The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  • • •

  Melli was growing impatient. She had paced the length of the antechamber so many times now that she could swear her feet had worn a path in the stone. “Nessa, what d’you hear now?”

  “Well, m’lady,” said the small and dumpy girl. “I think His Grace looks set to introduce you.”

  “Out of my way.” Melli pushed Nessa away from the door and put her own ear to the wood. The crowd, which had been so vocal only minutes earlier, was now ominously quiet. Melli stepped away when she realized the duke was speaking. For some reason, she didn’t want to hear what he said about her. “Pour me another glass of wine,” she ordered. Nessa swiftly obliged. Melli’s hands were shaking so much that she was forced to drink the wine leaning forward, with her neck stretched out, to avoid any spilling on her dress.

  Just as she brought the cup to her lips, three knocks sounded upon the door. The signal for her to make her entrance. Thrusting the cup into Nessa’s waiting hand, Melli smoothed down her dress. “Do I look all right?” The maid nodded, but Melli barely noticed. The door opened up in front of her and she was blinded by light and smoke.

  Melli heard the sound of a thousand bated breaths. She froze, unable to move a limb. A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek. Never in her life had she been so afraid. She felt a strong desire to turn around and run away, all the way back to the kingdoms and the safety of her father’s arms. What had she gotten herself into? A hostile court awaited her, ready to criticize and condemn.

  Then, just as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, the duke was by her side. His arm was upon hers, lending her strength. His lips gently brushed against her lips. “Come, my love,” he said. “Come and meet your courtiers. I promise I will not leave your side.” Never had she heard him speak so tenderly. His voice was both a caress and a comfort. He looked into her eyes. “Your beauty makes me very proud tonight.” Guiding her from the shadows, he led her into the great hall at Bren.

  “This, lords and ladies,” he said, walking her toward the main table, “is Melliandra of the Eastlands, daughter of Lord Maybor, and the woman who will soon become my wife.”

  • • •

  Maybor dropped his cup. It was Melliandra. His Melliandra. All these months of not seeing her, and now she had turned up here. He stood up. In three mighty leaps he was beside her. A second later she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t give a damn if anyone saw them. He ran his hands along her hair; it was as soft as he remembered. She was so small, so frail. He didn’t want to let her go.

  “Melli, Melli,” he whispered. “My sweet Melli. I never thought I’d see you again.” She was shaking like a newborn. He felt something wet on his neck, and realized that she was crying, too. Maybor pulled away, wiping the tears from his eyes with his fist. His daughter was ten times more beautiful than he remembered.

  “Father, I’m sorry,” she said quietly, for his ears alone.

  Maybor took up the corner of his robe and gently rubbed the tears from her cheek. “Hush, little one. Now is not the time for regrets. We are a family again, and the time has come for us to act like one.”

  Catching hold of Melli’s hand, he turned to face the duke and his court. A performance was called for now. A good one. Not only did he need to make these people think that he had known about the wedding all along, but he also had to impress them. Three days back, the duke had asked if he could rely on his composure. Tonight, he would prove that he could be more than composed—he would actually seal the pact.

  Maybor cleared his throat. He looked around the great hall, meeting every eye that was focused upon him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, giving proper weight to every word. “I am more than pleased to give my only daughter, Melliandra, in marriage to Bren. I choose the word Bren carefully for I am well aware that Melliandra will wed more than just the duke; she will wed the city itself. I can never hope to repay such an overwhelming honor, but as a father it is my duty to try. I have humbly offered the duke one-third of my eastern holdings and one-quarter of my wealth. He has cordially accepted, and the contracts have been drawn.” There. Let no one say that Maybor could not think on his feet.

  He quickly looked toward the duke. The man nodded his approval. Hastily grabbing a cup from the table, Maybor came to stand between the duke and Melliandra. “A toast,” he cried, uniting the two lovers’ hands. “A toast to a glorious match between two of the oldest families in the north. May the might of Bren and the Eastlands forever be united.”

