by J. V. Jones
Tawl’s thoughts drifted from childhood to knighthood, from his quest to his oath, from his past to his present. There was much he left untouched. Some things were still too painful to think about. Some things would always be too painful to think about.
He had found a certain peace within himself on the journey in the rain. He had a purpose here in Bren, and a sworn oath to bind him to it. Loyalty was in his blood: he needed someone or something to give his life to. It had always been that way. Ever since his mother had made him swear to look after his sisters, he had existed to serve others. It was what he was born for.
Now that his ties to the knighthood had been broken, fealty to the duke had taken its place. The quest was in the past—he had accepted that now. It was far better to put the failure behind him than to relive it every night in the pits.
The one thing that dragged him back was the letter. It plagued his dreams and shadowed his days. He would never know what Bevlin wanted to say to him. The wiseman’s words were gone forever, the paper rotting in a roadside along with the slops and the dirt. With all his heart, he wished he could have taken it from Moth and Clem. If only they had found him earlier, before he’d sworn himself to the duke, things would have been different.
Loyalty had its price, and it always closed more doors than it opened. The wiseman’s quest was one of those closed doors. It had to be. Tawl knew himself too well: if he had taken that letter from Moth and Clem and read it there, down the darkened alleyway with the stench of the abattoir filling his lungs and the scurry of rats as accompaniment to the text, he would never have returned to the palace. No matter what the letter said, what promises it held, what explanations it gave, or what favors it asked, he would have been bound by them. Once he knew the contents, the city of Bren would not have been able to hold him.
Which would have meant two oaths broken, not one.
Good work could be done here. His presence was of value. The Known Lands were dissolving into a whirlpool in front of his very eyes. Forces were coming together, and as they vied with each other for mastery, they formed a current so strong that they sucked others in with it. At best the whirlpool promised the redistribution of power in the north, at worst war and destruction. One thing was certain: Bren was at its center.
And Melli, proud and beautiful and with secrets to hide, was about to become the eye of the storm. The danger to her life was real, especially once the engagement was officially announced. There would be those who wanted her dead. Catherine, the duke’s daughter, was one of them; Kylock’s chancellor, Baralis, was another. Not to mention a court full of nobles; bound together by generations of petty rivalries, they would not look kindly on their duke marrying an outsider instead of one of their own.
Another factor was the lady herself. Melli was not who she said she was. Her accent placed her from the kingdoms, and her bearing placed her in the nobility. Tawl could not believe she was an illegitimate daughter of a minor lord. She was too nonchalant about being in a palace, too comfortable with luxury and command to be a naive member of the country gentry.
Well, if she was lying it wasn’t his concern. Protecting her was. Melli was his responsibility, and guarding her had become the most important thing in his life. For over a week now, he had watched her day and night, afraid to leave her door for even an instant in case he returned to find her gone. She would not end up dead in his absence like his sisters. He would never make that same mistake again, and protecting Melli was his one chance to prove that to himself. Keeping her safe would never make up for his sisters’ deaths, but perhaps, just perhaps, it might prevent them from being in vain. The past could not be changed, but it could be learned from. And that, Tawl had realized long ago, was the best he could ever hope for.
The door opened and in walked the duke. Tawl had his hand on Melli’s hand and his arm around her waist.
Melli pulled away. “I’ve had enough of your self-defense lessons for one day, Tawl,” she said, her voice conveying boredom and irritability in equal amounts. Turning to the duke, she added, “A woman can only take so much thrust and parry before she gets battle weary and needs to eat.”
Tawl could not help admiring her quick wittedness. She had turned a potentially embarrassing situation into something perfectly innocent. Both of them had been enjoying the lesson in knifeplay, and they had, without realizing it, moved closer together, so that their bodies now stood only a finger’s length apart. Tawl chided himself for his stupidity. He should have known better than to draw Melli into a position that could have compromised her honor. As a knight he had been trained to protect a lady’s reputation at all cost.
Hearing her words and tone, however, the duke seemed satisfied; his expression visibly relaxed. He walked over to Melli and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “So, Melliandra, you have been learning the art of self-defense?”
“Tawl insisted upon it. He says it’s no use me having a blade if I cannot handle it properly.”
The duke nodded and looked at Tawl. “You are right, my friend. I am glad you thought to teach her.” There was genuine gratitude in his voice. “If anything happened, and you or I weren’t around, I would feel better knowing that Melliandra could at least put up a fight.”
Tawl wanted to say that he would always be by Melli’s side, but he judged it prudent to hold his tongue. Instead, he bowed and said, “Your future wife will make a fine swordswoman. Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you alone.”
The duke put out a restraining arm. “I would like you to stay a few minutes, Tawl. I have just received something you might be interested in seeing.” From his tunic, he pulled out a roll of paper. It was damp and watermarked; the ink had run and it was badly creased. He handed it to Tawl. “Take a look, see what you think.”
