by J. V. Jones
“What is the third way a man can acquire sorcery?” he asked.
Stillfox was turning the spit. The joint was still browning and drops of fat fell sizzling to the flames. “There are some places where sorcery is in the earth itself. I don’t claim to know much about such things—their time has long since passed—but there is one place I know of that still exists. An island where the rock, the soil, and even the sea that surrounds it is held in sorcery’s thrall. It’s the isle of Larn, where the seers are made.
“I don’t know how the land became the way it is. Perhaps it was enchanted by a great sorcerer thousands of years ago, perhaps it has always been that way. I do not know. Its power continues on, though, that I know for sure.” Stillfox’s gaze shifted from Jack to the flames. The fat sizzled and flared, sending black smoke up the chimney with the gray.
When Stillfox spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper. The country lilt was heavy on his tongue. “I heard a tale about a girl who came from Larn once. Her mother was a servant to the priests. The powers that be on the island have ever been wary of feminine temptations and so only allow women who are disfigured at birth to serve them. Not only do they pay a cheap price for such girls, but they also eliminate the chance of one of their priests going astray. These girls are so horribly misshapen that no man would ever look at them.”
“Still one man did. For the girl in the tale was born on the island. Her mother had either been raped or seduced by a priest. The baby girl she gave birth to grew up on Larn. Her developing body acted like a sponge, soaking up the magic of the isle, concentrating it in her blood and her tissue and her bone. Sorcery became part of her very soul.
“The magic of the island is what gives the seers their sight. The great hall of seering is alive with sorcery; it runs through the rock like seams of crystal. It is said to be so powerful that the cavern actually glows with the force of it.” Stillfox shook his head slowly. “ ’Tis a sight I would love to see.”
Jack shuddered. He never wanted to see such a place. “What happened to the girl?”
“She made the mistake of feeling pity for the seers. Each man is bound to a stone until the end of his days. They are tied for two reasons. First, to focus their minds, the seers are roped so tightly that they cannot move. All they can do is think and foretell. To escape their physical torment, they retreat to a world of delusion and insanity, and it is from there they catch glimpses of the future.
“Secondly, the very stone they are bound to gives them their power. It becomes theirs and theirs alone. A slice of the island bound to their backs. The sorcery is skin close; it creates the seers, drives them to madness, and then ultimately destroys them. The stone is their womb, their cradle, and their grave.”
Hiss. More fat on the fire.
“No wonder the girl felt pity for them.” Even though he was chilled to the bone, Jack drew his chair away from the hearth. The smell of cooking meat was making him feel sick.
“The girl would steal into the cavern and tend to the seers. She became friendly with one boy. Newly bound he was, barely old enough to be counted a man. She watched him slowly deteriorate, saw the rope bite against his flesh, saw the bleeding, the sores, the unbearable cramping of muscle. She watched it all with the eyes of a girl in love for the first time. She couldn’t bear it. One day she went down to him and saw that the rope was no longer cutting through his flesh: it was part of it. Nestling underneath the skin, blood vessels had started to form around the rope as if it were bone. The sight of it drove the girl wild. She had just reached womanhood and her powers were flourishing with her body. She lost control. Her anger was focused against the stones, the cavern, the priests. The great hall of seering shook with her power.
“Then the priests came for her. She fought against them, kicking and screaming. Toward the end of the struggle, when she was close to being overpowered, she swore a terrible oath that one day she would destroy Larn.
“The priests carried her, bound and bleeding, from the hall, a wad of wet cloth thrust down her throat to stop the sorcerous flow. Barely able to breathe, she passed out. When she came to she found herself in a small, darkened room. The smell of incense in the air told her she was marked for death. It was her mother—a woman so badly deformed that she could use no muscles on the right side of her face, nor lift her right arm—who saved her. With her help the girl was cast adrift on a small boat in the treacherous waters that surround the island.”
Jack was sitting very still. He had not moved or blinked the whole time Stillfox was speaking. “What happened to the girl?” he asked.
