The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  The last time he had eaten was two days back. Almost crazy with hunger, he had risked nearing a farmhouse in daylight. The chicken coop was farthest away from the main building, so he headed there. He managed to crack open and eat half a dozen eggs before the dogs were set on him. With yolk dripping down his chin and a few more eggs stuffed down his tunic, he made a run for it. He had escaped unharmed, though sadly he couldn’t say the same for the eggs. Not only had the shells cracked open, but the yolk had somehow gotten down his britches. A few hours later, the smell was enough to put him off eggs for life.

  In the end he’d finally thrown himself, fully clothed, into a stream. Having lived through the rains of a week ago, he was not only accustomed to being soaked to the skin, but he’d also built up a certain immunity to it. It would take more than a quick dip in the stream to kill him—even if it did take his clothes a full day to dry.

  Sometimes Jack just wanted to laugh. Here he was: one-time baker’s boy and scribe to Baralis, fleeing across eastern Halcus being pursued by the enemy, nothing to his name except the clothes on his back and the knife at his waist, and with a body bearing so many wounds that he had to keep checking to see if any had reopened and started to bleed. This was definitely not how adventures in books went. He should be famous by now, rich and accomplished, a band of ardent followers in tow, and royalty waiting upon his every word. He should have the girl of his dreams, too.

  Sometimes Jack just wanted to cry. When he thought of Tarissa, of leaving her kneeling in the rain outside Rovas’ cottage, her saying that she was sorry and pleading to come along with him, he wondered if he’d done the right thing. Those were the worst times of all. The times when it was hardest to carry on. The times when he had to physically stop himself from turning around and running back to her door. Once, just once, he’d given in to the impulse.

  It was late at night—always the worst time for people alone—and he couldn’t sleep. No matter what he tried, he could not get Tarissa off his mind. And then, as the moon began to dip toward the west, he reached a point where he no longer wanted to. He wanted to see her, touch her, put his arms around her, and whisper softly that everything would be all right. He headed back there and then, not bothering to wait until dawn. Hours he walked, retracing steps he’d already taken, walking paths he’d already walked. The darkness was his ally and the shadows were his friends. They led him on through the night, making him feel so small and insignificant that he questioned his own judgment. Who was he to condemn another? Who was he to walk away from someone, when he himself was guilty of so much? In a world made large by the glimmering of distant stars, Jack began to feel that nothing he said or did was important. To be alone was frightening, and he needed someone else to make up for all that he was not. He needed Tarissa.

  The sunrise changed everything.

  Pale and majestic, the morning sun rose above the hilltops. Its gentle rays searched out uncertainties just as surely as shadows and made them both disappear with a speed unique to light. As the rays from the sun strengthened, so did Jack’s willpower. As the sun rose higher, Jack’s steps became slower. The world had boundaries again: hills and streams, forests and mountains. It was smaller, less intimidating: a place where one man could make a difference. Resolution returned to him. Tarissa had betrayed him. He didn’t need her; better to be alone than with someone he couldn’t trust.

  Stopping by a stream, he brought water to his lips. He could feel the sun on his back, warming, encouraging, beckoning him to turn around. He had already said his farewells and come so far, it was pure foolishness to return. Standing up, Jack spun around and began once more to walk east, toward the sun.

  As the day went on the sun slowly arced across the sky. Eventually, when it reached the point where it was shining from behind him, the very nature of its rays changed: no longer did they beckon, they pushed.

  In the distance, Jack spotted a pinpoint of light. A farmhouse. His heart thrilled at the sight of it. If he was lucky he’d have shelter tonight. Making his way toward it, he took stock of his body. The gash Rovas had given him on his forearm was healing nicely. Running his fingers down the scab, he could detect no wetness or swelling. Good. His kidneys had pained him on and off for the past few days—the table corner had delivered quite a punch—but for now there was just a bearable dull ache. Bringing his hand up he felt his lip: it was still as big as a barmcake. Magra had wielded the copper pot like a prizefighter, catching both his jaw and his lip in one well-placed blow. Jack dreaded to think what his face looked like: bruises, swelling cuts, and a week’s worth of beard on his chin. He had taken to tactically avoiding still water in order to postpone the shock of seeing himself. He always drank from moving streams.