Tawl took the letter. Still wet around the edges, it threatened to fall apart in his hands. Addressed to Tyren, it was a point by point account of a proposed treaty between Valdis and the Four Kingdoms. In return for the knighthood agreeing to fight with the kingdoms against the Halcus, they would be given exclusive rights to trade routes in the northwest and a cut in the spoils of war. Tawl handed the letter back. “How do you know it’s genuine?”
“I don’t.” The duke gave the letter to Melli. “It came this morning on the leg of an eagle. It’s my guess that the archbishop of Rorn sent it. He has men throughout the Known Lands—mostly clergy—who act as his spies and informants. He makes it his business to know what’s happening before anyone else does.”
Tawl changed the subject. He had no love for the archbishop of Rorn. “Do you monitor the passes?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m worried about. For ten days now I’ve been hearing reports of knights on the move.”
“West?”
The duke nodded. “Fully armed, mounted on warhorses, trailing enough mules to supply a siege.”
“Then the letter is probably genuine.” Tawl had a strong desire to have a drink. It seemed that everytime he managed to make some order out of his life, something came along to tear away at what he’d built. Oh, he’d heard all the rumors about Tyren being corrupt, but he could never quite bring himself to believe them. Until now. The letter was proof that the man was using Valdis to fulfill his own personal agenda. He had made mercenaries out of the knights.
Tawl felt a deep sense of loss. For so long the knighthood was all that he had: it was his family, his religion, his life. Hearing of its decline filled him with bitter sadness. He had believed in the ideal. He still did. If he had been free to go back, he would. But it was too late. Valdis was another closed door.
“What do you know about Tyren?” asked the duke. He walked over to the side table by the wall and poured three glasses of wine of varying measure. The fullest he gave to Melliandra, the emptiest he kept for himself.
Tawl took a sip of the wine. He would have preferred ale. “Tyren was the first person I knew at Valdis; he recruited me before he was made leader. I always counted him a friend.”
“
And now?”
“He is still a friend.” Old loyalties had a power all of their own. Tawl could not bring himself to say a word against Tyren.
The duke gave him a hard, appraising look. Finally, he said, “He is a friend of mine, also.”
“I heard he sent knights to fight in your southeastern campaigns.”
“He did. And I admit I promised him the right to safeguard Bren’s trade, but never once did I sanction unnecessary bloodshed or pillage. Most towns surrender peacefully.” The duke brought the wine to his lips but did not drink. “When the south was busy persecuting the knights, I offered them safe haven. Bren and Valdis have been allies for many years now.”
“Perhaps Tyren thinks you still are. After all, he is fighting for the man who will soon marry your daughter.” Tawl sighed heavily. He did not like politics. To him diplomacy was just an excuse to lie and deceive, and treaties were nothing more than a catalog of greed and compromises.
“If you’re right,” said Melli, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, “why then didn’t he inform the duke of his intentions?”
Tawl knew the answer to that, and he suspected the duke did, too: Tyren wanted to be on the winning side, and at this point in time it looked as if Kylock was set to dominate the north. The leader of the knights was hoping to benefit from Kylock’s success. Why bother consulting with the duke, when the man who would one day take his place was so much more accommodating and ambitious?
Only now Kylock might not take the duke’s place. The three people in this room and the falconer knew that a marriage would soon be announced that threatened to take the title of Bren away from Catherine and her husband. All Melli needed to do was beget a male child and the balance of power would change in the north. It would shift eastward, back toward Bren. Tawl was more worried than ever about Melli’s safety. He was now forced to add Tyren and his fellow knights onto the growing list of her potential assassins.
“May I speak plainly, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
“Make the betrothal announcement soon, and arrange the marriage quickly thereafter.” Tawl was about to say more, giving the reasons behind his advice, but the duke forestalled him with a warning glance.
“I agree entirely, my friend. With a lady as beautiful as this,” he paused and smiled at Melli, “it’s hard for a man to wait.”
Tawl bowed in acknowledgment of the reprimand. The duke obviously wanted to keep Melli in the dark about the politics surrounding the wedding. The truth was he needed to marry her quickly before events on the far side of the mountains got out of hand.
Suddenly feeling rather weary, Tawl asked if he could take his leave. He did not want to stay and witness the duke’s deception. Putting his wineglass down, he was surprised to see that it was almost full. The desire to drink had thankfully passed. He smiled to himself. If it had been ale, things might have been different.
As he made his way across the room, he tried to catch Melli’s eye, but she purposely avoided him. He wondered if she realized how much the duke underestimated her.
• • •
The second the door was closed, Melli turned to the duke. “So you are hoping to marry me quickly?” She strode into the middle of the room, centering herself on the green and scarlet rug that rested idly against the stone. As always when she was nervous, her instincts were to go on the attack.
The duke put his glass down and stepped toward her.
Melli had turned the rug into her own territory and she did not want him intruding upon it. She raised her hand. “Come no further, Your Grace. Lest you bring the truth in your wake.”
He did not seem pleased, but he stayed where he was. “Do not let what Tawl spoke of concern you,” he said, his voice edged with impatience. “I had planned to marry you quickly before today.” His gray eyes met hers without blinking. He stood straight, his sword ran gleaming along his side. His deep blue cloak cast a cold hue upon a face already lacking in blood. “I see no reason to change my design.”
