by J. V. Jones
Baralis stood up. Crossing over to the fire, he poured a slim measure of wine. He had to think. Bevlin had sent the knight to find the one in the prophecy: the man with neither father nor mother. The boy who Larn had said was to be found in the kingdoms. Trailing his fingers around the rim, Baralis stared into the cup. The wine was the color of blood. Who in the kingdoms could be the one?
A memory of a drawing skimmed across his brain. A drawing so strong that it had woken him from his sleep. He sent his mind further back in time to another drawing and eight score of loaves barely browned to a crust. Every fiber of Baralis’ being was resonating, every hair on his body stirred at the root. The cup in his hands became a chalice and his fingers wove around it like a priest’s. Jack the baker’s boy. He was the one.
• • •
Tavalisk was in the kitchens choosing crabs. He and his cook were standing over a metal tank, putting the wily crustaceans through their paces. Choosing crabs was an art and the archbishop was a grand master. The secret to the perfect crab was neither size nor color: it was speed. The fastest crabs were the meatiest, the tastiest, and the most satisfying to the tongue. In order to judge the quickness of the various creatures before him, Tavalisk had devised a test. He would throw large heavy stones into the water, aiming for the greatest density of crabs. Those crabs who were crushed by the stones were pronounced unworthy, while the fortunate few who managed to scuttle away to safety were marked for the flame.
Tavalisk grimaced. The last stone had killed nearly half of them.
“Your Eminence,” came a voice from behind.
“Yes, Gamil,” said the archbishop turning round. “What is it?”
“Annis and Highwall have received the shipments of gold safely, Your Eminence.”
“And the armaments?”
“They were sent out last week and so might take a little longer.”
“I trust you made sure they were well guarded? I wouldn’t want fifty wagons worth of steel and siege engines to fall into the wrong hands.”
“A whole battalion rides along with the shipment, Your Eminence. And as a further precaution they are taking a lower pass. They will not come anywhere near Bren.”
Tavalisk dropped another stone into the tank. “Good.” The water splashed up against his sleeve. It was thick with crab spume. “So there’s no chance of Baralis getting his eager little hands on them?”
“You mean the duchess Catherine.”
“No, Gamil. I mean Baralis. It is perfectly obvious that he is ruling Bren now.” The archbishop peered into the murky water. Another clump of dead crabs met his eyes.
“Does Your Eminence think it’s wise to send arms to Annis and Highwall with peace looming on the horizon?”
“Peace!” Tavalisk snorted. “This so-called peace will last about as long as that crab over there.” He pointed toward the corner of the tank where one of the few surviving crabs lay hiding in the shadows. The archbishop promptly dropped a stone upon it. The feisty little devil actually managed to run away. Tavalisk found compensation in the fact that its two surviving companions were agreeably flattened.
“May I ask why Your Eminence has been putting such great effort into rallying southern support for Annis and Highwall?”
“Certainly, Gamil. Kylock will now marry Catherine, that much is certain. With the duke out of the way, the kingdoms and Bren will become one. Already Kylock has secured the support of the knights.” Tavalisk looked quickly at his aide. “Can’t you see? The lines have now been drawn. It will only take the slightest provocation for the war to start, and the way things are at the moment, Annis and Highwall won’t have a chance. They need our support, else before we know it Kylock will have all the north to himself. That is something we simply cannot allow to happen. We all know where his ambitions will lead him next: south.” The archbishop dropped another stone in the tank. “And the southern cities are hardly in a position to put up a fight. We don’t go in for fortresses and high battlements like the north.”
Gamil nodded. “Does this relate to Marod’s prophecy, Your Eminence?”
“You remember that, do you?” Tavalisk rubbed his pink and hairless chin for a moment, considering whether to let Gamil in on his theory. The time was right: he had been modest for too long. Turning to his cook, he said, “Kindly excuse us, Master Bunyon. I will call you when I need you.”
The cook, whose main duty at this point consisted of handing the archbishop stones on command, nodded and left.
The archbishop turned back to Gamil. His aide was looking decidedly sheepish. Taking a deep breath, Tavalisk began to recite the prophecy. He now knew it by heart:
“When men of honor trade in gold not grace
When two mighty powers join as one
The temples will fall
The dark empire will rise
And the world will come to ruin and waste
“One will come with neither father nor lover
But promised to another
Who will rid the land of its curse.”
Tavalisk finished his recitation with a suitably dramatic flourish and then turned expectantly toward Gamil. “I trust everything is clear to you now?”
Gamil was cautious. “Not exactly, Your Eminence.”
“Really, Gamil, and you call yourself a scholar!” The archbishop crooked a finger, beckoning his aide nearer. “It is not obvious to you that the verse predicts the moral decay of the knights, Kylock’s rise in the north, and the decline of the Church?”
