The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  “We are not all dealt a fair hand, Tawl.”

  “I was not dealt blindly, wiseman. The cards were stacked against me.” He looked at Bevlin then looked quickly away.

  “Where have your travels taken you?”

  “To the far south, to the Drylands, to Chelss and Leiss and Silbur,” he said harshly. “Do you want me to go on?”

  “You know of the trouble between Rorn and Valdis, then?”

  “I know that Rorn had banned knights from entering the city.” Tawl gazed into the fire.

  “It has expelled them, too, and Marls has followed suit. The archbishop of Rorn is stirring up antiknight sentiment throughout the southeast. He is seeking to bring about a confrontation. He wants to break the power of Valdis and the knighthood.”

  “What has he against Valdis?” Tawl spoke with genuine interest for the first time.

  “Tavalisk is the first man in the south to realize that dangerous forces are coming together in the north. Tyren has placed himself as an ally to Bren, and Bren is about to join with the Four Kingdoms.

  “Marod’s prophecy is coming to pass: When two houses join in wedlock and wealth. The empire which he predicted could encompass the Known Lands. Those who shape will also corrupt. More than ever, Tawl, I need you to find the boy.”

  “I will find him, Bevlin.”

  “Yes, I believe you will. There is a link between you, and it is your destiny to help him fulfill his.” As he spoke, Bevlin felt the disturbing ring of prophecy in his voice.

  To break the spell he stood up and poured himself a second mug of ale. He drained the cup dry. With his heart still racing from the shock of foretelling, Bevlin made an attempt to lighten the mood of the conversation. “Tavalisk is at heart a mischief-maker. He is not happy unless he is at the center of events, scheming purely for the love of it.”

  “Why do you scheme, wiseman?” Tawl seemed to regret his words and he said with a sigh, “I am sorry, Bevlin. I don’t know what has gotten into me. I looked forward to seeing you and now that I am here I find myself saying things that I don’t mean.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Bevlin was glad to hear Tawl speak more kindly.

  “Where will you head to next?” he asked. “Bren, Annis, Lairston?” Tawl’s eye became hooded and Bevlin knew to expect a lie.

  “Lairston. I’m heading further north.”

  “The air is bitingly cold so near to the northern ranges.” Bevlin realized Tawl was not listening to him anymore; the knight had lost his concentration to the fire. He stared deep within the flames, and the wiseman wondered what torments he saw there. “Tawl,” he said gently, placing his hand on the knight’s arm. “Go to bed. You can sleep in my room—it is dry and warm.”

  Tawl looked up at him, and for the briefest moment Bevlin saw something in his eyes, something he could not name, but familiar nonetheless. The knight cast his eyes downward, almost in shame. “I am tired, Bevlin. I have ridden hard all day.”

  “Maybe a touch of the lacus would help you. You have been long in the south yourself.” Bevlin wanted to reach out and help him; he could tell the knight was in some kind of anguish. He instinctively knew that any offer of help would be unwelcome.

  “No, save the lacus for those who need it. I am not suffering from anything a good night’s rest won’t cure.” Tawl stood up. “So, Bevlin, how about showing me to my room?”

  The wiseman led him to his room. He pulled the bedclothes back and removed the warming pan, took the knight’s pack and laid it on the chest. Bevlin then went to bid Tawl good night. As he did so, Tawl lowered his head and the wiseman laid a kiss upon his brow. “Sleep well, friend,” he said as he left the room.

  Twenty-eight

  He awoke with the taste of salt on his lips. He tried to recapture the fleeting images of his dream: he remembered the sea, cold and unforgiving, the color of slate. He sat up and was disappointed to feel the sound earth beneath his feet. He walked to the window and opened the wooden shutter. There was solace to be found in the sky; it was not unlike the sea. They bore the same color and neither could be bound by man. Earth was the weak link; it allowed itself to be divided and possessed and consumed.

  The pale moon lowered as he watched. It was time to move on, time to pay his debt.

