by J. V. Jones
The cat, who had been eyeing the out-of-reach tripe for a few moments, finally decided to make its move. It jumped up, claws extended to catch at the cloth. The tapestry, which was suspended by a chain from the wall, began to swing from side to side erratically. The cat clung onto it, four limbs spread-eagled against the likeness of Kesmont’s horse. The tripe worked its way loose and fell to the floor with a dull slapping sound. The cat tried to jump after it, but one of its claws was caught up in the fabric and it hurtled downward only to find itself suspended from the tapestry by its hind paw.
Gamil made to free the trapped creature.
“No, don’t help it, Gamil,” said the archbishop. “Even dumb animals must learn the price of greed.”
The cat squawked loudly and began to thrash wildly against the wall.
“But Your Eminence, it will hurt itself.”
“It should have thought of that sooner. Now, anything else?”
Gamil was forced to speak over the sound of the cat screeching. “Two more things, Your Eminence. First, the knight has become the duke of Bren’s champion, and second, the Old Man’s cronies are on the way back home.”
There was a loud crash as cat and tapestry went careening to the floor. Tavalisk ignored the noise. “So they didn’t manage to murder the knight?”
“No, Your Eminence. They never tried to. They were there to deliver a letter, not a knife.”
Tavalisk paused in mid-chew. “It would be most interesting to know the contents of that letter, Gamil.” The archbishop sighed daintily. “We must continue to have the knight watched closely, you never know what we might discover. Now if there’s nothing more, kindly take your leave.”
“Certainly, Your Eminence,” said Gamil, walking to the door.
“Just before you go, Gamil, I wonder if you could do me a small favor.”
“Take your cat to the physician to see if he can stop the bleeding?”
“Well done, Gamil. I see you’ve reached the point where you can anticipate my needs.”
• • •
Bringe was not a happy man. Everything had gone downhill since he hacked Maybor’s orchards. Baralis had paid him his fee promptly—nineteen pieces of the king’s own gold—so he had nothing to complain about there. Unfortunately, a few days later his wife had decided it was high time to give the brewing vat its once yearly clean. So, while he was out at the local inn sharing a cup of tavern-keeper’s best with the full-thighed Gerty, his rat-faced wife was busy discovering his hidden stash under the brewing vat, wrapped in linen, and packed with grease to stop the coins from clinking together.
By the time he’d returned from the inn she was gone. A few decent slaps to Gerty revealed that she and his wife had an aunt in Highwall. A few decent kicks to the bailiff revealed that his wife was last seen paying two golds for the protection of a merchant train that was heading east. Bringe started after her, the now miserable and wailing Gerty in tow. Four days later he caught up with the train. His wife set the guards on him. Whilst he was being shot at, Gerty was busy ingratiating herself with her older sister. When the merchant train pulled away, he found himself alone.
He continued drifting east, robbing food and money to live. His plan was to catch up his wife and Gerty in Highwall, but the Halcus put a stop to that. Two weeks back he was picked up by them as an enemy spy. Kylock’s invasion had sent them into a mad frenzy, seeking out any men from the kingdoms to torture and burn.
So here he was, stuck in a Halcus prison cell, his face a match for a squashed pumpkin, being stared at by some fever-crazy wild man. “Don’t come near me, longhair,” he warned. No one was going to give him a dose of the ghones. Or anything else contagious, for that matter.
As Bringe became accustomed to the dimness, he realized that the stranger was younger than he first thought. He was in a bad way. Down both of his arms were a series of sores that looked as if they might be bite marks, and he was shaking from head to foot. Bringe spat in distaste. “What you in here for, boy?”
The stranger sat in a heap of dirty rushes. A trickle of blood ran down his neck where the guard had kicked him. “I murdered a man,” he said.
Murder? The boy went up in Bringe’s opinion. “I’m in here under suspicion of murder myself. A merchant was killed in the tavern a couple of weeks back and everyone swore it was a foreigner who did it. When they couldn’t pin that one on me, they got me for spying instead.” This wasn’t entirely true, but it made him sound more important than admitting he was one of hundreds who’d been rounded up for no other reason than they happened to hail from the kingdoms. The part about the tavern murder was true, but it was his last cell mate who was charged with the murder, not himself.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Jack.”
