by J. V. Jones
Jack felt the cup break in his hand. “What makes you think you know so much?”
“I felt it. I felt the blind unfocused rage. I felt wave after ceaseless wave of drawing.” Stillfox’s hand was up and pointing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jack. You might be strong, but you have no skill whatsoever. What you did at the garrison was unforgivable. You let your emotions form the drawing: the most foolish thing any sorcerer could do. You acted like a spoiled child—making others pay for your pain. Your power is matched only by your ignorance.
“And that’s why I brought you here, Jack. Not because I’m in the habit of helping road-weary travelers, but because you’re a danger to those around you, and it’s about time someone took you in hand.”
Jack was aware that Stillfox was looking at him, but he couldn’t meet the herbalist’s eyes. He looked down at the broken cup instead. He was no longer angry; he was ashamed. Everything Stillfox had said was true.
“I never meant to hurt anyone.”
Stillfox was beside him in an instant, his arm coming to rest on Jack’s shoulder. “I know, lad. I know.” The herbalist’s voice was soft and lilting once more. “I’m sorry I spoke harshly—”
“No, don’t be,” said Jack. “I deserved it. You’re right, I am dangerous.” He let the pieces of cup fall to the floor. It was time to place his trust in someone. He took a deep breath. “I need help. I don’t know what’s happening to me, or why I’ve got these powers. I feel as if I’m supposed to do something, only I don’t know what it is.”
Stillfox nodded gently. “What did you see before?”
“I saw Helch as clearly as if I were there. The blood, the flies, the bodies.” Jack shuddered, remembering. “It was like a warning.”
“And has anything like this happened before?”
“Yes. There have been other times in the past few months.” Jack made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. “Whenever the war is mentioned, my stomach knots up, and I get an overwhelming urge to take off and be part of it.”
“To go to Helch?”
“No. To Bren.” Jack met Stillfox’s gaze. “I think I’ve known all along that Kylock would win the war with the Halcus.”
“He hasn’t won yet,” said Stillfox. “The capital may have fallen, but all of eastern Halcus is free. It could take Kylock weeks, even months, before the entire country surrenders.”
“What happens when it does?” Jack thought he already knew the answer, yet he wanted to hear it from Stillfox, from a man who lived in Annis.
“The north will turn into a battlefield. No one will be willing to stand around and watch Kylock build himself an empire. The fact that he’s made it to Helch has caught everyone by surprise. It’s nothing short of miraculous, and Highwall and Annis are both terrified that they could become victims of a similar miracle.” Stillfox was back pounding at the bark with his pestle. “Kylock will soon have Bren on one side of the mountains and Halcus on the other. And it won’t be long before he turns his gaze on the powers in between.”
“How soon will this happen?” asked Jack.
“I can’t say. It depends on Kylock. Annis and Highwall are waiting to see what he’ll do next.”
Jack suddenly felt very tired. The lacus was reasserting itself. He stifled a yawn. It wouldn’t be long now before he fell asleep. “What has all this to do with me, though? I’m from the kingdoms. I should be glad that Kylock looks set to forge an empire.”
“I think you already know the answer to that, Jack,” said Stillfox softly. “You have a part to play in what is to come.”
“But why—”
“It doesn’t matter why. That’s not important. It’s how that counts. What happened at the garrison proves that you are somehow involved in the war. Without knowing it you actually aided Kylock’s cause.” Stillfox spoke quickly and in earnest. “What you need to do now is gain some measure of control over your powers so that nothing like that happens again. Next time you form a drawing you should know exactly what you’re doing, and what the consequences are going to be. I can’t tell you what your role will be—that’s for you to find out on your own—but I can prevent you from making further mistakes. You need to be taught how to master what you have inside. That much I can do.”
Jack looked into Stillfox’s blue eyes. “Why would you do this for me?”
“Perhaps I, too, have a role. Perhaps I am meant to teach you.”
• • •
“No, Bodger, if you want to get a girl randy, you don’t give her oysters.”
“Why not, Grift?”
“Because you can never be too sure with oysters, Bodger. They’re more likely to give a wench a nasty rash around the vitals than get her feeling randy.”
“Really, Grift?”
“Aye, Bodger. That’s if she doesn’t choke on ’em first.”
“What food does get the women going, then, Grift?”
“Bread pudding, Bodger.”
“Bread pudding, Grift?”
“Aye, Bodger. The strongest aphrodisiac known to man. There’s not a wench alive who won’t be willing to lie flat on her back after two servings of good and thick bread pudding. It takes the fight right out of a girl.”
“So it doesn’t exactly make a wench randy, then, Grift. It just sort of wears them out.”
“Exactly, Bodger. That’s the best a man like you can hope for.” Grift took a swig of his ale. “Mind they don’t eat it with sauce, though.”
“Why’s that, Grift?”
“Sauce makes wenches uppity, Bodger. Start demanding satisfaction, they do.”
“Ah, gentlemen, as talkative as ever, I see.”
Bodger and Grift both swung around at the sound of the smooth, mocking voice.
Baralis was standing by the entrance to the chapel. He had managed to open the door and step inside without being heard. “You are alone?” he asked as he closed the door.
