by J. V. Jones
Tawl looked in Nabber’s eyes. He was a truly remarkable boy—and not just an only friend, a best one, as well.
The wind calmed. The letter was still. Tawl and Nabber stood facing each other, the letter in between.
“Take it, Tawl,” said Nabber, his voice gentle. “Never in my whole life did anything feel as right as this.”
Tawl’s vision blurred. He felt something wet streak down his cheek. “To open this letter will be to open the past.”
Nabber’s eyes were bright with tears of his own. Slowly he shook his head. “Tawl, your past has never been closed. You live with it every day.”
How did one so young become so wise? Tawl wiped the tears from his cheeks. “You’ve held that for many months now,” he said, reaching out his hand toward the letter. “It’s time I took the burden from you.”
The parchment was smooth in his hand and warm from Nabber’s touch. Tawl looked up. Nabber was gone.
Tawl sat beside the fire. The moon was full, brilliant, just like an oil lamp. He bowed his head and spoke a simple prayer, and then broke the seal on the letter.
Dear Tawl,
If you are reading this, then I am dead. For some time I have known that my life is due for the taking, and that is the reason that I write you this letter. There are things I must tell you, things to be explained, and I am now no longer sure that I will be allowed the chance to say them to you. So I write where I would rather speak, and hope the written word carries all the affection of speech.
First, Tawl, I must tell you that my heart is ever with you. My burden will always be that I set you a near impossible task, and by doing so robbed you of a life of your own. I ask forgiveness, here and now, for I am an old man and do not wish to rest in my grave with such a weight to bear me down. You are a good man, I feel sure you will give it gladly.
Now we must talk of your quest. When I first sent you on your way, with Marod’s prophecy ringing in your ear and your eyes bright with purpose, there was much that I still didn’t understand. I didn’t know the true meaning of the prophecy, or the role of the boy whom you seek. The only thing I knew for certain was that war would play a part.
Over the years I have discovered more. I now believe that Bren and the kingdoms are the two houses who will meet in wedlock and wealth. And war will come from that union. All the portents tell that it will be a war the likes of which we haven’t seen in a thousand years. Unless it is halted in its infancy it will rip the continent asunder.
I fear that Bren will have unnatural advantages at its side. Larn, the island of the seers, will feed its armies with information. The two places are connected, by what or whom, I do not know. The temple must be destroyed; it will ally itself with Bren and lend the city the power of its seers. Larn must be broken if Bren is ever to know peace.
Larn. The place haunts my dreams. I fear it will dog me to the grave. Tawl, find the boy. He alone can destroy that cursed place.
And now, before I go, there is one last thing that I want to lay to parchment. Larn is not the only thing that haunts my dreams: I also see a man with a blade standing above me. Every night I see this and every night I wake before the blade falls upon my heart. One night I fear I will awake and find it real. In my dreams, the one who holds the blade is moved by strings, like a puppet. His actions are not his own.
Tawl, whoever kills me is not responsible for my death. Send them my forgiveness and tell them not to blame themselves. An old man like me is never far from the shadow of his grave.
Farewell, my good friend. May Borc speed your journey.
I forever remain in your debt,
Bevlin.
Tawl brought the letter to rest against his lap. He looked upward to the night sky. It was full of stars. Strange how he had never noticed how peaceful it was here before now. How beautiful the mountains were, how very fresh the air.
The rabbit on the spit had some time ago passed the well-done stage and was now black and charred. Tawl took it from the spit and set it to cool. He had a feeling it would taste good despite the burn. Without letting go of the letter, Tawl stretched over and took the smaller of the two flasks from his sack. He removed the stopper and took a deep draught of Maybor’s best brandy. Just one. The golden liquid warmed him to his belly. He stood up and walked a few steps until he was clear of the side of the lodge. Bevlin’s letter was still in his hand.
Before him lay a huge, moonlit valley. Trees were dark against the grass, and in the distance water flowed like a thin thread of purest silver. It was perfect: silent and lofty as a cathedral. A place of rest, a place of reverence, and most of all a place of forgiveness. Gentle were the breezes, softly shone the stars, the vast darkness of the sky was a salve upon his soul, and the earth beneath his feet held him firm.