Bringe didn’t like the look of Jack one bit. His skin had a sickly look to it and his eyes were bright with madness. “People call me Bringe.” That statement met with no response, so he soldiered on. “From the kingdoms, eh? Whereabouts?”
“Castle Harvell.”
“I’m from the Eastlands myself. You know, near Lord Maybor’s estate.”
At the mention of Lord Maybor, the boy turned white. He shifted himself to his knees and asked, “Did you know his daughter, Melliandra?”
Bringe had seen her ride past his cottage once or twice in her brother’s company. An uppity-looking wench if ever he saw one. “Yes, I knew her well. Course she spends most of her time at court now.”
“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” The boy looked to Bringe for confirmation.
“Aye, breasts as firm as walnuts. She’s the type that’s hairy down below, too.”
The boy struggled to pull himself onto his feet. A kennel’s worth of bites had torn his britches to shreds, and his legs were shaking like aspic. Once upright, he came tottering toward Bringe, sweat dripping from his chin and a manic look in his eye. Too late, Bringe realized that the boy meant to hit him. The boy’s fist landed firmly on his newly broken nose. A sickening crunch was followed by the quick flare of pain. A second later, the boy reeled backward and collapsed onto the floor.
Bringe brought his hand to his nose to stop the bleeding, contemplating beating the boy, decided it would only get him into more trouble, and settled for a swift kick to the abdomen instead. The boy groaned and spit blood from his mouth. In a way Bringe respected him; a man who defended a woman’s honor was not all bad. It was the women themselves who were vicious money-grabbing mares.
“Come on, Jack,” said Bringe, offering the boy a hand. “Let’s not fall out over a woman.”
The boy refused his help, dragged himself into a sitting position, and proceeded to scowl at him.
“Of course you’ve got to give kingdoms’ women their fair due,” said Bringe, entering into one of his favorite subjects. “No one can match them when it comes to thighs. Halcus women are too skinny, Highwall women are too muscley, and Annis women are so tall that you wonder if it’s a thigh or a tree that you’re grabbing.” Bringe met with no response, but decided to continue on regardless.
“Everyone knows that kingdoms’ women are the best. That’s what the tavern murder was all about. The captain here, I forget his name, sold a kingdoms girl to a flesh-trader. By all accounts he made a fortune. A couple of weeks later a man turns up asking about her. ’Tis rumored he was her betrothed. Anyway, the next day the merchant that he questioned is found dead. Throat slit down a dark alley.”
“Was the captain named Vanly?” asked the boy.
Bringe nodded. “That’s him.”
“How long ago did this happen?” The boy’s demeanor changed. He was lucid, sharp, his whole body leaning forward in anticipation of the answer.
“I think the girl was sold a couple of months back now. During the wintertime. Apparently Vanly found her in a chicken coop.”
“What was the girl’s name?”
Bringe scratched his head and tried to remember what his cell mate had told him. “Something beginning with
M, like Minnie or Melda.”
“Was it Melli?”
“Er, I’m not sure.”
“Think. Think!”
Bringe was beginning to feel a little nervous. The boy looked set to explode. “Melli, you say. It does sound familiar.”
“And this girl was sold to a flesh-trader?”
“Aye, that much is common knowledge. For weeks afterward that was all the town’s people could talk about: the killing Vanly made on the deal.” Bringe’s eyes flicked nervously to his companion. One look at the boy’s face and a primal instinct warned him to back away. He didn’t know what he was dealing with, but one thing was certain: the boy was dangerous.
• • •
It was a sham. Tarissa, Magra, Rovas; they’d all played him for a fool. Right now they were probably sitting round the fire, laughing away at how stupid he’d been.
All the time that he’d stayed in the cottage, Melli had been alive.