  With the grace of a ghost he moved across the room. He dressed with great care . . . it seemed fitting. He pulled on his soft leather shoes and buckled his hard leather belt.

  He wanted to look upon himself, but there was no mirror. With anxious hands he felt for what he needed. His fingers enclosed the cool metal, warming. He was ready. The prospect of unburdening was a salve upon his heart; it lured him forth with promises of peace.

  The door opened noiselessly—he knew it would. He slipped into the room. The lazy fire cast him a long shadow. He moved forward discovering his perspective, deciding his course.

  The man was there as he expected, lost in sleep, snoring with gentle determination. The knife was warm now; it grew large in his hand, shifting its position. He drew near. He felt the thrill of anticipation and the pain of regret. He watched the man, unafraid he might wake. He was old and not unready for death.

  He raised the knife, a beautiful move, well mimicked by his shadow. He paused for a single instant and then brought it down. Cleave of bone and through to the heart. The man’s eyes opened—confusion and then understanding—they closed.

  He freed the knife and dark blood flowed forth. He raised it once more and thrust again. Again and again. Blood spattered his face and he welcomed its cooling touch.

  He was finished; the man moved no more. His debt was paid.

  With great care he cleaned his knife, spitting to bring off the last of the blood. He returned to his room and undressed. He stood naked in the moonlight, receiving benediction. He slipped between the smooth sheets and slept the sleep of the innocent.

  “No, Bodger, there’s only one cure for the ghones and it ain’t soaking your privates in boiling water.”

  “Master Frallit swears it’s the only way, Grift.”

  “Well, there’s little doubt that Master Frallit has need of a cure, Bodger. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t tried boiling his privates, though. If he had we’d be calling him Mistress Frallit by now.”

  “So what’s the proper cure then, Grift?”

  “The only way for a man to rid himself of the ghones is for him to rub his privates with virgin’s water ever’day for a week.”

  “Virgin’s water, Grift?”

  “Aye, Bodger, of course the difficult bit is actually finding a virgin.”

  “I would have thought getting the virgin to piss for you would be more difficult, Grift.” Bodger smiled ruefully at his companion and the two men drank heartily. Once they had finished supping, they leaned back against the wall, both belching loudly.

  “Lord Maybor and Lord Baralis are both trying to double-cross each other, eh, Grift?”

  “What d’you mean, Bodger?”

  “Well, Lord Maybor’s talking to Baralis’ mercenary and Lord Baralis is talking to Maybor’s son.”

  “I wouldn’t care to place bets on which side’s going to win, Bodger.”

  “I’d bet on Baralis, myself, Grift.”

  “I think you’re right, Bodger. I’d bet on Baralis, too.”

  “Course there’s something big going to go down in the next few days, Grift.”

  “Why d’you say that, Bodger?”

  “Well, I was passing the storerooms this morning, you know the ones where they keep all the regalia, and the servants were bringing out the carpets and dusting down banners.”

  “Sounds like someone is planning a ceremony, Bodger.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a celebration, Grift. I’ve a yearning for some special brew.”

  “I wouldn’t build my hopes up if I were you, Bodger. It would take nothing short of a royal marriage to make that old tightpurse, Willock, break open a barrel.”

  Baralis awoke with a feeling of great contentment. His audience with the
queen yesterday had gone extremely well. Oh, she had played it cool, she was good at that, but she could not hide the interest in her eyes—and when he gave her the portrait there was no mistaking her attraction. He had, of course, left it with her; it was a far better persuader than he.

  Baralis knew, however, that the portrait would not be inducement enough. The queen was fearful of the ambitions of the duke of Bren—everyone in the north was. This was her chance to neutralize the threat by means of a judicious alliance. And, perhaps more importantly than anything else, the queen wanted power: for herself, her son and her descendants. A union with Bren would bring such power and she would see herself participating in its wielding—she was an ambitious woman, and that fact would seal her fate.

