by J. V. Jones
It was a simple and brilliant plan. Baralis had long wondered why Kylock had positioned his troops outside of Annis. Now he knew why. The king had been waiting for a chance to maroon the Annis army in their own city. Up until now, he couldn’t risk moving his troops without fear they would be caught between Annis on one side and Highwall on the next.
Kylock was still smiling. He was well aware of his own brilliance. “On the day the kingdoms’ forces are due to come down from the mountains, I want Bren’s army to wage their most aggressive attack on Highwall. The siege army will be so busy defending themselves, they won’t even see our troops coming. As soon as they’re spotted, Bren’s army will come over the wall and attack Highwall full on.
“Highwall won’t stand a chance. Bren will be in front of them, the blackhelms to the east, the mountains behind them, and the kingdoms’ forces will come from the west. It will be a bloody massacre. No prisoners. No mercy. No chance of retreat.”
Kylock put down his cup of wine untouched. He looked directly at Baralis. “So, Chancellor, what do you think?”
“I think the entire north will be ours in less than a year,” replied Baralis. He believed it, too. Kylock was many things—unstable, irrational, cruel to a fault—but he was a genius where military strategy was concerned. No one in the Known Lands could match him. Feeling suddenly more confident than he had in months, Baralis said, “I will arrange to have your orders sent today by eagle, sire.”
Jack tapped Nabber on the shoulder and said to the tavern-maid, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Very wise, Jack. Very wise.” Nabber beamed. The tavern-maid beamed. Only Tawl didn’t join in the merriment. The knight’s attention was elsewhere; out of the corner of his eye he was watching two men who were sitting near the back of the tavern.
“Would you like a crust of pastry or turnips on your pie, sir?”
Jack looked to Nabber, who supplied the answer, “He’ll have the pastry, miss. He’s hoping to get some sleep tonight.”
Jack didn’t bother asking Nabber to explain the relationship between turnips and sleeplessness—he was too busy studying the men who had attracted Tawl’s attention.
The Rose and Crown was a large and busy tavern. It was dark by the time they arrived, and although Jack hadn’t seen the sea, he knew it was close. The Rose and Crown was full of swarthy men whose faces were reddened with salt and wind. Sailors, Jack guessed. The two men Tawl was watching looked different than most of the other clientele. It wasn’t just their fair coloring, it was their size and their bearing. Like Tawl, they managed to study everyone in the room without once lifting their gaze from their drinks.
The tavern-maid returned with the beer. The huge pewter jug brimmed with froth, and Nabber set about pouring it into cups with all the skill of an innkeeper’s son.
They had been in Rorn for less than an hour. As soon as they passed the city gate Tawl had them steering a course for the harbor. The sun spent little time setting, and most of the journey through the city was done in the dark. Jack had little chance to form an impression of the most famous city in the south, except that it smelled really bad and the buildings were nowhere near as white as they appeared from a distance. There were a lot of dodgy-looking people on the streets, too—and quite a few of them were women.
No women in here, though. None except the tavern-maid.
Jack pushed Tawl’s drink his way and said under his breath, “Should I have my knife ready?”
Tawl raised the cup to his lips. “Always have your knife ready, Jack,” he said before he drank. He brushed the foam from his lips, then spoke to Nabber. “Go and see the innkeeper about a room for the night and stabling for the horses.”
Nabber hesitated.
“Now.”
Mouth closed in indignation, Nabber did as he was told.
The fairest of the two men in the back stood up. He was looking straight at Tawl. Under the table, Jack’s hand was damp around his knife. The man walked toward them. He was large and well built. His gaze never left Tawl. His hands were empty, but the too-straight line of his tunic told of a weapon barely concealed. He stopped less than a handspan away from the table. Even though Jack was neither touching nor looking at Tawl, he could sense the knight’s readiness. He smelled like an animal prepared to fight.
The man checked to left and right, and then hissed, “Have you been sent by Tyren to bring us back?”