How could Tarissa do it? How could she have loved him and kissed him and lied through her teeth? He felt crushed by the weight of her lies.
A slow pressure began to build within him. He hardly noticed the push.
Where did the lies end? Did Tarissa really hate Rovas? Or had that been just another acting feat?
The pressure built steadily, rising upward to meet his thoughts.
Tarissa said she was the one who was supposed to kill Vanly.
She said that Melli was dead.
His head pounded in time to the list of her deceptions.
She said she would come with him to Annis.
She said she loved him.
She said she would wait for him.
LIES. LIES. LIES.
He couldn’t bear the pain.
The pressure turned to fire in his blood. It burnt a trail along his tongue and crackled forth like a whip. Jack felt the rush of sorcery. Glorious, terrible, uncontrollable, it fed off his thoughts like fuel and ate away at his soul.
She had betrayed him.
The air shimmered then thickened around him. The building began to shake. Stones and masonry came crashing to the floor. The earth jolted beneath his feet. It began to rock back and forth, the stones churning themselves to mud. The bars on the cell door buckled and the frame fell away from the wall. A warm wind carried the stench of metal around the cell. The power that tore through his body terrified and entranced him. Without stopping to think, he made his way through the opening and up into the garrison.
He heard the sound of screams through a filter of fire. People were rushing back and forth, blood marking each body like a cattle brand. All around him destruction reigned; walls collapsed as he passed, metals spat sparks, and timbers burst into flames. The ground erupted into hills of dirt and stone, sending rocks blasting through the air. Barrels exploded outward; their contents thrown hissing into the blaze.
She had betrayed him.
Sorcery danced around him like lightning.
He passed through the chaos untouched. Enthralled and helpless to stop himself, he walked through the garrison like the phantom of death.
The timber roof of the main building caught light. It flared like kindling, turning the twilight into midday with its brightness. Dark, ash-heavy smoke soon rivaled the light, screening and choking and turning the courtyard into an abyss. The huge crossbeam that supported the roof came crashing down to the floor, crushing two guards and casting sparking splinters to the breeze. The outbuildings were soon engulfed, followed by the stables and the gatehouse.
Horses and pigs squealed. Men dashed across his path, clothes on fire, terror on their faces, and screams on their lips. On Jack walked, sorcery crackling with every step.
The entrance came into sight. The portcullis was up and the postern gate was alight. Jack stopped and watched it burn. Air rushed past him, blowing hot and fast, sending his hair streaming behind him. Up in the guard tower he spied a young guard trapped by the flames, deciding whether to jump or be burned. Jack saw fear on his smoke-blackened face. The flames came closer, licking at his heels. The man made the sign of Borc’s sword and jumped. The dull thud of his landing acted like cold water to Jack. He forced himself to look at the guard’s body. Blood seeped treacle-slow from a gash in his head. His right leg bent outward at an unnatural angle, and his fingers twitched as if he were strumming a lute.
Jack knew he had to stop. This man didn’t deserve to die. He had jumped to near-certain death, yet his courage would be in vain if the sorcery didn’t end.
He reached down into himself. Down toward the source. It was like swimming against a tide of light. Fast and furious the power raged. Belly-strong and sharp-minded, it fought him all the way. The part of Jack that was still rational realized that power couldn’t exist without the pain of betrayal. Violent emotion was its lifeblood. He tried to put Tarissa from his mind. Deeper and deeper, he went, through layers of tissue alive and ringing with sorcery. Thrusting his thoughts into the source, as surely as thrusting his hand into the fire, Jack struggled to cut off the flow.
His mind was seared, and like a piece of meat, the juices were sealed within. He couldn’t release the pain. Afraid and trembling, he opened his mouth and screamed:
“No!”
The sound had a force of its own. It acted like a dagger, piercing the madness with the cool gleam of steel. Jack’s will rose up in its wake, pushing the sorcery back down to the blood. There was one unbearable moment when his body felt torn in two, and then everything coalesced, rearranging itself into a different but complete form. A wave of suction ripped through his tissue, robbing the strength from his muscles. It left Jack limp.