  As Maybor drew his cup to his lip, something dark in the corner of his vision caught his attention. It was Baralis. He looked ready for murder.

  • • •

  Tawl watched as the crowd went into a frenzy over the toast. They hardly knew what to make of the marriage, but somehow Lord Maybor had managed to whip up support. Who could not be moved by the sight of a man weeping in happiness at the announcement of his daughter’s marriage? The worldly and cynical court had been touched by such a spontaneous show of paternal affection. Particularly when the man in question had gone on to compose himself and then give a gracious speech. Tawl smiled, his lips brushing against the thick satin curtain. He could certainly see where Melli got her spirit from.

  Tawl could see nearly everyone in the room from his position at the side of the head table. He was concealed in the passageway that connected the great hall to the kitchens. Normally it was used by servants carrying hot food to the tables, but tonight Tawl had turned it into his own personal den. He had arranged to have a thickly lined curtain hung from the entrance and had forbidden anyone in the kitchens to set foot in the passage during the feast. It was the ideal place to keep a discreet eye on what was going on, and if matters came to a head, it would also provide the means for a quick escape. He could have Melli out of the hall and into the kitchens in less than a minute.

  He didn’t think it would come to that, though. Not tonight. But it would come soon. He pressed his eye against the slit and searched out Baralis’ face. The man was not even bothering to keep up appearances. Whilst the people of the court were at least putting on a show of goodwill for the newly betrothed couple, Baralis was sitting there, lips drawn to a thin line, eyes dark with hatred, stabbing away at the tabletop with the point of his eating knife.

  Tawl’s gaze traveled to the girl sitting to the right of Baralis: the exquisite Catherine of Bren. Appearances could be so deceptive. She looked like a chaste virgin: she was not. She looked like a sweet angel: she was not. She looked like the sort of girl who would never harm a fly: most definitely, she was not. Even now, Tawl could remember the venom in her voice the day she had sworn to see him dead. Unpredictable, dangerous, and a consummate actress, the duke’s daughter was not what she seemed.

  Just as the cheering died down, Catherine stood up. Tawl saw how pale her face was and how her hand shook as she grasped the back of the chair. His fingers encircled his blade.

  “I would like to propose my own toast,” she said, her voice high with emotion. “A toast to my father. A man who would rather make a fool of himself by marrying a woman half of his age than let his daughter keep her rightful place.” With that, she swept her arm across the table, sending plates and cups flying.

  Two unarmed guards, whom Tawl had briefed earlier for just such a situation, came to lead her away. She fought them off. “This marriage is a farce,” she cried, wrestling free of the first guard’s grip. Her body became stiff and her eyes began to cloud over. Her cheeks began to fill out as if she were holding her breath. The hand that held the chair shook violently. The very air surrounding her seemed to thicken. All of a sudden she composed herself.

  Tawl, from his position at the far side of Catherine, saw the reason why. Baralis had caught and squeezed her hand, then whispered three words in her ear.

  The effect the words had on Catherine was dramatic. With great dignity, she pulled away from the guards. “Unhand me,” she said. “You forget who I am.” A withering gaze completed the reproof. B
oth men fell back immediately, not even pausing to check with the duke. Head held high, back straight as a spear, Catherine made her way across the hall. She exited through a side door.

  When she was gone, the court began to whisper uneasily.

  Behind the curtain, Tawl was nervous. His palm was wet around the knife. He had taken a risk not coming forward the moment Catherine stood up. He had no wish to humiliate her by leaping out of nowhere, brandishing his knife in her face. The duke would not have approved. It would have looked as if he didn’t trust his own daughter. So he had stayed put, prepared to show himself only if Catherine made a move toward Melli. Yet now, thinking about it, Tawl wasn’t sure that she hadn’t.

  Quickly he looked over to Melli. She was sitting down. The duke was on one side of her, Maybor on the other. She looked tired and a little shaky. As he watched, her father poured her a cup of red wine. With little ceremony, she raised it to her lips and downed it in one. Tawl smiled. Melli was her usual self.