Tawl’s stance didn’t change. “Why? Are you deserting him?”
“Are you?”
Jack didn’t understand what was going on. He was beginning to suspect that the fair-haired man and his companion were knights, but that still didn’t explain the exchange.
Neither man had relaxed. “What are you doing in a city that executes knights on sight?” said the stranger.
“Same thing you are. Passing through.”
“Where are you heading?”
“That’s my business.” Tawl leaned forward a little. “I don’t think there’s any need to ask you yours.”
The stranger sent a quick look to his companion. A “bide your time” look if Jack ever saw one. “Have you been in Helch over the past five months?” he asked Tawl.
Tawl shook his head.
“Then you only think you know my business.” The stranger’s voice was low and harsh. “I’m not about to be judged by a man who’s been playing it safe in the south while the war’s been raging in the north.” He made a quick movement.
Tawl’s hand came out. He grabbed the stranger’s arm. His grip shook as the man fought his hold. “Go back to your table, my brother,” he said. “You’re right, I’m in no position to judge anyone. And I have no wish to fight you tonight.”
The man pulled his arm free. “Tyren is murdering the soul of Valdis,” he said. “And a body with no soul needs to be buried deep in an unmarked grave.” He held Tawl’s gaze a moment, then turned and walked away. His companion stood up and joined him, and together they left the tavern.
Jack was trembling. Strong emotions thickened the air: pride, bitterness, shame. He glanced toward Tawl. The knight was looking down. His golden hair fell over his face, and slowly, very slowly, he shook his head from side to side.
“Has it comes to this?” he said, his voice plain and small like a child’s. “When knights slip away from Valdis like prisoners from jail?”
Jack knew Tawl wasn’t talking to him, but he had to know. He had to understand. “Those two men are knights like you?”
“Not like me. No.” Tawl didn’t look up. He managed a bitter smile. “Then again, they might be exactly like me. After all, I deserted the knighthood first.”
“So they’re deserters?”
Tawl nodded. “Yes. They thought I had been sent to bring them back.” The bitterness of the smile now extended to a laugh. “Me. The one man in the knighthood who’s not fit to stand in Valdis’ shadow. A traitor to bring back traitors.”
“That knight who just left didn’t sound like a traitor to me,” said Jack. “He sounded like a man with no hope.”
At first Jack didn’t think his words had any effect on Tawl, for he made no attempt to reply. A candle burnt low at the center of the table. Liquid wax shot over the wood like a stream of glistening jewels. They both watched in silence as it solidified, becoming milky and dull once more.
Brushing the hair from his face, Tawl looked across the tavern in the direction the two knights had taken. “No hope, you say?”
Jack was nervous, yet didn’t know why. It was suddenly very important that he say the right thing. “If you were still in the knighthood, how would you feel about fighting at Kylock’s side?”
“I would do whatever Tyren asked of me. Loyalty is the one thread that binds the knighthood together.”
The candle began to gutter, then die. There was no more wax left to burn. The flame changed from yellow to orange to red, and then went out, leaving a thin strand of smoke heading up toward the roof.
“I asked how you w
ould feel, not what you would do.” Jack desperately wanted a drink. His mouth was as dry as sawdust. He didn’t dare take one, though. The slightest movement might ruin what was happening between him and Tawl.
For the first time Tawl looked directly at him. His blue eyes were bright—with tears or dreams, Jack didn’t know. “You’re right, my friend,” he said. “I would feel like a man with no hope.”
“But you are different from the two who just left. You can make your own hope.” Jack leant closer. “Together, we can stop this. Everything good doesn’t have to pass. The knighthood can be glorious once more. Peace can come to the north.”
“Jack, you’re young. You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand. Tell me.”
Tawl made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. “The leader of the knighthood, the man who those two are running away from, was like a father to me. Tyren first brought me to Valdis. He made me who I am. When others rejected and ridiculed, he was there backing me all the way. When my life was no longer worth living, he gave me reason to carry on.” Tawl’s voice was close to breaking. “What sort of man would that make me, if I turned against him now?”