Suddenly he couldn’t stand, or raise an arm, or even blink an eyelid. He slumped onto the ground. Feet away from the guard who had jumped from the battlements, Jack gathered his last remaining store of strength and reached out toward the man’s twitching hand. Pain clawed down his spine and his arm felt as if it were buried under a mountain of earth. Still he pushed on, becoming obsessed with the desire to touch the guard. It was the only thing that counted in the fiery hell that had become the night. Inch by inch he dragged his arm across the dirt until he could move no more. A finger’s length divided them. The guard, as if aware of Jack’s efforts, opened his eyes. They were a clear and peaceful blue.
Slowly, his whole body quivering with spasms, pain flaring to cloud his bright eyes, the guard reached out to meet Jack’s hand. Jack felt rough fingers touching his and his heart thrilled with joy. Tarissa was gone. The pain was gone. He and the guard, lying side by side on the scorched earth, were the only things that mattered.
• • •
Sure that the power had been withdrawn, Baralis stepped out of his bed. He was irritated to see that he was shaking. Donning a fine ermine robe, he made his way to the fire. His hands ached badly tonight. As always there was a jug of holk resting amongst the embers. Pouring himself a brimming cup, he downed the warm and spicy liquid in one swallow. Only when the holk had worked its trade upon his hands, did he feel calm enough to think about what he had just experienced.
Tonight, somewhere in the Known Lands, someone had performed a drawing that defied all reason.
Woken up from an early, fitful sleep, Baralis felt the first wave of the most powerful sorcery he had ever encountered. Terrifying in its strength, it sent spasms racing down his spine, spiking his very soul. There seemed no end to it. On and on the power flowed. First for seconds, then for minutes, then for hours. Never before had he felt anything to match it. Even now the very substance of the air crackled with the aftermath. Half the city of Bren had probably awakened in their beds. Few would know why.
Baralis was afraid. The person who had done this was powerful beyond telling.
Gathering his strength, he sent out his perception. Already weak from his journey to Larn the day before, he could do little but test the essence of the sorcery. Like a man holding a wet finger to the wind, he could tell from which direction the aftermath came: west. But, if he wasn’t mis
taken, not as far west as the kingdoms. Which meant Halcus or Annis or Highwall. A terrible thought occurred to him: could it be Kylock, suddenly free from the tyranny of drugs? Baralis’ heart quickened at the thought. Quickly he tasted the air around him. The sorcery played upon his tongue with a familiar tune. Not Kylock. No. Someone else. Someone whom he had encountered before. Someone who had copied Tavalisk’s library word for word.
The baker’s boy.
Risking sanity, and with no help from his potions, Baralis’ drew the aftermath into his mind. Such lightness, such pain, such flickering flames. And then the clear blue eyes of a man close to death. It was all there, written upon the ether in a foreign tongue. There was little he could make sense of and no time for translation. One thing was certain, though: Jack was responsible for the drawing. He had not been mistaken. All sorcery had its own unique signature, and once Baralis perceived an individual’s pattern, he never forgot it. This was the third time now that the baker’s boy had signed his name across a drawing.
He exhaled deeply, eager to be free of the alien force. It left him, but not willingly. He felt it clawing away at the fiber of his brain, trying to restructure his mind to mimic that from which it came. Baralis was too much the master to let it gain a footing. No one’s aftermath was going to make a madman out of him.
Still, there was a price to pay. He was overcome with a terrible, draining weakness. No longer possessing strength enough to return to his bed, Baralis sat by the fire and sipped his holk. He knew he needed to sleep, to recuperate like an invalid, but his thoughts raced ahead, leaving his body to fend for itself.
What was the purpose behind Jack’s power? Such a gift—for talent on such a scale could be neither taught nor inherited—was not given without purpose. Baralis searched his mind, looking for connections and prophecies and patterns in the dance. Something began to niggle away at him. Something heard the day before at the table of Larn’s high priests, when they had spoken about the knight: