The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Jack nodded, as if he understood the intention behind the words. “What do we do now?”

  The wind whipped low over the ground, buffeting their bodies and sending ripples through the flattened grass. It was warmer here than down below. Tawl looked up at the sky. The moon was hanging to the west. “It’s past midnight now. I say we go in.” He had planned on waiting longer, but ever since he’d learned that Melli had been caught by Baralis, waiting had become intolerable to him. Everything had to be done as soon as possible. The one thing that kept him moving forward was the burning desire to get back. He had to return to Bren, to Melli, and an hour longer than necessary was a lifetime too much.

  He pulled his knife from his belt and offered it to Jack. “Here, take this.”

  Jack shook his head. He patted his tunic, and for the first time Tawl realized that it was looking decidedly bulky. “Rocks,” he said. “I might be no good with a bow, but I can throw a rock with the best of ’em.”

  Tawl smiled. Again he wanted to say something, and again the words failed him. “Good thinking,” he said, when what he really meant to say was, If the worst happens here tonight, I promise you we’ll go down fighting, together.

  “Come on, then,” said Jack, scrambling on all fours. “Let’s see if we can make it to the temple while the moon’s behind that cloud.”

  Tawl raced after him.

  Breathless, backs aching and shins throbbing, they arrived at the temple a few minutes later. The cloud had failed them in the last thirty seconds. The wind, however, had blown hard and long, muffling the sound of their footfalls with all the timing of a third accomplice.

  Jack had to run with a hand clamped to his waist to stop the rocks in his tunic from beating against his chest.

  They stood to the side of the temple steps and caught their breaths. There was no one in sight. No light escaped from inside. All was quiet apart from the wind.

  Jack wanted to sit down. The muscles in his thighs hadn’t recovered from being bound and they were screaming for rest. He ignored them. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of Tawl. Leaning against the rise of the step for support, Jack noticed the stone wasn’t quite as cold as it should be. Granite should feel cool to the touch, not barely below tepid.

  Everything about the island was unnatural: the water, the mist, the rock. Its differences jangled against Jack’s nerves like a song played out of tune. Dimly, he was aware that the place was having a physical effect upon him, tightening the muscles around his heart, causing the skin to pull taut across his face and his breath to come quick and ragged. First he tried to excuse these as aftereffects of the wreck. Now he just ignored them.

  The one thing he couldn’t ignore was the rhythm of the place. It permeated everything: the waves lapping against the shore, the water dripping from the rocks, the rocks themselves, even the wind. Everything was moving in time. The sensation grew stronger as they made their way through the cliff side, and now, breath-close to the temple, it was so strong it was almost overbearing. At first Jack’s heart had actively fought against the lure of the rhythm, now it was trying to fall in time.

  Suddenly scared, Jack said, “Let’s try and get inside.” The sound of his own voice should have been a comfort, but the words carried the cadence of Larn.

  The steps were low. Worn to curves by centuries worth of footsteps, they cradled Jack’s every step. For a moment it seemed as if the place was almost welcoming him. Jack firmly dispelled the thought, but even as he did, he started to place his feet on the ridges between the curves.

  Tawl had drawn his knife. The tip was down, the blade was forward. As he climbed, it flashed in the moonlight.

  The door to the temple towered above them. Fashioned out of oak, it was old, dark, and weather-beaten. Seeing it, Jack realized that it must have been shipped here, for there wasn’t a single tree on the island. He pressed against it, lightly at first, and then harder when there was no give. “It must be bolted on the inside.” Frustrated, he swung back his arm, ready to beat against the door.

  Tawl caught his wrist before it came down. “We’ll find another way in.”

  Heads down, hugging shadows, they made their way around the side of the temple. There was now an unspoken sense of urgency between them, and each step lost a measure of caution to speed. The temple was shaped from massive blocks of granite. Ancient beyond telling, it boasted no adornments, no pillars, nothing to relieve the eye. High above their heads was a series of barred vents. Jack didn’t waste a minute thinking about them; the only way they could be reached was from the roof.

