them all of the time; they were gnarled and twisted. Strangely, she found herself drawing strength from the sight.
“Very well, Your Highness, I will speak candidly. Prince Kylock is at an age when he should marry. Lord Maybor’s daughter, Melliandra, is no longer a suitable choice for his bride. I am sure you must agree with me so far?” Baralis looked to her for acknowledgment.
“Go on.”
“I believe I am aware of your motives for wanting the match—you wished to strengthen your son’s position by allying him with a powerful lord.”
“And if I did?” The queen spoke sharply; she felt Baralis was attempting to manipulate her.
“It is a most commendable policy, and one which I wholeheartedly agree with. I applaud Your Highness’ efforts at consolidation. I think, however, you may have set your sights a little low.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice was cold as stone.
“I mean, Your Highness, that if you wish to secure your position and that of your son there are better ways of achieving those aims than by marrying Prince Kylock to the daughter of a mere local lord.”
“Who would you marry him to, Baralis?” In her anger she dropped the pretense of courtesy.
“Catherine of Bren. The duke of Bren’s only child.” The queen was too stunned to say a word. Baralis capitalized on this and continued: “I need not tell you how powerful Bren is; the size of its armies are legendary. It is styled a dukedom, but it is richer and more populated than the Four Kingdoms. Such an alliance would be glorious for our country, and you, my queen, would be praised throughout history for bringing about such a fortuitous union.”
Outwardly she remained calm, but inside the queen was reeling. An alliance with Bren. Such a possibility had never occurred to her; she had assumed Baralis had another lord’s daughter in mind. Bren was so far away, so distant, foreign and unknown. She had heard Baralis’ words and had registered his attempt to appeal to her personal ambitions: who did not want to be remembered throughout history? Oh, he had a clever tongue; he painted a dazzling picture, one that she had to admit held certain appeal.
“Have you approached the duke of Bren with such a notion?” She was careful to make her voice seem disinterested.
“I have taken that liberty, though only on a hypothetical basis.” Baralis was lying, she was sure of it. He had probably planned this for months, even years.
“So, hypothetically, is the duke willing for such a match?”
“He is more than willing, Your Highness, he is eager. He too seeks consolidation. He has no son.” Baralis paused dramatically. “If this union were to go through, your son would find himself heir to the two greatest powers in the north.” The queen had never seen Baralis so animated. “Think of it, Your Highness: Bren and the Four Kingdoms . . . what an illustrious alliance they would make.”
“The duke may be willing, but I cannot sanction a match for my son without seeing his proposed bride.” The queen raised the first objection that came into her head. “My son must marry someone who is suitable in all ways. I know nothing about Catherine of Bren.” To her amazement Baralis smiled with delight. He dug into his robe and drew something out; he handed it to her with a flourish.
“Your Highness, I present Catherine of Bren.”
She took it from him. It was a small portrait, no bigger than the palm of her hand: a painting of a young girl. A beautiful girl with the face of an angel, such sweetness in her pink lips, such innocence in her blue eyes, her golden curls almost a halo. “How do I know this is a true likeness?”
“I have letters of verification from the duke himself and his archbishop.”
“How long since this was painted?”
“Six months at the latest. Catherine is approaching her eighteenth year.”
“Is she willing for the match?”
“I took the liberty of sending a likeness of Prince Kylock to the duke. He assured me his daughter looks most favorably upon her proposed suitor.”
“It would appear, Lord Baralis, that you have taken many liberties,” reprimanded the queen.
“With all due respect, Your Highness, I am king’s chancellor.” He met h
er eye and they exchanged glances, each assessing the other.
“Lord Baralis,” she said with great dignity, “you have stated your case in a most persuasive manner. I will, however, make no hasty decisions on a matter of such import. I must think long and hard upon the subject of who my son is to marry.” The queen paused a moment. “I realize that I am under some obligation to you, but I think I am right to say that I only agreed to consider your choice. You have my word that I will do so.” The queen was aware she was playing the terms of the wager down, however she knew that Baralis would not care to split hairs at this crucial point in his negotiations.
“Your Highness is most gracious,” he said with a slight bow. “I could ask for no more.”
“Very good, Lord Baralis. You may go now.” She was still holding the portrait and assumed he would ask for it back. He did not. He bowed once more and took his leave.
Once he had gone, she breathed a sigh of relief and called for some unwatered wine. She sat down and looked upon the likeness of Catherine of Bren. The queen had never seen a more beautiful girl. She comprehended why he had not asked for her picture back: no one could look upon such a face and not be drawn to it. She laughed—a humorless sound. Baralis was undoubtedly a master of manipulation.
Although it had been five long years since he had last been on the northeastern plains, Tawl remembered them well: the gentle slope of the land, the open skies, the brisk winds and the bountiful earth. It was farm country and nature was generous with her gifts; the soil was rich and fertile and the waters ran clear and sparkling.
The sprinkling of snow that currently graced the plains only enhanced their beauty to Tawl. For the first time in days his mood was lightened. He had been brought up in the Great Marshes, where the land was often bogged down with water, and the soil no more than mud. When farmers actually managed to tease crops from the land, they were often blight ridden: the wet soil harbored diseases. Tawl, like most people who lived upon the marshes, had great appreciation for the blessing of fine soil, and the northeastern plains boasted some of the finest soil in the known lands.