  Still, he had the nagging feeling that something had nearly happened here. Something had passed between Catherine and Baralis. A communication, a warning. And by the looks of it, it had been promptly heeded. In the space of a few seconds, Catherine had changed from a woman about to fall into an anger-driven trance to a self-possessed lady of the court. What had Baralis said to her to bring about such a change? And what would have happened if he had said nothing at all?

  Tawl’s mind traveled back five years to the very first time he’d met Bevlin. That evening was the only time the wiseman had ever spoken openly about sorcery to him. “Yes, there are those who still practice,” he had said, “most think it would be better if they didn’t.” Was Catherine one of those? Was Baralis? The night he fought the duke’s champion, he had felt something working against him, weakening his will, sapping his strength. Catherine had been Blayze’s lover. Had she used sorcery to aid his cause that night?

  Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t be sure. All he had to go on was a dangerously blank look in Catherine’s eyes and his own intuition. It should have been enough, though. Tawl was appalled at himself—ignorance was no excuse. He should have gotten Melli out of there. To hell with humiliating Catherine!

  He brought his eye close to the slit once more. Melli was sitting at the head of the table. She was putting on an excellent show: eating, drinking, laughing, flirting with Lord Cravin whilst playfully reprimanding the duke about the lack of hot food. She was very brave and very strong. After such an unpleasant incident, most women would have run crying to their rooms. Not Melli. It would take more than bitter words to crush her spirit. Tawl noticed that her left hand was absent from view. Following the line of her arm down, he saw that under the table she was grasping a very tight hold of her father’s hand. Her knuckles were white with the strain. Tawl became very still looking at the sight of Melli’s small pale hand. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.

  As he withdrew from the curtain, he noticed that Baralis was no longer in his seat. He hadn’t even seen him leave. Yet he could guess where he was headed. Satisfied that Melli would be safe for a while, Tawl stole down along the corridor. Cutting through the kitchens to the main gallery, he worked his way back toward the hall. As he drew close to the main door, he noticed the black-robed figure of Baralis heading off in the distance. Tawl followed him. The man knew the palace like the back of his hand. Taking turnings Tawl had never noticed, climbing staircases that were hidden by either curtains or shadows. Eventually they came to part of the palace Tawl recognized: the ladies’ quarters. He watched from a stone recess as Baralis approached a set of bronze-covered double doors. He did not have to knock. The doors swung back and Catherine stood waiting. Hair loose and wearing a gown that revealed her naked shoulders, she beckoned Baralis to enter.

  Tawl turned as the door closed behind them. With a heavy step, he made his way back to the great hall. In the morning, when the duke summoned him to give his account of the evening, what should he say? He took a deep breath and was slow to let it out. How could he tell the duke that his greatest enemy might turn out to be his own daughter?

  Thirty-three

  For two days now, Jack had been walking across land that was both more populated and less flat. He was not happy about either. Walking downhill was fine; sometimes he even broke into a run, but uphill . . . Jack shook his head. Uphill was an entirely different matter. His thighs were sore, his knees were playing up, even his ankles were acting strangely, refusing to allow his feet to pivot properly, causing him pain with every step. If he were ever called upon to design a world, it would be downhill all the way.

  Jack’s main problem, however, was people. He just couldn’t seem to avoid them any longer. The roads were packed with them, the fields were full of them, and the woods had grown so sparse that he was now forced to dash from tree to tree like a spider in search of shade. The one certain way to attract attention, Jack had discovered, was to run across fields in search of cover. He had been chased by two farmers with pitchforks, one dog, and an entire flock of geese. The geese were the worst, honking loudly and taking vicious pecks at his vitals. He’d rather be attacked by a dog any day.

  Hearing a cart rattling by, Jack dived to the ground. He was just off a large road that was hedged on either side by bushes and bracken. Instead of carrying on, the cart lurched to a slow stop. Jack drew in his breath. Had the driver spotted him? Body flat against the ground, Jack lay as still as he could manage. He heard the soft pad of feet in the dirt, and then the bushes next to him began to move. They continued to rustle for some time. Jack assumed that the driver was relieving himself and so decided to stay put. Just when the rustling stopped, and he felt safe to release his breath, the bushes parted and a man stepped through. He had a basket in one hand and a scythe in the other. Seeing Jack, he stopped in his tracks.