Tawl stood, he would never know for how long, and let nature and Bevlin’s forgiveness take their course. When he finally turned back to the fire the rabbit was cold, but it still tasted better than any meal he could remember. In the warm halo from the fire, he curled up for the night, and with Bevlin’s letter pressed fast against his heart sleep came quick and deep.
Nine
No, Bodger. Clean the wound first with a little wine, then apply the ointment.” Grift lay on a wooden pallet surrounded by fragrant grasses and proceeded to physician himself. “Circular movements, Bodger. Dab rather than wipe.” Then, after a few seconds, “Watch out for my appendix, Bodger. Damage that and I’ll never rollick again. Key to a man’s sexual appetites is his ’pendix. Why, without it a man might as well shave his legs and call himself a woman.”
“I’ve heard that there’s men that do that, Grift.” Bodger tried valiantly to dab, even though it felt a lot better to wipe. Grift was still losing blood. Not as much as yesterday, but still a fair amount. Every time Bodger dabbed, the cloth came up red.
“Aye, Bodger, some men do dress as women. Men from Marls generally. Apparently the women there are so ugly that the men—Aagh!” Grift screamed as Bodger dabbed directly on the wound. Grift had been sliced low in the abdomen by a kingdoms halberd during the escape from the townhouse the day before. Bodger was very worried about him. The wound needed to be seen to by someone who knew about these things. Someone like Tawl.
“Do you think there’s any chance that Tawl might come back, Grift?” Bodger said, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
Grift’s face was covered in sweat, his brow creased into many folds. Even so, the pain lifted instantly the moment the question was asked—Grift lived to give his opinions. “Can’t say as he will, Bodger, but even if he did return he’d have no way of finding us now. Stuck in a wine cellar below a butcher’s yard, with no one knowing that we’re here. . . . ” Grift shook his head. “Why, he could walk right past and not even spot us.”
Bodger nodded his head slowly, his gaze dropping down to Grift’s wound. He hoped very much that this was one of those rare instances when his dear old friend was wrong.
“Jack, if you don’t stand still while I clean out this cut, I swear I will hit you with that bowl over there.” Melli stamped her foot to underline her statement. Why were men always such pig-headed fools?
Jack glanced toward the bowl. “Not full, is it?”
Melli managed to turn a smile into an indignant snort. She dashed across the room, picked up the bowl, and threw it toward him, crying, “See for yourself!”
Her aim was true, but Jack was fast, and he dodged the bowl by executing a magnificent sideways leap. He didn’t land too well, though, crashing into a row of wine barrels, sending them careening across the cobbled floor.
Melli rushed over. “Are you all right?” She looked down at Jack, who lay spread out on the damp floor.
He rubbed his head. “It was empty, then?”
Melli made no effort to hide her smile this time. She was feeling a little guilty; she just wasn’t cut out to be a nursemaid. “I’ve had no need for the bowl for the past couple of days,” she said, offering Jack a hand. “My first three months are
behind me now.” She hauled him up. “I haven’t been sick since . . . ” Since the day after Tawl left. The words wouldn’t come out. Quickly, she turned from Jack. There was a hard lump in her throat and try as she might, she couldn’t swallow it.
Where was Tawl? Had Nabber found him yet? And, if Nabber had found him, would she ever see him again? If the letter was as important as Nabber said, Tawl might leave the north never to return.
Melli gulped hard, determined not to feel sorry for herself. Tawl wouldn’t leave without coming to see her. He was a man of honor, and such men always said good-bye.
“Melli, what’s the matter?” Jack’s hand came to rest on her shoulder.