  All the old injuries to his arms and legs—the dog bites and other wounds he’d received from various exchanges at the garrison—were in the process of changing from scabs to scars, and so they no longer bothered him. However, the one thing that did cause him trouble was his upper chest on his right side, where the Halcus arrow had hit. Mrs. Wadwell had tended the wound, and it would probably have been all right by now if only Rovas hadn’t landed a punch squarely in its center. Jack found he had to be careful with it. He could never put too much pressure on his right arm, nor bear any weight on his right shoulder. All he had to do was slip his hand in his tunic to know that the wound was infected. Bloated, sometimes weeping after a long day’s walk, it looked about as bad as it smelled. Purple veins ran close to the surface, and it was now ringed, courtesy of Rovas, by a yellowy green bruise.

  It throbbed as he approached the farmhouse. Later, before he slept, he would have to slice it open to let out the pus. He tried to keep it clean and always bathed it once a day, but he needed wine, not water, to do the job properly. That or a cauterizing iron.

  Jack stooped down in the bushes. There was now only a small meadow between him and the farmhouse. This was a dairy farm. He listened for the sound of dogs or geese. He heard nothing but the gentle lowing of cattle and their young. He risked moving forward. The cattle picked up his scent, but after a few warning sounds they settled down. He was not a fox, and they knew it. Quickly he cut across the meadow. Stepping in cow pats wasn’t pleasant, but it was useful; it made him smell familiar if there happened to be any geese or poultry around. He made his way around to the back of the building. There was a large pigpen, which he stayed well clear of, a barn and a dairyshed. He made for the dairyshed. If he was lucky, there would be cheese, cream, and buttermilk.

  His stomach grumbled loudly at the thought of food. Jack whispered gently to it, as if it were a small animal. “Not long now,” he said.

  The door to the dairyshed was held closed by a rusty latch. It lifted easily. In he went, plunging from moonlight into darkness. For a few minutes he stood still, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His nose, however, needed no such luxury. It told him food was around, most precisely cheese.

  Hunger did strange things to a man. Jack didn’t feel in the slightest bit guilty about eating whatever he could find. If he had money, he would have left it. But he didn’t, so he would take what he wanted anyway. He needed to survive, and if he had to steal to do so, then so be it. The one thing that he’d learned since leaving Castle Harvell was that the world wasn’t a fair place. The farmer who woke in the morning to discover half a cheese missing should count himself lucky. A lot worse could happen to a man.

  Too many things had happened to Jack over the past months for him to remain naive. When he’d left the kingdoms, he was little more than a boy. Trusting and innocent, he had taken everyone at their word. Not anymore, though. It would be a long time before anyone fooled him again. Still, in some ways he’d been lucky. Even amidst all the fire and chaos at the garrison he had been treated with kindness. Dilburt and Mrs. Wadwell had saved him in more ways than one that night. They had shown him what goodness people were capable of. With generous hearts they had taken him in and cared for him. They asked no questions, nor for anythin
g in return. Jack would remember that always.

  No, the world wasn’t a fair place, but it wasn’t a bad one, either.

  Once his eyes could make out variations in the darkness, Jack set to work looking for whatever food he could find. The cheeses were on a shelf and he brought one of them down. With steady hands he unwrapped the linen cloth. He resisted the urge to bite straight into it and cut himself a fair-sized wedge, instead. His wound would have to wait until tomorrow now; he couldn’t risk slicing it with a dirty knife.

  The cheese was well worth the sacrifice. It was delicious: sharp, crumbly, and dry. Further investigation uncovered a large jug of buttermilk. He sat down on the rush-covered floor and ate and drank himself sick. Cheese and buttermilk, while fine on their own, did not make the best combination. Too rich and creamy by far.

  With a stomach now grumbling from overindulgence, Jack curled up in a ball and covered himself with rushes. Closing his eyes, he settled down and listened for rats. He could never sleep without first being sure that there were none of the evil glassy-eyed rodents around. He hated rats.