Stillfox shrugged. “She must have reached dry land, else I would not be here telling her tale. I don’t know what became of her, though. It was many, many years ago now. The girl is probably long dead, her oath long forgotten. Larn still exists; as powerful and as deadly as ever.”
Abruptly Jack stood up. The herbalist’s cottage seemed small and confining. The smell of the lamb was unbearable.
“Where are you going?” Stillfox was one step behind him.
“Outside. I need some fresh air.”
“No. You might be spotted.”
Jack shook his head. He would not be hindered. His need to be alone was so great that nothing else mattered. “I will be careful,” he said as he stepped through the door.
The herbalist’s cottage was on the outskirts of a small village, the last house on the street before the rye fields. Jack headed over the plowed fields, down toward a distant copse of trees. The air was warm and the sky was blue and the soil beneath his feet was dry. He walked for over an hour, deliberately not thinking, just looking straight ahead.
Eventually Jack reached his destination. Sweating and out of breath, he slipped under the cool shade of the trees. Flies buzzed past his face and birds called softly, warning each other of his presence. He found the perfect tree: an oak old beyond telling, its branches low and heavy, its trunk as wide as three men. Jack sat beneath it, his feet resting upon its huge raised roots, the small of his back upon the bark. He bent forward, bringing his head down toward his knees, and took a deep breath. When he let it out, his emotions came with it.
Tarissa, Melli, the garrison, his mother, and strangely enough, the story of the girl from Larn—it was all too much. He sobbed quietly, thinking of Tarissa kneeling on the ground at his feet, begging him to take her along. As the tears ran down his face, his thoughts turned to the guard who had fallen from the battlements at the garrison, and he remembered how hard the man had struggled to touch him. Then there was his mother, sick and close to death, yet refusing the help of the physicians. He would never understand why.
Crying was a relief. He had been carrying so much inside for so long, trying to be brave. Only he wasn’t brave, he was scared—frightened of what the future held. Jack wiped his eyes dry. That the future did hold something for him was a fact he no longer doubted.
He and Kylock were connected in some way. Even the mention of the new king’s name was enough to send him reeling. Jack looked toward the deepest part of the wood. Kylock was evil. Had the vision that had shown him that been designed to shape his fate? Was his purpose to oppose Kylock?
Abruptly Jack stood up. He felt restless, overwhelmed with the desire to be doing something, to take action. Striking a path for the fields, he headed back toward the herbalist’s cottage. The sun broke out from behind the clouds the moment he cleared the trees. Its warmth was an unmistakable blessing. Jack walked quickly; he was eager to get started. Stillfox had offered to teach him and it was time to learn all he could.
• • •
“And in God’s holy presence, with the blessing of our savior, his beloved servant Borc, I hereby command those brought here to witness to step forth with their misgivings.” The archbishop of Bren, a tall man with a high nasal voice, swept the room with his glance. No one moved.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tawl saw Catherine’s expression. Hate in its purest, most vivid form was clearly written on her face. T
he other people gathered for the ceremony did not look especially pleased—except, of course, for Maybor, who was beaming ear to ear like a fisherman with a big catch—yet none of them dared show anything except politely frozen smiles.
Melli and the duke stood side by side at the altar, both facing the archbishop. A gaggle of clergy formed a half-circle around the group of three, prayer books and holy water in their hands. On one side of the church no less than four scribes were scribing, busy scratching away at their parchments, recording every detail of the ceremony. Later, when it was finished, all the witnesses—about twenty in number—would be asked to sign and date each account. The duke was taking no chances. Neither was Tawl: outside the chapel an entire company of troops was patrolling both entrances. There would be no uninvited guests at this wedding.
In her dress of crimson, with matching rubies sparkling at her throat, Melli looked impossibly regal. Every eye was upon her. Soon she would be a duchess. Later, if the duke had his way, she would be a queen. Tawl found he couldn’t listen to the ceremony; the vows and prayers sounded false to his ears. He chose not to explore why, fearing that his thoughts might lead him into disloyalty.