“Nothing.” Melli turned to face him. The tenderness in his voice brought the lump right back to her throat. Jack had aged so much the past year. His brow was lined, his eyes more knowing; he was no longer the same boy who had come to her aid by the roadside all those months ago. He was a man now. Suddenly she didn’t feel the need to hide everything behind a show of strength. Taking a quick breath, she said, “Jack, I’m just . . . ”
Before she’d finished her sentence, Jack caught her up in his arms and guided her toward his chest. Melli rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her cheek against the soft fabric of his tunic. The past few days had been madness: Tawl leaving without saying good-bye, Jack turning up out of nowhere, the escape from the townhouse, and the scuffle with the guards. Her nerves were worn thin and her emotions worn out. Everything was happening too fast, the dangers were too real, and the outcome was too far in the distance to see.
Since yesterday morning she’d hardly had a chance to catch her breath. When the armed men had come banging on the door, she and Maybor had left by the back way. Two guards were waiting for them. Melli had watched as Maybor and Bodger and Grift fought with the two men. Grift was badly wounded. There was a lot of blood. He could barely walk. Bodger had half-dragged, half-carried him to the butcher’s yard. Just as they arrived, Jack caught up with them. He was bleeding, too, but his wounds did not appear serious. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened back at the house.
Donning Maybor’s cloak to hide the blood, he’d had a few quiet words with the butcher. A measure of Maybor’s gold changed hands, and the butcher led him to a wooden trapdoor in his courtyard, below which lay Cravin’s wine cellar. The butcher never saw the rest of their party—Jack made sure of that.
The wine cellar stank of sour wine and damp. The ceilings were low, the walls were wet and dripping, and springy mosses grew like a carpet on the floor. There were four chambers in all, linked together by a series of passageways. The largest chamber, which they were in now, was located directly below the trapdoor. It was by far the dampest of the four: the door let in water and slops from the courtyard, but little light. Grift had been placed in the smallest, driest chamber, and Bodger was tending him there now. Melli had spent the night sleeping on a wooden pallet in another chamber, and Jack and Maybor had shared the fourth.
All night they had been without light, rushes, food, or medicine. Early in the morning Bodger had volunteered to go out for some supplies, and they now had lanterns, a brace of roasted pheasants, three bundles of fragrant summer grasses, and some strange-looking grease in a bowl. “Medicine,” volunteered Bodger, before being asked.
Whilst Maybor busied himself with trying the various vintages—most were, he pronounced, “ruined by the damp”—Bodger tended Grift in the small chamber, and Melli saw to Jack, here, in the main cellar.
Right now, though, it felt as if Jack were looking after her. Melli withdrew from his embrace. Here she was perfectly well, feeling sorry for herself over nothing at all, damp-eyed and helpless like a princess in a tower.
“Come on,” she said briskly. “Roll up your britches so I can put some of this medicine on your leg.”
“Later,” said Jack, walking away. “I want to make sure this trapdoor is secure first, and then I’m going to see how Grift is getting on. My injuries can wait. They’re flesh wounds, nothing more.”
Melli didn’t protest. She hadn’t really known what she was doing anyway. For all she knew the medicine was supposed to be swallowed, not applied. She sat on an upturned wine barrel and watched Jack prop a bar against the door.
“Tomorrow I’ll get a hammer and some nails,” he said, “and fix a bar in place. It’ll make it more secure.” That finished, he jumped down from the crates and asked, “When you looked around earlier, did you come across another way out?”
Melli shook her head. “No. That,” she motioned upward to the trapdoor, “is the only entrance.”
“I’ll have to make my bed here from now on, then.” Jack began to push the piles of crates away from their position under the trapdoor. “If anyone breaks in, we’ll need all the warning we can get.”
It was on the tip of Melli’s tongue to say that they didn’t have any warning yesterday, but she stopped herself. She knew Jack wouldn’t like to be reminded about what had happened. So she nodded instead, and offered him her hand, and together they went and saw Grift.
Tawl woke late. The sun was high in the sky. It was midday. Despite the lateness of the hour, the fire was still alight. In fact, not only was it alight, it was boasting freshly cut logs and a pot full of something hot. Looking into murky depths of the pot, Tawl discovered a concoction of dried apples, sweet rolls, honey cakes, cider, and cheese. Nabber. Only a boy of twelve could come up with such a dish. Grinning, Tawl stood up and shouted out the boy’s name.