  He was almost disappointed when there was nothing to hear but the creak of the woodwork and the sound of the breeze whistling through the cracks. An absence of scurrying noises meant that he was free to sleep. Nowadays he was almost more afraid of sleep than he was of rats. His dreams gave him no peace. Tarissa was always in them, crying and pleading one minute, laughing slyly the next. The garrison burned anew each night, and sometimes she burned along with it. Rats might make his flesh crawl, but they never left him feeling guilty and confused.

  Before he knew it, his eyelids had grown heavy, and sleep gently eased her way in. Perhaps it was the unique combination of cheese and buttermilk, perhaps not, but for the first time in many weeks he didn’t dream of Tarissa. He dreamed of Melli. Her pale and beautiful face kept him company through the night.

  Thirty-two

  Smoke rose from a forest of candles. A field of wildflowers rested in silver bowls. A mine’s worth of silver graced the finest linen and a mountain’s worth of crystal caught the light. A rainbow of colors decked the walls, whilst a meadow of fragrant grasses graced the floor. It was the Feast of First Sowing in Bren, and the duke’s palace was dressed in its springtime best.

  Long tables spanned the length of the great hall. Swans swam across the tabletops, their brilliant white feathers masking cooked birds beneath. Boar’s heads stuffed with songbirds rested upon exquisite tapestries of blue and gold, and newly birthed calves were impaled upon spits.

  The lords and ladies who sat around the tables were the most influential people in Bren. Their clothes were made from the finest materials, but the colors were strangely subdued: dark grays, deep greens, and black. The women made up for the plainness of their dresses by wearing their grandest jewels. Diamonds and rubies flashed in the candlelight, and precious metals tinkled with each raised cup.

  The duke surveyed the hall. The court was apprehensive tonight. Men and women alike were drinking heavily, yet eating barely anything at all. Lord Cravin caught his eye. He was an ambitious and powerful man who had long been opposed to the match of Catherine and Kylock. The duke inclined his head toward him. Cravin would be pleasantly surprised this evening. Lord Maybor, who was sitting nearby, spotted the exchange. The duke raised his cup to him. Maybor, red of face and dressed more magnificently than anyone else around the table, mirrored his gesture. The duke actually had to stop himself from laughing. The man had no inkling that this night would change his life.

  He glanced quickly to the small door that stood to the side of the main table. Behind its wooden panels waited the lady who would alter the course of history: Melliandra, his bride-to-be. She had no idea her father was here. He could see her now, downing a little more wine than was good for her and scolding her servant for listening at the door, whilst she herself did the same. It wouldn’t be long now before he brought her out.

  Shifting his gaze from the door, back to the table, something caught his eye that gave him cause to be wary. Baralis was sitting next to Catherine. That in itself was a blatant disregard of his wishes, but what was more alarming, however, was the way the girl leaned over the man, feeding him meats and sweet breads, her breasts brushing against his arm. Any other time the duke would not have tolerated such behavior. He would simply have pulled Catherine from the table and sent her to bed. She had obviously been drinking, for nothing else could explain her immodest behavior. Even as he watched, Baralis placed a restraining hand upon Catherine’s arm and moved his chair a little way back from hers. The duke was pleased, but not surprised. Baralis was not a stupid man.

  But he would soon be an angry one.

  And Catherine? How would she react? She would not be pleased, that much was certain. The duke shrugged. Temper tantrums of young girls were easily dealt with.

  It was time. Eating had stopped, and drinking had reached the point where people no longer bothered to hide the quantities they drank. The duke brought down his cup, banging it loudly on the table. All eyes turned toward the noise. He stood up, and a hush descended upon the room.

  • • •

  Maybor had been waiting for this all night. He’d barely tasted the seven pheasants, the haunch of venison, and the two jugs of lobanfern red which he had consumed. His mind was on what the duke was going to do to Baralis. It was high time that villainous demon was dealt with once and for all. Of course, the puzzling thing was that Baralis would finally be getting his way tonight: Kylock would wed Catherine. Indeed, His Grace was in the process of making the announcement now. Maybor sat back in his chair, his cup resting upon his knee, and listened to what the duke was saying.