  Yesterday had indeed been most fruitful. After he left the queen’s chamber, he had the good fortune to run into Maybor’s son, the arrogant and conceited Kedrac. Baralis had simply offered his greetings and Kedrac had offered his back. It was a start, no more, but it would do for now. Families were sensitive and required delicate handling.

  Baralis warmed himself some holk and sat and drank it by the fire. Sometimes he thought that the heat of the cup in his hands did more than the actual liquid it contained. Whichever it was it eased the pain a little, making it more bearable. He thought of his mother for the first time in years. She would always warm him some holk whenever he had a chill or an ache, and sometimes for no more reason than it was cold outside and she wanted to show her love.

  Baralis was disturbed from his memories by the appearance of Crope. “What is it, man?” He spoke harshly, annoyed at the interruption.

  “My lord, the queen’s steward has called you to a meeting.”

  “Why would the queen’s steward want to meet with me?”

  “No, master, it’s the queen who wants to meet with you.”

  “An audience! Why didn’t you say so in the first place, you fool?” Baralis’ mind raced forward—could she possibly have made her decision so quickly? “Bring me my finest robe, Crope.” He thought for a moment. “And fetch me my chancellor’s chain—I would look the part on this auspicious day.”

  Crope dashed off and Baralis stood up and went over to the window. He unlatched the shutters and looked out. Cold air blasted his face: a heavy snow had fallen in the night and the earth was pristine and white. A glorious day. His servant came forth and placed the robe and chain upon the bed. Baralis took one last mouthful of the now cool holk and then readied himself for the queen.

  Minutes later he made his way to the royal apartments. The armed guards let him pass and he fancied he saw greater respect in their faces than before. He was surprised to find the queen ready to greet him; he had thought she would have made him wait as she had the day before.

  “Good day, Lord Baralis.” She inclined her head slightly. “I see you have come in your official capacity today.” She indicated his heavy chain.

  “I hope to honor Your Highness with this mark of my respect.” He bowed once more, emphasizing the compliment. He was pleased to note the queen had taken similar care with her appearance: her gown was edged in ermine and a golden diadem sparkled in her hair.

  “I have called you here to inform you of my decision concerning the proposed betrothal of my son Prince Kylock and Catherine of Bren.” She favored him with a cold but tantalizing smile.

  “I am pleased that Your Highness has made such a fast decision.” Baralis resisted the urge to bow once more; it wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

  “Mistake me not, Lord Baralis, I have the will and the means to make any decision I choose.” It was a simple statement of her power, and he acknowledged it with the slightest of nods. The queen, satisfied that her meaning had been understood, continued, “I have thought long on the matter we discussed, and now that I have come to my decision, I see no reason that you should wait upon its telling.”

  “As Your Highness wishes.”

  “Lord Baralis, I must admit there was much merit in your words and I am not a person to let past animosities blur my judgment.” She paused taking a deep breath. “I can see that a joining with Bren would be most beneficial to my son’s future and that of the Four Kingdoms, and that understanding has laid the basis for my decision.” She positioned herself by the light of the window, knowing it would serve to adorn her. She drew herself up to her full height, her diadem glittered brilliantly. “I will sanction the betrothal of Kylock and Catherine of Bren.” She looked Baralis full in the face. “Make your arrangements, Chancellor.”

  “Your Highness has made a wise decision.” He was careful to keep a note of humility in his voice—now was not the time for self-congratulation.

  “I would move on this matter with great alacrity. I daresay the duke of Bren has been long awaiting.” She gave Baralis a knowing look.

  “He is most anxious for this match, Your Highness.”

  “Then I would keep him waiting no longer. An envoy must be sent to Bren.”

  “Your Highness will not go herself ?”

  “No, my place is here with the king. My son will also stay here until the match is finalized. I will not have him risk humiliation by wooing the girl before the matter is settled. I will send him to Bren only when it is official.” Baralis could not help but admire the queen’s caution, even as he knew there was no cause for it.

  “I hope that I might be able to serve Your Highness in the capacity of envoy.” Baralis noticed a trace of cunning on the face of the queen.