  Up came the scythe. “Young man,” he said, in a pleasant, lilting voice, “if your intention is to rob me, I warn you now that I have nothing but herbs in my basket. And nothing but mushrooms in my cart.” He smiled brightly. “Poisonous ones, at that.”

  Stunned, Jack stayed exactly where he was. The scythe was just about the deadliest-looking thing he had ever seen.

  The man noted what he was looking at. “For the herbs, you know.”

  Jack decided to speak. “Sir, I am sorry to catch you unawares. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He tried to keep his words muffled to disguise where he came from.

  The man smiled more broadly than ever. He was of middle height and had shoulder-length gray hair. Not exactly old, yet past middle age. With a casual gesture, he hooked the scythe onto his belt. “First of all, young man, you did not surprise me in the least; secondly, as I’ve been aware of your presence since before I stopped my cart, you most definitely did not catch me unawares.”

  Jack risked sitting up. He brushed the dirt from his face and chest. “You saw me duck into the bushes?”

  The man raised his hand to his clean-shaven chin. “You could say that.” From his chin, his hand sprang forward. “I’m Stillfox, pleased to meet you.”

  Gingerly, Jack took the proffered hand. With a grip as firm as a man half his age, he heaved Jack off the ground.

  “Find any interesting herbs while you were down there?” Stillfox asked, eyes twinkling.

  Jack shrugged.

  He lifted his hand up and examined his palm. “Of course you didn’t. What would a lad from the kingdoms know about Annis herbs, eh?”

  Jack pulled back his hand.

  Stillfox laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not a fortune-teller. Your palm didn’t tell me that, your accent did.”

  Feeling very foolish, Jack mumbled his apologies. Too many things had happened for him to take in at once. He could hardly believe he was in Annis, for one thing. Oh, he’d seen the mountains looming up on the horizon for days now, but he’d paid them little heed, thinking they were impossibly far away in the distance. For the past two days the clouds had been so
thick that he hadn’t seen the mountains at all. Had he really come that far? Or was it far at all? All the time he’d stayed in Rovas’ cottage, he had no idea where it lay in relation to the rest of Halcus. He had been close to the border for months and not even known it; yet another thing Tarissa had kept from him.

  It made sense now: the garrison was situated where it was—in what he had assumed to be the middle of nowhere—to protect the Halcus-Annis border. Even Rovas’ smuggling business would benefit from closeness to the great trading center. “How far are we from the city?” he asked.

  Stillfox was busy searching his basket. He didn’t look up. “Annis is twelve leagues to the east. A good morning’s ride, or a full day’s walk.” Pulling out some rather dry-looking pieces of bark, he cried, “Aha! I knew I had some.”

  “Some what?”

  “Willow bark for your fever, and witch hazel to clean out your wound.”

  Jack’s hand stole to his chest. “But—”

  “I can smell the fester,” said Stillfox, answering his question before he had even asked it. “It needs seeing to, lad. It’s a wonder you’ve got this far.”

  “You don’t know how far I’ve come.” Jack was surprised by the sharpness of his tone. His thoughts were on the garrison. He had to be careful; he didn’t want this man knowing where he’d come from. Everyone in Annis must have heard about the fire by now.

  Stillfox smiled briskly. “Perhaps not, but I do know where you’re going.”

  Jack looked directly into his eyes. He was older than he’d first thought. There were thick bands of black around the blue of his irises. “Where am I going?” he asked.

  Stillfox blinked once. “Home with me.”

  It wasn’t the answer he expected. “Why?”

  “You will not come unless I tell you?”

  “No.”

  Nodding heavily, he said. “Very well. From the moment I put my cart on the road this morning, I sensed your trail in the air. I simply urged my horse forward and followed it here.”