  “My lords and ladies,” he said, speaking in a strong and ringing voice, “I have chosen the Feast of First Sowing to make two important announcements. As you know, First Sowing is traditionally a time when we pray for healthy crops and high yields from the seeds which we have newly sown. I hope for the same bountiful harvest from the two seeds I sow tonight.”

  The duke paused. A wave of nervous chatter and coughing rose up to fill the silence. People shifted restlessly in their seats. Maybor noticed many a person using the short break to bring wine cups to their lips. All was silence when the duke spoke again.

  “Firstly, I must inform you of my decision to go ahead with the marriage of Catherine and Kylock—”

  The duke was cut off in midsentence by the noise of the crowd. A wave of something close to panic spread fast across the room. Breath was sharply inhaled, eyebrows were raised, and expressions of disbelief were on everyone’s lips. Maybor glanced toward Lord Cravin: the man’s expression was grim. Baralis and Catherine, on the other hand, looked as smug as a pair of newlyweds. Maybor began to feel a little wary. What if the duke had been leading him astray? Promising something that would upset Baralis, just to keep him quiet?

  The duke did not look pleased. The skin was drawn tight across the bridge of his nose and his lips were drawn into a whip of a line. He rapped his cup on the table. “Silence!” he boomed.

  Every single member of the court froze on the spot. Cups were suspended in midair, tongues were caught in mid-flap.

  Satisfied, the duke continued. “Not only have I decided to go ahead with the match, but I have also set a date. Two months from tonight, my beloved daughter Catherine will wed King Kylock.”

  The crowd lost control once more. The hall was filled with the hiss of dissatisfied whisperings. It was a testament to the duke’s power that no one dared speak out loud.

  Abruptly, Lord Cravin stood up. He bowed to the duke. “I request Your Grace’s permission to leave the table,” he said, pronouncing every word precisely.

  “Request denied, Lord Cravin. You will sit and hear my second announcement like everybody else.”

  Humiliated, Lord Cravin shot a look filled with pure malice toward the duke.

  Maybor fancied he saw a spark of amusement twinkle in the duke’s eye. The court, seeing how sharply Lord Cravin
was dealt with, grew more subdued.

  The duke beckoned his daughter to stand. Catherine did as she was bidden, her pearls resting like raindrops against her dress. Borc, but she was beautiful! thought Maybor. Her pale and heavy hair was piled high atop her head. Combs and pins didn’t quite succeed in keeping all the locks in place, and several golden curls fell like jewels around her face.

  “To my daughter, Catherine,” said the duke, raising his cup high. “Who, even before the crops begin to ripen in the field, will become queen of the Four Kingdoms.”

  Maybor choked on his wine. Queen of the Four Kingdoms. Melliandra should be the woman who bore that title. His daughter should have been queen. In all the plotting and politicking surrounding Catherine’s inheritance, somehow the fact that the duke’s daughter would be made queen of the kingdoms had gone unnoticed. Even by himself. Maybor suddenly felt very tired. The crowd cheered halfheartedly. With Kylock rapidly approaching the Halcus capital, things looked very different than when they had first enthusiastically accepted the betrothal.

  The duke waved Catherine down. “Now,” he said. “I come to my second announcement. I have been a long time unmarried. It is over ten years since my beloved wife died, and I think now is the time for me to take another wife.”

  The crowd was stunned. No one spoke. No one moved.

  Maybor leaned forward in his chair. He had an idea of what the duke was up to: he was attempting to supplant Catherine as his heir by producing a legitimate male child to take her place.

  The duke continued. “I have recently met a lady of high birth. A beautiful young woman who has agreed to be my wife. I know this will come as a surprise to most of you here, but I intend to marry her within the month.”

  With the noise of the crowd sounding in his ears, Maybor turned to look at Baralis. The man was as pale as a corpse. This was coming as a rather nasty surprise. Maybor smiled softly. The great lord’s plans were about to go sadly awry.