Melli felt afraid. For the first time since she had met him, she realized how powerful he was. On his word armies would move. All along she had known what he was, but until now she had not seen the force behind the man. She got the distinct feeling he would marry her now, even if he had to drag her unwilling and unconscious body to the altar.
It was time to tell him who she was. For too long she had put it off: this was the fifth day she had spent in the palace since returning from the lodge, and now, perversely, when she felt at her weakest, it seemed the right moment to do it. Determined to be in control of the situation, Melli made the duke wait whilst she retrieved her wine from the chest. With slowness just short of insolence, she made her way back to the center of the rug. Curbing her desire to down the wine in one swallow, she took a single, taunting sip. “What would give you reason to change your design?”
The duke’s face was unreadable. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. “When you come to know me better, Melliandra, you will learn that I am not the sort of man who enjoys playing games. Now speak your piece before I lose my temper.”
This was not the cue Melli was hoping for, but she had a lifetime of experience dealing with people quick to anger—that was the one defining trait of the Maybor men—and she refused to let him intimidate her. “Very well,” she said. “Let me tell you this: I am not who you think I am.”
Was that a smile that flitted across the duke’s face? Just as quickly it was gone. “Go on,” he said.
“My father is not Lord Luff, and I am nobody’s illegitimate daughter.” As she spoke, Melli was aware of a measure of pride entering into her voice. “My family holds power in the kingdoms second only to Kylock. My father is Maybor, Lord of the Eastlands.”
She didn’t know what reaction to expect from the duke—disbelief, disappointment, rage—but she had expected something. However, the duke remained composed, even to the point of pausing to take a drink from his glass. Wiping his lips with his fist, he said, “And how did you end up here?”
Melli had already prepared her story. “I had an argument with my father and I ran away from home. I had just seen the error of my ways, and was about to return to the court, when I was kidnapped by Fiscel the flesh-trader.” Her words sounded a little stilted, so she added with venom, “What does it matter to you, anyway? You are not my keeper.”
“But I am the man you agreed to marry.”
The duke turned his back on her. Melli seized the opportunity to take a hearty gulp of wine. She was amazed the duke was taking the news so calmly.
Spinning round to face her, he said, “I cannot say that what you have disclosed surprises me. All the time I have known you, I have never once seen a sign of the humility that is so often the birthright of the illegitimate. Instead, I see a woman who is used to wealth and power. I do not doubt that you are Maybor’s daughter.”
“And does it affect your opinion of me?”
“No. I asked you to marry me—not your family.”
“Are you angry?”
“No. You lied to protect your family’s good name, and later you were trapped by that lie. I hope one day to inspire such magnificent devotion.”
Melli could hardly believe what she was hearing. The duke was actually making excuses for her! And noble ones, at that. There was only one possible explanation: he must truly love her.
The duke came toward her and this time Melli let him set foot on her rug. He took the glass from her hand and threw it toward the grate, where it smashed loudly, sending wine and splinters spilling onto the stone. Clasping hold of her hand, he bent down on one knee. “Listen to me, Melliandra,” he said. “I want you, and only you. I make no decisions lightly and it would take more than a few falsehoods to make me change my mind. My first wife and I were betrothed at birth, so you are the only woman I have ever asked to marry me. And now that you have agreed, I am anxious that the wedding be soon.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I may be a forgiving man,
but I am not a patient one.”
Melli was experiencing a confusion of emotions: pleasure, pride, astonishment. Nothing the duke had done impressed her more than the casual way he dismissed her family as unimportant. It made no difference to him whether she was rich or poor, highborn or illegitimate. This man, who wielded power as casually as others wielded blades, wanted her for his wife. She came and knelt beside him. Raising his hand to her lips, she said, “I will marry you as soon as you wish.”
Taking her in his arms, he kissed her full on the mouth. His lips were devoid of softness, and she found herself pressing against the hardness of his teeth. Abruptly, he pulled away.
“I must go. Arrangements need to be made. I think we will announce our marriage at the Feast of First Sowing.” Standing up, he began to pace the room. “Then with the Church’s blessing we can be married within a month.”
Melli stayed where she was, his saliva slowly drying on her lips. She was disappointed that he had left her side. Something inside of her had been stirred by his nearness and she felt cheated by his withdrawal.
“I will send Bailor to you,” he said. “You and he can make whatever arrangement you wish—clothes, jewels, settlements. I will leave that all to you.”
“Can I inform my family?”
Again, another smile. “I don’t think that’s necessary just yet.”
“Am I now free to move about the palace as I please?” “No. Until the announcement has been made you will see only Bailor, Tawl, your maid, and myself.” Perhaps realizing he had spoken harshly, he added, “You must be patient a little longer, my love. Things will be different after First Sowing.”
Melli ran her fingers along the weft of the rug. From a distance the design had looked like flowers, yet now, looking closely, she saw that they weren’t flowers at all, rather cleverly woven chains.