by J. V. Jones
Unable to keep the smile from his face, Maybor uncapped his flask and took a hearty swig of brandy. Yes, it was a night of rare drama and intrigue, and the show wasn’t even over yet.
The duke was not a happy man. A muscle was pumping in his cheek and his eyes were as cold and as dark as the Great Lake he claimed for his own. The crowd was looking to him for a sign, a gesture, no matter how small, that would give them some indication of how best to react. The Hawk was giving little away. He stood up and acknowledged the red marker with the briefest of nods.
“Bring the victor before me,” he cried.
A few moments passed. To Maybor’s eyes it looked as if the young boy had to practically drag the knight forward. Eventually the two stood before the duke. The wound on the fighter’s chest had been quickly bound. Judging from the amount of blood on his tunic, the blade must have cut deep between the bones. The man looked sick, almost fevered; his skin had a gray cast to it and his brow was slick with sweat. The circles that had caused such an uproar were no longer on show. A length of green silk covered the spot where they lay. The boy’s shirt, which was a matching color, was sporting a missing sleeve.
The crowd hushed in anticipation. “I will ask you one question,” said the duke to the knight. “Are you free of your obligation to Valdis?”
Time slowed. The moon shone a pale light upon the dais and the faces of five thousand people were turned toward the knight.
“I have long forsaken Valdis,” he said.
“So you count yourself a free man?”
“I do.”
“Then I ask you to take a pledge and be named as my champion.”
A ripple of shock rose from the crowd.
The knight looked toward his second. He made a small gesture with his hand, and then said, “I am willing to take the pledge.”
As close as he was to the duke, Maybor could not tell what he was thinking. The Hawk took a deep breath and then spoke in a voice designed to ring the city with its echoes. “Repeat after me: I, Tawl of the Lowlands, do solemnly pledge to protect the duke and his heirs with all the strength of my body and the force of my spirit until Borc himself calls me to rest.”
A minute of silence passed and then the knight repeated the oath.
Fifteen
The man with golden hair was at the center of the city. The high battlements closed about him like the sharp teeth of a predator. He was never getting out of there.
Jack awoke. He was confused, disorientated. An ember in the fire suddenly burst into flame. Never had a dream seemed so vivid, so true, so tragic. Jack was overcome with a sense of loss. He felt alone, abandoned, as if he’d been left to fend for himself in an uncertain world. The golden-haired stranger had deserted him. Jack knew he would never see him in his dreams again.
Strange, but although the man had appeared to him only once before, he seemed to be a symbol of something. Something fundamental and precious like hope.
Jack was cold to the core. He drew the covers close, but how could a blanket warm the marrow of his bones? The embers ran out of fuel. The fire petered to nothing; a dark shell with a glint of red at its heart. There was no way of telling the time. He might have been asleep for hours, or minutes or seconds. The kitchen was quiet, dark except for the banking fire. Rovas slept in the larder, and Magra and Tarissa slept in the room behind the chimney.
Jack stood up and went over to the window. He unlatched the shutter and looked out at the night. The sky seemed impossibly large. Stars vied with a full moon, but nothing was as compelling as the dark. He was truly alone now. What did it mean? Why was the man with golden hair so important? And what would happen now that he had gone? Jack ran his hands through his hair. He’d barely had a chance to recover from what happened yesterday, when his dreams had abducted his body, and now this. He looked to the sky for answers, but the impartial silence of the heavens was his only reply.
A floorboard creaked behind him. “Jack, are you all right?” came Tarissa’s voice.
He didn’t turn. “No. Something has changed. I don’t know what.”
“Was it another vision?” Tarissa rested her arm upon his shoulder.
“A dream, a vision—I don’t know.”
“Come and sit down. I’ll make up the fire.”
She was so close he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. Its warmth drew him in. He was so cold and she alone could warm him. He turned toward her, following her breath to its source. Her mouth was open as if somehow she understood what he needed. She came to meet him. Her substance was an antidote to the vast emptiness of space, and her warmth expelled the cold like a flame.
Lips met, skin touched. A pull upon a strand and Tarissa’s nightgown fell to the floor. Her nakedness was a gift. The moonlight gleamed upon her flesh, but it was to the shadows that his tongue was drawn. The exquisite dip where the throat joined the body, the heavy underside of her breasts, and the fragrant moistness of the hairs beneath her arm. He couldn’t touch her enough. He needed to feel part of her, to help dull his sense of loss and to be saved from the anguish of being alone.
His urgency was so great it drove them to a place where nothing mattered, only the wetness of saliva and the soft edges where flesh became hollows. Tarissa made her body an offering, sacrificing herself to the force of his need.
• • •
As soon as the maid had left, Melli turned toward the mirror and rubbed the rouge from her face. There was no way she was going to be garnished like a dish at a banquet. Off with the dress, too. Ever since her brief stay with Mistress Greal, Melli had taken a deep disliking to the color red. She didn’t care a jot whether or not she looked nice for the duke.