  “I will require two envoys, Lord Baralis. One to represent Prince Kylock and his interest as heir, and one to represent the Crown.” She smiled graciously. “You will be Prince Kylock’s envoy. I have great faith in your abilities to strike a most favorable contract for my son.”

  “And the second envoy? Who will represent the Crown?” Baralis was beginning to feel a little nervous; it should be he, king’s chancellor, who represented the Crown.

  “I have not made my decision as to that particular appointment yet. I will, of course, advise you in due time.”

  “As Your Highness wishes.” He was careful not to let his misgivings show. “How soon should I move on this matter?”

  “As soon as possible. It will take many weeks to travel to Bren in this inclement weather. It would be best if we could send the delegation as soon as it is arranged. Within ten days.”

  “Ten days will be sufficient.” Baralis was pleased the queen wanted to move quickly.

  “There will be much to arrange, Lord Baralis. You will need an armed escort, at least five score of men. There will be gifts to be sent and contracts to be drawn up.”

  “I will dispatch a letter this day informing the duke of your decision and my imminent arrival.”

  “There is no need, Lord Baralis.” The queen smiled slyly. “I have already done so.”

  “Your Highness is indeed a woman given to fast action.” Baralis could not keep the edge of annoyance from his voice. She had deliberately bypassed him.

  “There is little point in keeping this matter secret. Things like this have a way of slipping out. It will be all over the castle before the day is through, so I have decided to make an official announcement. I will gather the court together later this day and tell them of my plans.” The queen said the word my with much relish. “I will, of course, stress the fact that this matter has not been finalized and can only be celebrated once the official contracts have been signed.”

  “Very well, Your Highness.” Baralis had to concede what the queen said was true, much as he would have preferred to keep the betrothal secret.

  “Now, I am sure you have business to attend to, so I will grant you leave to do so. I will call you to me in the next couple of days—we must discuss certain stipulations that I will require in the betrothal contract. Good day, Lord Baralis. I trust you will send the next batch of medicine promptly.” She dismissed him with little ceremony, merely a turn of the cheek.

  Baralis left and walked back to his chambers. He was stunned by how
quickly the queen had reached her decision. What cause had she for such urgency? he wondered. Or did she do it merely to baffle and confound him? He would not put it past her.

  He was not entirely pleased with the turn events had taken. The queen was trying to distance him from his own plans. She would not succeed, though. He was not about to give up his position in the forefront now that those plans had come to fruition. Now more than ever he needed to mold events in his favor, guide them to his intended conclusions.

  Tavalisk was feeling a little under the weather. His cook had prepared the most tempting of delicacies for him, but he found he had no appetite for them. The smell of highly spiced offal assailed his nostrils and served only to make him feel bilious. He pushed the plate aside and his gimlet-eyed cat jumped onto the table and began picking at the meat.

  There had been yet another dull ceremony to perform earlier that morning. It was the Day of Forgiving and tradition dictated that he, as archbishop, should absolve twelve men of their sins. The twelve men were all convicted criminals who were given pardon by the first minister. However, the men were not considered completely free from their crimes until the archbishop had given them God’s grace and granted absolution.

  To this end, Tavalisk had to let all twelve men kiss his ring and then lay his hand upon their foreheads. The criminals were an unsavory, decidedly unclean bunch, and in Tavalisk’s opinion not one of them deserved to go free. He went through with the ceremony nonetheless, and even managed to add a certain dramatic flourish to the proceedings by squeezing a few salty tears from his eye—the gathered crowd had appreciated that: their beloved archbishop reduced to tears by the act of forgiveness. What benevolence, they would say, what humanity, what humility!

  The people of Rorn loved him, he knew, but it never hurt to tip the balance in one’s favor by the use of a little stagecraft now and then. The first minister, on the other hand, had handled the proceeding with a decided lack of interest. He had picked a singularly dreary group of criminals—pickpockets, thieves, and swindlers—and the crowds had been disappointed. They would have preferred famous murderers, dashing pirates, and brazen madams; the first minister had no sense of the dramatic.