Instead he concentrated on the security arrangements. The greatest danger today was the journey from the chapel to the duke’s chamber. Once there the newlyweds should be safe. The duke’s chamber was patrolled day and night by two guards. Tawl had increased the number to eight. There was only one entrance, and the fact that it was on a lower level than the actual living quarters made the whole place more secure. He personally had seen to all the food and drink preparation. Even as he sat here, two food tasters were sampling every dish from the wedding feast. At his suggestion, the duke and Melli would eat alone in their chambers, where they would be safe from the hostile intent of Lord Baralis and the court.
Tawl couldn’t foresee any problems tonight, but tomorrow, when the whole of the city learned of the marriage, and when the duke and his new bride began to perform official duties in public together, the real problems would start. Protecting Melli would be a nightmare then.
Turning his attention back to the ceremony, Tawl was just in time to hear the archbishop pronounce the couple man and wife. As the duke embraced Melli, a cold chill ran down Tawl’s spine. He stood up. He had no desire to look upon the happy couple. While everyone else was busy with congratulations, he made his way to the rear of the chapel. He settled back against a wooden beam and waited until the time came to escort the newlyweds to their chambers.
• • •
“From here you go alone,” hissed Baralis.
Traff was not pleased. “You said you would show me to the passageway.” He did not trust him.
“Take the turn at the end of the corridor. At the bottom you will find a pair of double doors. Two guards will be at either side of it. They will let you pass unchallenged.” Baralis drew his hood over his eyes. He was dressed in a cloak that matched the color of his shadow. “I must be off now.”
“I thought you would wait for my return.” Traff could see that Baralis was nervous; the great man did not want to be seen here with him.
“I will be back later.” Baralis’ voice was sharp. He kept looking from side to side. “I told you I will be waiting for you. You have my word on it. Now go.”
Traff did not move. He was not about to be ordered around like a common servant. Besides, Baralis was lying; he would not wait for him.
“Stand there waiting any longer, my friend,” said Baralis, becoming angry, “and the good duke will have broken in his new bride. Then dearest sweet Melliandra will be nothing more than used goods.” Baralis drew closer. “Or is that the best a man like you can hope for?”
Traff went to strike him. His arm was stopped in mid-swing. He looked at Baralis; the man was smiling softly and shaking his head. “Come, come now, Traff,” he said. “You should know better than to try and hurt me.”
Struggling against the compulsion, Traff tried to move his arm. His muscles would not respond. The faint but unmistakable smell of hot metal filled the air. Then suddenly it was gone. His arm dropped down to his side; it felt heavy and sore.
Baralis turned the full force of his gaze upon him. “You know what to do. Now do it.”
This time Traff moved. He turned and began to walk down the corridor. He did not look back. The muscle in his lower arm was cramping slightly, but he ignored it. He was used to pain. It was sorcery he couldn’t deal with.
The passage curved around and a few seconds later he saw the double doors and the two guards. Both men were busy drinking. As soon as they spotted him, they got even busier, burying their faces in their cups, whilst turning away from the light. Traff fancied they looked familiar. He ignored them and opened one of the doors.
The mercenary found himself in a chapel. After sorcery, the thing Traff hated most was religion; he hated the scented candles, the long ceremonies, the self-satisfied priests. He reached in his tunic and brought out his snatch pouch. Pulling himself a fair portion, he slipped it between his lips. Even before it was soft, he spat a portion out. He felt a lot better after that; half the pleasure of snatch was the spitting. A man could say a lot with a spit. After a brief pause to grind the snatch into the chapel floor, Traff made his way behind the altar.