“The decline of the Church, Your Eminence?”
“Yes, you dimwit. The temples will fall. Who besides the Church has temples, eh?”
Gamil nodded slowly. “Your Eminence could be right.
Who then will be the one to rid the land of its curse?”
Tavalisk smiled like a rich widow. “It is I, Gamil. I am the one named in the verse.”
“You!”
“Yes, me.” The archbishop was not at all put out by the stupefied expression on his aide’s face. “Think for a moment, Gamil. Consider the line: ‘One will come with neither father nor lover’—I have no father, and my position prevents me from taking lovers. And then in the next line: ‘But promised to another’—I am promised to another, Gamil. I am promised to God.”
Gamil was looking at him as if he were mad. “What does Your Eminence intend to do about this?” he asked.
“I am already doing it, Gamil. It is obvious from Marod’s prophecy that I have a sacred duty to put an end to Kylock’s ascension in the north. I must do everything in my power to bring about the new king’s downfall. It is my destiny. If I fail, then when Kylock comes south, he’ll be bringing the knights with him. Before we know it Tyren will be burning our places of worship and forcing everyone to follow Valdis’ creeds of belief. It would mark the end of the Church as we know it.”
“It is certainly a great responsibility, Your Eminence.” Gamil’s eyes narrowed. “Will you gain anything personally by it?”
“Nothing for myself, Gamil.” Tavalisk shrugged. “But if the Church felt the need to repay me in some small way by offering me the title of He Who Is Most Holy, then I could hardly refuse, could I?”
“Of course not, your Eminence.”
Tavalisk clapped his hands together. “You may go now, Gamil. Send Master Bunyon back in. Oh, and be sure to keep an ear out for news of Kylock’s peace meeting. It happens this night, does it not?”
“Yes, Your Eminence. The north will rest easier in its bed after tonight.” Gamil bowed and left.
Tavalisk felt a moment of misgiving as he watched his aide walk away. Should he have confided in the man? The archbishop shrugged. He could always have Gamil silenced or certified if he started spreading rumors. Feeling immediately cheered by that thought, Tavalisk turned his mind to food. He watched as his cook scooped the one surviving crab from the tank. Perhaps the peace would outlive the crab after all. He certainly hoped it would, for Master Bunyon was about to put the resilient little creature ov
er a very hot flame.
• • •
Strange that a night in midspring should be so cold. Kylock’s breath whitened in the air, quickly dispersing before it reached the shadow’s end. His hands were gloved, not against the chill, but against the all-pervasive filth. In the silk beneath the leather, he could feel his fingers sweating. The sensation sickened him.
Kylock stood within the folds of his tent and watched the arrival of the Halcus warlords. On massive horses they came, decked out in their ceremonial armor, torches in their free hands, swords buckled at their waists. Men of bearing and experience they were. Noble fighting men with gray in their hair; their necks and arms thick with muscle. Real muscle, formed in real battles, not the cultivated artifice of the tourney field. These men were veterans of many campaigns; they knew of blood and pain and victory. They were the power behind the Halcus throne.
And tonight they had come to talk of peace.
Their faces were grim as they approached the camp. They came alone, their escort—a full company of guards—positioned at a fitting distance from the camp. They were proud men, riding to meet their enemy with conscious dignity. Proud, but not foolish, thought Kylock. The camp was undoubtedly ringed with their troops: swordsmen lying belly-flat in the mud, and archers training their bows in the darkness behind bush and tree. Kylock ran a gloved finger along the roughness of the tent. He was not worried. He had rings around the rings.
Twelve men, he counted. Some of their faces were familiar, some not. Lord Herven and Lord Kilstaff dismounted their horses. They had fought against him at the border and so were the first to witness his success. Lord Angus, Helch’s chief protector, was deep in conversation with Gerheart of Asketh; both men looked tense. They stood close and spoke in whispers. As Kylock looked on, the great Lord Tymouth himself rode up. Responsible for the defense of the realm, Tymouth answered only to the king.
Kylock slipped through the shadows and entered his tent. Lord Vernal stood waiting. Kylock nodded once. “They have arrived,” he said.
Vernal looked nervous. Kylock would have preferred him not to be here, not tonight. But the one-time military leader of the kingdoms was a respected man in Halcus, and his name and reputation was what brought the warlords together this night. They trusted Vernal. He was a man of his word.
“If all is ready, I will go to them,” said Vernal. His expression was unreadable, his tone guarded. He drank the last of his brandy. “I will expect you to follow after me. I know these men, it is not wise to keep them waiting.”
“Lord Vernal, I don’t believe I asked for your advice.” Kylock’s voice was deceptively light. “Go now. Greet my guests. Soften them up with brandy and tales of the good old days of stalemate.”
“I warn you now, Kylock. Do not treat these men with contempt. You may have beaten them, but they deserve respect. They were fighting in campaigns before you were born.”