Jack’s heart was beating fast. What Tawl said affected him deeply. There were whole worlds in the layers between the words. There was tragedy and truth and lies. More than anyone Jack knew there were always two sides to people. They could do good things, say good things, and behind your back create a landscape of deceit. Tarissa and Rovas, Stillfox, even his mother—they had all smiled at him whilst they lied.
“It would make you human, Tawl,” he said. “The knight who came over to speak to you wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t a traitor. He was disillusioned. There must have been a time when he believed in Tyren as much as you.”
“What are you saying, Jack?”
“I’m saying that just because Tyren’s been good to you, it doesn’t mean he can’t be bad.”
Tawl smiled, this time without bitterness. “You said that like you know what you’re talking about.”
Jack shook his head. He didn’t want things to become too personal. Not here, not now. “The only thing I know for sure is that you and I are on opposite sides from Tyren. He is fighting against Melli, and that makes him our enemy.” Jack’s mind caught at something half-forgotten in the intensity of the moment. “As soon as you saw those two knights, you assumed they were sent by Tyren to assassinate us both. That’s why you sent Nabber away.”
Tawl didn’t deny it. He stood up. “This morning you told me why you agreed to come to Larn—you said you were born for it. Well, let me tell you what I was born for: I was born to serve. First my mother, then my sisters, then Tyren. Now Melli. I’m not a fool, Jack; I recognize that Tyren is my enemy. I would even oppose him if it came to it. But know this: until I have seen proof of his wrongdoings myself, I will hear no word against him.”
Tawl began to walk away. “You don’t serve someone to cast them aside as soon as another obligation comes along.”
Jack watched him head out the door. He had probably gone looking for Nabber. Stretching out his arm, Jack grabbed at the jug of ale. He swallowed the remaining brew, then followed Tawl outside. The knight might be wise in many ways, but he still had one hard lesson to learn.
Eighteen
As always, Melli scraped the dripping from the bread. Mistress Greal allowed her no butter, so she had to make do with what she got. Bacon grease today, by the smell of it. Hitching up her dress, she rubbed the grease into her belly. Her stretched and tautened skin drank it up.
As she worked, she spoke to the baby beneath: gentle words of nonsense mixed heavily with love. This was her favorite part of the day; too early by far for a visit from Mistress Greal or Kylock, she could sit in her uncushioned chair with her shawl pulled close around her shoulders and imagine that Tawl would soon be coming to take her far away.
It was strange, really. All her life, she had believed people who daydreamed were weak and mindless fools. Now she knew she was wrong. There was strength to be found in dreams. Lots of it. And when there was nothing else in life—only violence and the fear of it—the strength drawn from make-believe worlds was enough to carry on.
So she sat and rubbed and dreamed. If she was careful enough, and didn’t look at her hands or her legs or her arms, she sometimes managed to forget where she was.
It was amazing what the body could bear. Her pregnancy seemed to make her body more resilient. If Kylock bound her wrists, which he did often, the rope burns would take less than two days to heal. The wax burns took longer, but the bruises often went away overnight. At the moment, her right palm had a burn the size of a flame tip upon it, and one of the bones in her right wrist was bent out of shape.
Her face may, or may not, have been bruised—she couldn’t tell. There was no mirror or glass in the room. But even if her skin was marked, Kylock had not done it. He never beat her on the face. Only Mistress Greal did that.
Neither face nor belly, that was Kylock’s way.
The bolt on the door whirred softly. Melli pushed down her dress, wiping the grease on the hem. Her stomach contracted and the baby protested by kicking against her abdomen. No matter how healthy she felt, how strong her daydreams made her, the noise of the bolt being drawn back destroyed all courage in an instant.
Kylock entered the room. Straightaway, Melli knew he was lucid. His eyes focused sharp like a fox. “Good morning, my precious,” he said. He moved like no other. Like a dancer with knives: graceful, guarded, deadly.