The middle panel, Baralis had said. He spoke the truth, for the panel swung to the side when Traff pressed on the left side of it. Looking inside the passageway, he hissed a curse. Like a fool, he hadn’t realized it would be so dark. Grabbing one of the altar candles, Traff stepped into the passageway. Before he moved up the stairs, he pushed the panel back into place. As he did so, he tilted the candle and hot, fragrant wax fell on his forearm. This time he named Baralis in his curse: the wax had landed directly on the burn the man had given him many months ago in Castle Harvell. The skin was still tender and the memory still sharp. Traff shook his head grimly; he hated Baralis about as much as it was possible to hate a man. That wasn’t important now; claiming Melli for his own was what counted. She was his, after all—her father had promised her to him. Only now it seemed that Lord Maybor had gone back on his word. Traff began to climb the stairs. Maybor, like Baralis, would have to be dealt with later.
The stairs spiraled upward toward the heart of the palace. With each step, Traff felt his excitement growing. Soon Melli would be his.
• • •
“I could have sworn that man was Traff, Bodger. What d’you think?”
“I think you’re right, Grift. Looked a lot rougher than when I saw him last, though.”
Grift shook his head. “This is trouble, Bodger. Real trouble. Traff is the sort who’d murder his own mother for a hundred golds.”
“Best not ask any questions, Grift. Best not even talk about it.”
Bodger was scared, thought Grift. He should have come here tonight on his own; there was no need for both of them to be outside the chapel. “Go down to the kitchens, Bodger. Grab yourself a bite of supper.”
“No. I’m staying here with you, Grift. You don’t know what will happen when Traff comes back.”
“You’re a good friend, Bodger.” Grift looked at his companion for a moment. Bodger was too young to be involved in something like this, something that was going to end in disgrace either way. “You know what?”
“What, Grift?”
“We’re gonna be in trouble no matter what happens. If we stay here until Traff has done whatever he’s supposed to, then raise the alarm, we’ll be thrown out of the guard anyway. Everyone will say we were drunk on duty, and we’ll have no choice but to go along with it.”
“But what about Baralis, Grift? He’s not a man you want to cross.”
“What’s Baralis up to, though, Bodger? Where does that tunnel lead?” Grift’s voice was a whisper now. “What if it leads to the duke’s chamber? We might as well slit our own throats here and now.” Grift took a quick courage-giving swig of ale. “I say we take action, Bodger. We ain’t got much to lose.”
“What
action, Grift?”
Grift thought for a long moment. “I say we run down to the kitchens, find young Nabber, tell him what’s happened, and then let him fetch that tall blond warrior to deal with Traff.”
“You mean the duke’s champion, Grift?”
“Aye, Bodger, that’s the one. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you, Grift.”
• • •
Tawl was sitting in his room at the back of the kitchens. The wedding had gone according to plan. He had just escorted Melli and the duke safely back to their chambers. His intention had been to stand watch by the door all night, but with eight guards stationed there, it hardly seemed necessary. Besides, he didn’t have the heart for it. Not tonight. He couldn’t stand by the door to the duke’s chambers and not think of what was going on inside; the wedding night, the wedding bed. No. Best to stay here and have a few quiet drinks on his own. And then perhaps a few more as the hours went by. There would be no sleep for him this night.
Just as he brought his ale to his lips, Nabber burst into the room.
“Tawl! Tawl,” he cried. “Quickly. Follow me.” The young pocket stood in the doorway, breath coming fast and furious. He had been running.
Tawl was on his feet in an instant. His hand slipped to his waist, checking for the reassuring presence of his blade. “What’s happened?”
Nabber was so excited he could hardly get his words out. He stamped his feet impatiently. “Baralis has sent someone to murder the duke.”
Tawl sprang across the room, pushing the pocket out of his way.
“No, Tawl. Don’t head for the nobles’ quarters. Follow me.”
“Where?”
“There’s a passage leading from the servants’ chapel to the duke’s chamber. The man went that way.”
Tawl changed his course. He sprinted through the kitchens and the bakery. Dimly, he was aware that Nabber was following him. He made it to the chapel doors in less than a minute. Two guards were stationed outside. He wasted no words on them. Barging into the chapel, he looked around wildly.