Anger flared within Kylock. No one but Vernal dared to treat him like this. The leather of his glove crackled as he curled his fingers into a fist. With one sudden sharp movement, he brought his fist down upon the desk. The sound was violent, satisfying. “I think you’d better go, Lord Vernal,” said Kylock very softly. “Those in the negotiating tent await you.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing fear in Vernal’s eyes. Fear and something else. Comprehension, perhaps? Kylock waved an arm in dismissal, then turned his back on the man. It was too late now. There was nothing Vernal could do.
As soon as the man left, Kylock picked up the cup he had drunk from. He held it by the base, careful not to touch the rim, and carried it out of the tent. Slipping around the back, he tossed it onto the fire. He would drink from nobody’s cup but his own.
Quickly, he returned to his position in the folds of the tent. His lip twisted into a sneer as he watched Vernal greet the Halcus warlords. There was much arm grasping and back patting, and even a little good-natured banter. Kylock clearly heard Vernal inviting the men into the tent. Lord Tymouth shook his head and said something that silenced all present immediately. Kylock felt a measure of foreboding. His eyes slanted across to the far side of the camp, where another waited in the shadows. Kedrac, son of Lord Maybor, and Kylock’s most trusted companion, raised his arm in acknowledgment of the glance. It was a small gesture loaded with meaning. Wait, it said, let us see what this latest development brings. Kylock was well pleased: Maybor’s son was keeping his nerve.
Three horsemen approached the camp. Two carried torches, the third, the figure in the middle, was misshapen, one shoulder clearly higher than the other. Kylock sucked in his breath. It was the king.
Hirayus, King of Halcus. Hunchback and tyrant. Feared by his enemies, worshipped by his people. Forty of his fifty years had been spent on the throne. At the age of ten the physicians pronounced him too weak to survive his eleventh year. The only reason he lived today was to spite them. Hirayus was a legend in the north. His determination, his willpower, and his single-minded devotion to his country had made a giant from a cripple.
The warlords turned to meet him, swords drawn in respect, blades pointing to the earth in subjugation. Vernal came forward. Words were exchanged. Hirayus dismounted his horse.
On the far side of the camp, Kedrac’s hand was up. Kylock returned the motion, arm wavering with apprehension. The king was not supposed to be here. Tymouth had been chosen to handle the peace negotiations. Tymouth and the warlords. Kylock drew deeper into folds. His heart was racing. The silk around his fingers was as warm and wet as the womb. He couldn’t bear it. Pulling the gloves off, he threw them onto the ground. As the cool night air dried the sweat from his fingers, Kylock grew calm. So the king was here. Did it really make any difference?
He turned his attention back to the negotiating party. Vernal was escorting Hirayus into the tent. Any minute now they would be expecting him to follow.
Wood smoke stole into his nostrils and Kylock was glad of it. The smell was almost cleansing. The king had come to parley; that meant at least another company on the lee of the hill and double that amount concealed around the camp. Nothing that couldn’t be dealt with. Hirayus probably thought he had done a clever thing by turning up here unannounced. Kylock lifted his fingers to his nose: his mother’s stench was still upon them. Hirayus had not been clever at all. In fact, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Out came Kylock’s hand from the shadows. The pale skin reflected the moonlight like glass. His long elegant fingers were stretched full out, his palm faced outward toward Kedrac. Slowly, very slowly, he tilted his palm downward to face the ground.
Even as shadow took the place of moonlight upon his flesh, Kylock heard the archers stringing their longbows. He heard swords being drawn from leather and the movement of men leaving Kedrac’s tent. The cry went up and the carnage began.
One hundred barbed arrows were loosed upon the tent. They ripped through the fabric as if it were linen. The instant the arrows met their target, the swordsmen went in. Their orders were simple: kill all who remained alive. Kylock heard the screams of men and horses, he heard blade clashing against blade. In the distance the noise of battle began as the two Halcus companies tried to gain the camp. None would reach here alive. In the distance, on the hillsides and in the woods, his men were closing in, taking out Hirayus’ archers one by one.
Kylock stepped out into the moonlight. The action in the negotiating tent was drawing to a close. The fabric flapped no more. Kylock took a torch from its metal stand and walked forward. The last of the swordsmen emerged from the tent. He met the eyes of his king. “All are dead, sire.”
Kylock nodded. Drawing close, he set the torch against the tent. The fabric was ready for the flame, catching light on first contact. It crackled and blazed, spreading upward in sheets. He backed away, better to admire the fire. “Burn brightly, this night, King Hirayus,” he murmured. “May the flames of your corpse be a warning to the north. Kylock has not done with you yet.”
The End of Book II
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MASTER
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J. V. Jones
MASTER AND FOOL. Copyright © 1996 by J. V. Jones. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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