Nabber duly appeared from behind a leafy bush. “’Bout time, too,” he said, walking over to greet him. “I thought you’d never wake up. Five minutes longer and I would have eaten the stew.”
“Stew?” Tawl’s grin widened. He felt as happy as a child. “So that’s what you call it?”
“Well, I must say, this will be the last time I cook for you. Never seen such a show of ungratefulness.” Nabber sat down beside the fire and began tending his stew. “No one’s gonna force you to eat, you know.”
Tawl sat down beside him. “No. I want some. Dish it out. Plenty of the soggy sweet rolls for me.”
Tawl watched as the boy dished out two large portions. As he handed him one of the bowls, Tawl realized that Bevlin’s letter was still crumpled up in his fist. He’d hardly realized it was there. He slipped it in his tunic and took the bowl.
“Nabber, we’re heading back to the city today.”
Nabber now had a mouthful of food. “I thought we might be.”
“I’ve got to see Melli one last time before I go away.” Tawl thought about the contents of Bevlin’s letter—he would never have to read it again, he knew it by heart. Everything was now clear to him: he knew what he must do and why he must do it. Last night he had been given a rare and wondrous gift. No, not one gift—two gifts.
The first was Bevlin’s forgiveness.
The second was that he now had a chance to fulfill his oath to the duke and his promise to Bevlin. He was sworn to protect Melli and her child. When he spoke the oath in front of the duke and the people of Bren, he thought that there was no going back. Valdis, Bevlin, and the quest were doors that were firmly closed. But last night as he read the letter, he realized that although they might have been closed for many months, the locks had never been turned.
Indeed, by swearing the oath, he had only bound himself more surely to the quest.
Melli’s child was the rightful ruler in Bren. He was bound to protect the interests of the duke’s heir. Only by finding the boy named in Marod’s prophecy would Melli’s unborn child ever be able to take its place as leader. Larn had to be destroyed, the war had to be halted, and Kylock and Baralis had to be eliminated before his job was done. Then, and only then, would his oath be fulfilled. Melli and her child would never be safe until Bren was at peace and her baby was formally recognized as the duke’s sole heir.
It was the baby’s birthright to rule Bren, and the one who could make this come to pass was the one whom Bevlin had search
ed for.
Tawl took a deep breath of mountain air. Everything had been connected all along, and it had taken Bevlin’s letter for him to see it. As Catherine’s murderer, Melli could no longer afford to be associated with him, yet this way he could still work for her even though he wouldn’t be at her side. He would be working for her long-term protection. And with an oath that bound her to him for a lifetime, the future was something he had to consider.
Up until now he had been thinking in terms of weeks and months, never planning too far ahead. Now he had to think in years, perhaps even decades. If Baralis and Kylock won the coming war, Melli and her child would be forced to live in hiding all their lives. They would be hounded like criminals, always on the move, unable to trust anyone, living with fear day to day.
He could not and would not allow that to happen.
“Eat up, Tawl. The stew’s going cold.”
Tawl blinked, emerging bleary-eyed as if from sleep. “I’m sorry, Nabber. My thoughts were”—he shook his head—“a long way away.”
“One taste of my stew will bring you down to earth again, Tawl. It’s the special combination of melted cheese and cider that does it.”
Reaching forward, Tawl patted Nabber’s shoulder. “You’re a rare friend, Nabber.”
“I’m only doing for you what Swift would’ve done for me.” Nabber refused to meet his eyes, suddenly developing an intense interest in scraping all the ash into a pile.
Tawl smiled. He knew it was best to change the subject. “Right then, let’s finish our meal and then make our way back to the city. If we hurry, we can get there by dark.”
They walked all day, stopping only once to rest by the roadside. The weather was warm, but the sun did not shine quite as brightly as it could, for the sky was filled with smoke. Most of Bren’s harvest was being systematically destroyed. The two companions passed field upon field of charred wheat, rye, and oats.
Villages were all but deserted now. Everyone had gone to the city, taking with them whatever livestock and possessions they had concealed from the mercenaries. Already looters were moving in, ransacking deserted homes and terrorizing those who were either too old, too stubborn, or too infirm to leave with the rest.