Melli had come to know him over the past month. She knew what to say and what not to say. She knew his moods and the signs of those moods.
She knew what he wanted.
It was very early, and he was dressed finely, so there would be no blood. He was wearing gloves, silk not leather, so that meant there was a good chance he would touch her. Folding her arms across her belly, she inclined her head in greeting. “I am glad you chose to come today.”
The words stung like salt in a wound. They hurt her baby, her pride, and her father’s memory, but she spoke them all the same. Yes, she knew what Kylock wanted. She also knew her one chance of survival was to go along with him. She’d be dead within an hour if she didn’t.
Kylock was insane, Melli was sure of it. And that insanity led him down paths that were black and twisted. Somehow that night in the tower, when the lantern fell and the rushes began to burn, she had become a beacon of light along the dark road of Kylock’s madness. He thought he needed her. He thought she could save him. She couldn’t yet guess what his ultimate plan for her was, but she knew that her pregnancy was important to him. The only time he ever laid a hand upon her belly was to feel the child beneath.
Kylock was not the only person with a plan. Melli had one of her own. She was trapped here, that much she knew. There was no chance of escape: the Highwall army would not be coming to rescue her, though her father would surely try; she was guarded day and night; the door was always firmly locked, and she was never allowed out of her room. Her only hope was Tawl. When he and Jack were finished in the south, he would come back and save her. Castle walls, siege armies, Kylock, and even Baralis—nothing and no one would stop him.
All she had to do was stay alive until he returned.
And since Kylock was the one person who was stopping Baralis from executing her, she would tolerate, encourage, and even respect him. Whatever it took, she would do.
Kylock came and knelt beside her. He took her hand in his. Flipping it over to look at the burnt palm, he said, “Has the pain enabled you to see more clearly?”
By now she knew the question was a trap. Answer no, and he would inflict a separate pain on her, on a different part of her body. Answer yes, and she would get more of the same. Melli managed a grim smile. At least he gave her a choice.
She cursed her hand for shaking and her heart for beating fast. Taking a calming breath, she stretched her arm full out before her. There was a long distance between her bell
y and her palms. A safe distance. “The pain clarified my thoughts, sire,” she said. “Last night I saw my sins laid out before me, classified and labeled like specimens in a jar.” It was amazing what nonsense her mind came up with. Quickly, she glanced at Kylock.
He nodded once then stood. Without looking, she knew what he would reach for: the candle by the bedside. Mistress Greal allowed her the candle, but not the means to light it. Kylock never came without a flint.
The flint was struck. Melli closed her eyes. A child’s terror came upon her: the fear of burns and pain and monsters. Her stomach squeezed in upon itself. Her entire body shook. Kylock drew near, candle glowing brightly in his hand. His eyes were growing blank. Melli felt a burning sensation in her throat. She swallowed deeply, and as she did so, she distilled all her thoughts into one, concentrating on the only thing that mattered in the tortured madness that had become her life.
Daydreams weren’t her only access to power. The baby inside was, too.
It was only a short walk down to the harbor, but somehow they managed to lose Nabber along the way.
As far as mornings went this one was definitely a first, thought Jack. By his reckoning, it was growing close to winter in the north, yet here in Rorn the breezes were barely cool. The sky was blue and full of seagulls and the sun was large and golden. The harbor was bustling. People, pigs, crates, and donkeys jostled for space on the road. The air smelled as if it came straight from the sewers, and the sights to be seen were so numerous that Jack had a hard time choosing where to look.
If there was a choice between a boat and a pretty girl there was never much contest, though.
All three of them left the tavern less than quarter of an hour back, but now, as they approached the wharf, only he and Tawl were casting shadows to the west.
As soon as Tawl realized Nabber had gone, he simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “The next time we see him, he’ll need a cart for that sack of his.” Jack took this to mean that Nabber was off doing some pocketing, and by the sounds of things that suited Tawl nicely.