As she changed back into the dress given to her by Fiscel, she checked again to see that her knife was still in place. The hardness of the metal pleased her. The duke would get quite a fright if he tried to come too close. Not that she had any intention of letting matters get that far. She looked at her reflection: what else could she do to make herself unappealing? A flash of inspiration came to her and she spent the next ten minutes biting her nails to the quick.
It really was getting rather late, well past midnight by her reckoning. Perhaps His Grace had gone off the idea of feminine diversions. She hadn’t heard from Bailor all day, but the fact that he had sent a girl to tend to her appearance was a sign that she might still be called upon despite the lateness of the hour.
There was a small part of her that hoped the call would come. Try as she might to deny it, the thought of a confrontation with the duke excited her. He was said to be the most powerful man in the north. It would be interesting to see what kind of man lay behind the reputation. Melli scolded her imagination and deliberately focused on a disturbing thought to punish herself. If the man was as brutal as was rumored, then how would he react to being challenged in his own chambers with a knife?
A knock at the door was followed by the drawing of a bolt. In walked Bailor. He took a long look at her, and then said, “If you take the gilding from the lily, the flower still remains.”
Melli felt a flush upon her face. He had seen right through her attempt to make herself unappealing. Determined not to admit her tactics, she feigned innocence. “I decided not to wear the red dress, the color doesn’t become me.”
“Aah. And your nails, did their length not become you, either?”
“I broke one and thought it wise to make the rest even.”
“And the rouge?”
“Pale cheeks are the height of beauty in the kingdoms.”
Bailor actually laughed. “You are going to be quite a surprise to His Grace. I can’t decide which is the quicker: your tongue or your wits.”
Melli tried to look indignant. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”
“You’re no shrinking violet, that’s for sure.” He gave her an appraising look. “You will do just the way you are. Follow me.”
Now the moment had finally come, Melli found that she wasn’t the least bit excited, ju
st nervous. She let Bailor lead her out of the room. They walked along a series of galleries and then down many flights of stairs. The farther they descended, the more worried Melli became. Surely the duke’s chamber would be situated high in the palace? She stopped in her tracks. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“For a bastard daughter, you have quite an air about you,” said Bailor, looking at her sharply. Melli dropped her gaze to the floor. “There’s no need to worry,” he continued. “The duke values discretion in all things, especially matters of a personal nature. There is a tunnel in the servants’ chapel that leads to his chambers.”
“How very convenient to have both sin and salvation within such easy reach.” Melli was relieved. She didn’t doubt his words for an instant. Castle Harvell was riddled with tunnels, and there was no reason to believe that the duke’s palace would not boast a few of its own.
“Did the fight go well?” she asked as they approached a low wooden doorway.
Bailor wheeled around. “Under no circumstances must you mention the fight to His Grace.”
“Why?”
“He lost his champion tonight.”
“Was the man killed?”
“Worse than killed. His brains were smashed out of his skull.” Bailor’s voice was grim. “He is barely alive. The physicians are doing what they can, but there is little hope that he’ll live through the night.”
“And the victor, what has become of him?”
“His fate plays a stronger tune. The duke appointed him his new champion.” Bailor glanced around before placing his hand on the door. “He had little choice really, what with the court and the foreign envoys looking on. He is a proud man and to have his champion defeated in such a way was quite upsetting for him. So whatever you do, don’t mention the fight to him.” He looked to Melli for her assent, but at that instant the door swung open.
“Thought I heard voices. It’s a little late for a service, though.” Straight away Melli recognized the accent of the kingdoms. Instinctively she turned her head away from the man to whom the voice belonged.
“You are not the normal guard,” said Bailor. “What are you doing in the chapel at this hour?”
“Me and my friend here have been doing a little work for the chaplain.” The guard indicated a second man standing behind him. “We were just finishing off polishing the floors.” There were a bucket and some cloths on the floor behind them.
“I would advise you not to work so late in the future.” said Bailor. “Now let me pass.”
They walked into the chapel, Melli keeping her head bent low toward the floor. Her heart was beating wildly. She was almost certain that the guards were from Castle Harvell. They could recognize her in an instant.
“What’s your name, man?” asked Bailor to the one who had opened the door.
“Grift, sir, and my companion here is Bodger.”
“Well, Grift, I trust you know the value of a still tongue?”
“You can count on me and Bodger, sir.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Bailor took hold of Melli’s arm. “I think it’s time you gentlemen retired for the evening.”
The one called Grift nodded judiciously. “Of course, sir, say no more. Me and Bodger will be on our way.” With that he and the second guard made their way toward the main entrance to the chapel.
Bailor waited until the door was closed behind them. “Drunken fools,” he said under his breath. He then guided Melli toward the altar.
Hanging behind the altar were several painted panels charting Borc’s progress from shepherd to hero to god. Bailor went straight to the middle panel and pressed against the left side. The whole thing swung open like a door. Startled, Melli jumped back. Her nerves were on edge; the incident with the guards had left her badly shaken.
“Follow me,” said Bailor.
They traveled up a narrow, spiral staircase. They must have been expected, thought Melli, for the stairway was lit with torches. Up and around they went, burrowing into the heart of the palace. Eventually they came to a door. Bailor knocked lightly and the door was opened by a guard wearing military blue. The man nodded curtly and let them pass. They walked through the small anteroom and into a large but sparsely furnished chamber. One man stood alone by an un-shuttered window.