Grift nodded. “Aye, sir.” By his foot lay an empty jug of ale, and he silently nudged it under the pew. He didn’t want Baralis knowing how much they had been drinking.
“Good. Then I will get straight to the point. You do recall that you owe me a debt of gratitude?” Baralis didn’t wait for a reply. “I could have had both of you whipped for the insolence of your tongues.” A tiny smile graced his lips. “And still could, if I chose.”
“We’re most sorry about what we said on the journey here, Lord Baralis,” said Bodger. “We meant no offense.”
Grift placed a silencing hand on Bodger’s arm. He would deal with this. “What do you want from us, Lord Baralis?” The man was not after apologies. He had come to strike a deal.
Baralis approached the two guards. He lifted his nose up and sniffed at the air. “Ale to wash down the gossip, eh?”
“Just half a jug—”
Grift stopped Bodger in midsentence by a swift kick to the shin. “What’s it to you?” he asked, meeting Baralis’ eye.
“Nothing at all.” Baralis was so close now that Grift had to physically stop himself from moving back. Bodger had already done so and was now pinned against the back of the pew. “In fact,” continued Baralis, “I hope you will be drinking tomorrow evening. I’ll even send you the jugs myself—only the best, of course.”
“Why would we want to drink tomorrow?” asked Grift. He was beginning to feel very wary.
“Because when you are drinking on the other side of the chapel doors, you will miss the passage of one man through them.”
“Who is this man?”
Baralis’ hand came up. “Ask no questions, my friend. Just do as I say.” His voice was smooth, tempting. “Let the man pass and I will consider your debt repaid.”
Grift knew he had little choice but to do as Baralis asked. The man could have them thrown out of the guard, whipped, tortured, poisoned, or worse. He cursed the day the king’s chancellor had overheard them speaking. To be indebted to Baralis was the same as being indebted to the devil—both would take a man’s soul given half a c
hance.
“You leave us little choice, Lord Baralis,” he said.
“I see you’re a sensible man. I trust your young companion there will also be sensible.” He motioned toward Bodger.
“Bodger will do as I say.”
“Good.” Baralis brought his hands together. “Remember, not a word of this to anyone.” He began to walk down the aisle.
Grift spoke up. “Will this man you speak of be coming through again?”
Baralis wheeled around. “Yes.” He stood and considered for a moment. The expression on his face turned from thoughtfulness to pure cunning. “Raise the alarm when he does. I don’t want him leaving the palace alive.”
Thirty-five
No, Nessa,” snapped Melli. “Not so tight. I won’t be able to breathe, let alone walk up the aisle.” She knew she was being a little harsh on the girl, but she was nervous. “Hand me the cup of wine.” The servant dashed off to do her bidding. A moment later Melli heard footsteps behind her.
“My lady’s wine.” It was Tawl who held forth the cup, not Nessa.
Melli deliberately hid her pleasure at seeing him. “Where’s Nessa?” she said, snatching the cup from him.
“She’s slipped out for a moment. I think you wore her down.” Tawl’s voice was gently mocking. “You will make a beautiful bride, but hardly a serene one.”
“I look beautiful?”
“Breathtaking.”
Melli had to look away. There was too much truth in Tawl’s eyes. “Will you be attending the wedding?” she asked, raising the cup to her lips.
“Yes. I will be escorting you and your husband back to your chambers.”
Husband. Melli flinched at the word; she couldn’t stop herself. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. She felt as if she were caught up in something that she was now powerless to stop. It was as if the marriage had become a separate entity; it was a force unto itself, and its momentum was so great that it carried her along with it. Melli had been genuinely shocked when the duke had proposed such a quick marriage. She had been hoping for at least a few weeks warning, but it wasn’t to be. The duke had insisted on marrying her today—in secret.
“Open the shutters,” she said to Tawl. “Let me see what my wedding day promises.”
Tawl, always so quick to do her bidding, was by the window in an instant. He pulled back the shutters to reveal a beautiful blue sky. Melli came and stood by him. The outside air was warm against her face. The great lake was as smooth as glass. “A perfect day,” she murmured. Her hand felt for Tawl’s. It was waiting for her.
The door opened and in strode her father. Tawl and Melli quickly pulled apart. Maybor was dressed in full splendor. Wearing the family colors of red and gold, he was bedecked from head to foot in rubies and silk. Even his shoes bore two matching stones. “Melliandra,” he said, “you look beautiful. Beautiful.”
She, too, wore red. A heavy satin dress of deepest crimson with a fortune’s worth of pearls sewn upon the skirt. She had developed an almost superstitious dislike for the color, but she wasn’t wearing it for herself. She wore it to honor her father. She stepped forward to meet him. Maybor caught her up in a huge bear hug. His smell was so familiar: expensive fragrances and lobanfern red. She felt like a child again.
Placing Melli down on the floor before him, Maybor said, “I am very proud this day, my daughter.”
“Even though I’m not marrying a king?” There was so much more gray in his hair now, thought Melli. How much of it was she responsible for?
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You have made your own choice, and I’ll tell you now: ’tis a better one than I made for you.” It was her father’s way of saying he was sorry.