Bailor cleared his throat. “Your Grace, may I present Melli of Deepwood.”
The man turned and looked at Melli. Never in all her life had she received such a look: cold and appraising, it seemed to strip her bare and then discard what was left.
“Take her away,” he said.
“But, sir—”
“I said take her away.”
Anger rose within Melli. No one dismissed her so brusquely. “Do what the man said, Bailor. After all, he’s had quite an upsetting evening—best to let him mourn his champion alone.” She spun around and began to walk back the way they’d come.
The duke was on her in an instant. He slapped her across the face. Melli reeled with the force of the blow. She struggled to keep her footing. Once she was stable, she drew herself up to her full height, looked the duke straight in the eye, and said: “It’s a pity your champion couldn’t muster such a blow, else the fight might have ended quite differently.”
Flint gray eyes reappraised her. Without looking at Bailor, he said, “Leave us alone.”
Melli heard the sound of footsteps receding into the distance. Determined not to be the first to look away, she held her gaze firm. The duke took a brief step forward and Melli couldn’t stop herself from flinching.
“Not as tough as you seem,” said the duke with a stretch of lip that might have passed for a smile.
“Well, I’m sure you’re looking to make someone pay for tonight. I’ve probably come at just the right time.” She tilted her chin. “If you’re going to beat me, I should warn you, I will fight back.”
“I don’t doubt that you would.” The duke turned and went over to a large wooden table. He poured a single glass of wine. “Here,” he said, “take this.”
Melli was out of her depth, but determined not to show it. “I think I’ll have to refuse,” she said. “After all, it’s probably poisoned and I have no intention of making it easier for you to overpower me.”
The duke brought the glass to his lips and took a mouthful of the wine. Melli thought he would offer her the rest, but he merely returned the cup to the table. “There’s no such place as Deepwood,” he said.
“You are obviously unfamiliar with the kingdoms.”
“I know every inch of it like the back of my hand.” The words were more statement than boast. It frightened Melli to hear them.
“Why are you so interested in the kingdoms?”
The duke’s response was as quick as a lash. “Why are you lying about where you are from?”
Melli looked around the room. She spied a wooden desk in the corner and walked toward it. She needed to give herself time before replying. Such a bare room; the stone floor was beautifully cut, but there were no rugs to warm the foot or please the eye. The walls were hung with nothing but swords. It was not going to be easy to fool the duke. His wits were sharp and he was the sort of man who was used to getting answers. She was determined to rise to the challenge. “I lie and say I’m from Deepwood because it shocks people less than telling them the truth. I’m a bastard from the wrong side of the bed.”
“You have a bastard’s temper, I’ll give you that.”
“You slap a woman like one.”
The duke laughed outright. “Do all women in the kingdoms have nettles for tongues?”
“You tell me, seeing as you know the place so well.” Melli wondered if she’d gone too far. The duke’s knowledge of her country was no laughing matter. Lying on the desk there were maps and charts. The forests of the kingdoms were circled like treasure.
The duke saw where her eyes had rested, yet made no attempt to cover the charts. “It is not unusual,” he said, “if you are about to ally with a country, to make a
study of its geography.”
“And resources?”
The duke shrugged. “It is no secret that Bren needs timber. What is the point of allying with a country unless there is something to be gained at the join?”
“So what do the kingdoms gain?”
“Access to the most powerful army in the Known Lands.“
Melli shuddered. The heat left her face. A gap opened up in her consciousness and she struggled with all her might not to spiral toward it: in its middle lay prophecy. Just like the time at the pig farmer’s cottage when she had lost herself to its guile, it beckoned her forth with all the promise of what the future would hold. Only she didn’t want to see it. A future where the most powerful army in the Known Lands played a part would not make for a pretty picture. Melli forced her mind to focus on the present, and the breach that held the future collapsed upon itself unseen.
She was holding on to the desk so tightly her knuckles were white. The marriage between Kylock and Catherine went so much deeper than nuptials and wedding feasts.
“Go now,” said the duke. “The guard will show you back to your chamber.”
Melli was weak and disorientated. The desk was the only thing that kept her standing. The duke’s cold dismissal didn’t seem to make any sense. Or had he seen something in her face? Seconds had passed, yet it felt like she had run up a high hill and was now breathless at the top. The duke was waiting, impatient for her to be gone.
She risked a step forward. Her legs did not fail her. There was a large door with bronze carvings at the opposite end of the room and she made her way toward it.
The duke stopped her. “You will go the way you came,” he said.
Melli could barely remember. She needed to be alone, to rest, to sleep—to forget. The duke guided her toward the small side door where she had first entered. The same guard waited in the anteroom. He took hold of her arm, and when she next looked round the duke had gone.
The journey back to her room seemed endless. She forced her feet to find the steps. By the time they had arrived at the chapel, her thoughts were racing. The jolt she’d received from the foretelling might have left her body weak, but her mind was quick to recover.