“You should have known I would pick no pauper.” She forced herself to smile. It was neither the time nor the place for tears.
“I am glad I am here today,” said Maybor gently.
Melli nodded. She was glad, too. Her father’s presence was a blessing; she drew strength from his nearness. After Catherine’s outburst on the night of the wedding announcement, the only thing that had kept Melli sitting at the table was Maybor. He held her hand all night. She had wanted to run away from the accusations and the hostile stares of the court. Yet she couldn’t let her father down. The great dignity he demonstrated that night had moved her deeply, and she had been determined to follow his example. People might have left that night shaking their heads over Catherine’s behavior, but no one could find fault with Maybor and his daughter.
Melli would cherish the memory of her father’s welcome to the end of her days. She had gone through her life thinking that Maybor did not love her, that he cared only for his sons, and that she was nothing but a possession to him. The Feast of First Sowing had shown her how wrong she had been. Oh, she was not stupid; of course he was thrilled that she was marrying the most powerful man in the north—things could not have worked out better from his point of view—but wealth and titles hadn’t been on his mind when he leapt up to meet her that night. It had been love that was the strength behind those three mighty leaps. She was sure of it.
“Are you ready, my daughter?” Maybor offered her his arm.
Was it time already? Everything was moving so quickly. Since returning from the hunting lodge, she had hardly had time to catch her breath. Melli looked quickly toward Tawl, and then back to her father. If she were to back out now she would be failing both of them. She took Maybor’s arm.
Nessa came back into the room and made the final adjustments to her dress. Melli smiled tenderly at her father, who kept patting her arm as if he still couldn’t believe she was real. Tawl hadn’t moved from the window. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he was watching her.
When Nessa backed away, her task complete, Melli began to walk toward the door. Maybor pulled against her arm, halting her. Slipping his hand into his tunic, he pulled out a diamond and ruby necklace. Melli recognized it straightaway. It was her mother’s: a wedding gift from Maybor to his new bride. The rubies were the size of cherries, and diamonds surrounded them like petals round a bud. “I brought it as a gift for Catherine,” said Maybor. “But when it came time to give it to her, I found I could not do it. The necklace was always meant for you.” With large, red hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, Maybor fastened the necklace about Melli’s neck.
“Let us go now, daughter,” he said, smoothing her hair back in place. Melli nodded, unable to speak. Father and daughter walked toward the door. Somehow Tawl was in front of them now, opening the door, then placing a plain woolen cloak over Melli’s shoulders. She caught his eye as she left the room. Perhaps Tawl would not have been disappointed if she had backed out of the wedding, after all.
• • •
“Tell me about your family, Jack,” Stillfox requested.
Jack felt a quick flare of anger at the casual inquiry. He hated people asking about his family. And he hated himself for feeling ashamed. “Why do you need to know anything about my family?” he said. “I would never ask about yours.”
Stillfox’s eyebrows went up. “I didn’t ask for curiosity’s sake, Jack. I asked because I want to find out more about your powers: where they came from, if you inherited them from your father or mother.”
They were sitting in Stillfox’s cottage, close to the fire. It was a small place and boasted only two rooms: the kitchen and the storeroom. Every shelf in the kitchen was crowded with jars and baskets containing herbs and spices. Sprigs of thyme and mistletoe hung from the rafters, drying slowly in the heat from the fire. Bowls of mushrooms and toadstools rested on the mantel, their pungent odors telling of various stages of decay. There was rosemary pickled in vinegar and sage pickled in brine. There were so many different plants and spices on show that Jack couldn’t even begin to guess at the names of most of them. He might have been brought up in a kitchen, but he had never seen a selection as great as this.
“Do you get your powers from the herbs?” he asked, attempting to change the
subject.
Stillfox shook his head. “No, lad. Certain herbs can enhance a man’s powers, but they can’t give him what he was not born with.”
“So sorcery is passed down in the blood?” As Jack spoke he thought of his mother. It had been so long since she was last on his mind.
“Sorcery can come from three sources, Jack. Most commonly it is passed from parent to child, from generation to generation. Mostly, as time goes on, the amount of power lessens over time, so a mother with ability will usually give birth to a child with less power than herself. Of course there are exceptions, and if two people with sorcery in their blood join together and have a child, then that child might have greater ability than both of its parents.” Stillfox made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “But nothing is certain.”
“The second way a person can receive sorcery’s gifts is at the exact moment of conception. On certain rare nights the air becomes heavy with fate and prophesy, and sorcery itself speeds the sending of the seed.” The herbalist made a soft clicking sound in the back of his throat. “A child begot at such a time may be powerful indeed.”
Without meeting Jack’s eyes, he turned to the fire and basted the joint. It was a side of lamb that had been rubbed with mint and pepper. Fragrant cooking smells rose from the hearth like smoke.
Jack barely noticed the smell of the meat. He was trying to recall if his mother had ever done anything in his presence that might have been magical. All his memories brought him was guilt. He had been so careless, never listening, never watching, always taking her for granted. Except toward the end, when it had been too late. No, she had done nothing magical, but could he honestly say he would have noticed if she did?