  The temple flared out toward the back. Granite slabs jutted from the main wall, breaking the line of the building. The stone was cleaner, its angles more defined—obviously a later addition. Just as they reached the end of the annex, Jack caught the smell of woodsmoke in his nostrils. He looked at Tawl, who nodded at him. Woodsmoke meant people.

  Drawing level with the end corner of the building, they peered around the back. A collection of sheds and lean-tos clustered close to the temple. Old, rickety huts shaped suspiciously like parts of ships.

  “They built these from shipwrecks, by the looks of them,” whispered Tawl. “They’re probably storage huts or servants’ quarters.”

  “Then there’ll be a way in.” Jack scanned the buildings. He saw the glow of a fire, and then something moving back and forth right by it. Rocking. Someone was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking to and fro in time to the rhythm of the island. Jack felt a cold chill claw down his spine. It was an old woman.

  Her chair faced the temple and she rocked toward it with blind intent. Jack followed the line of her rocking. Straight ahead of her, in the temple’s back wall, there was a dark rectangle marking a door.

  Jack knew, more surely than he had ever known anything before in his life, that the door would be open. The old woman was showing them the way.

  He tapped Tawl lightly on the shoulder. “We’re safe for now. Let’s go.” Jack had come to know the knight well, for he guessed Tawl wouldn’t question him—and he was right. Tawl simply nodded once and then followed him forward.

  If the old woman saw them, she never gave anything away, just kept on rocking back and forth.

  The door swung back the moment Jack touched it. Cool, stale air brushed against Jack’s cheek, and he stepped into the temple at Larn.

  The rhythm was strong, compelling, pulsing like a heartbeat. Jack felt it all around him, stifling yet strangely familiar. His own heart was now only split seconds out of time.

  They were in a dim, low-ceilinged room. Bare stone walls, bare stone floor, and several wooden tables stacked high with pots. The light was coming from the corridor opposite the door. Jack made straight toward it. Tawl put a restraining hand on his arm. “Me first,” he said, dropping his gaze to his knife. Jack pulled two fist-sized rocks from his tunic and let him past.

  The air was so cold their breath whitened before them, yet once again the stone in his hand didn’t quite match the surrounding temperature: it was a fraction warmer. They walked down the narrow torch-lit corridor. Occasionally there were doors leading off to the sides. Tawl ignored them. He seemed to know where he was going.

  Something creaked behind them. A voice called out: “Who goes there?”

  Jack was pushed out of the way by Tawl. His head hit the stone wall. A jolt raced through his nerves, setting the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He looked up in time to see Tawl knifing a hooded man in the chest. The knight’s large, well-shaped hands were firmly clamped over the man’s mouth.

  “Help me get him back into his room,” hissed Tawl.

  Jack was still reeling from hitting the wall. He felt almost light-headed. By the time he reached Tawl, a dark pool of blood had formed around the dead man’s feet.

  Tawl was shaking. Together they lifted the man and placed him on a stone bench in what looked to be his own personal chamber. They were in the priests’ living quarters. Tawl paused to clean his knife against the dead man’
s habit and then they left.

  Footsteps scuttled lightly in the distance.

  Jack and Tawl exchanged a glance. There was nothing to do but move forward. Jack’s head was throbbing. He couldn’t understand why; Tawl hadn’t shoved him hard, yet he felt as if he were punch-drunk.

  The corridor took a sharp turn to the left. Four hooded men blocked their path. They were armed with curved swords. Jack didn’t pause to think. He hurled a rock toward the first man, catching him on the arm. The second rock followed straight after, but it missed its target and went smashing into the stone wall. Tawl sprang toward the man with the injured arm. Jack reached in his tunic for more rocks and threw them at the remaining three, hoping to buy time for Tawl.

  The knight made a quick, jerking movement, and the first man fell to the floor. Knife out before him, he spun around to face the other three.

  Jack had run out of rocks. He knew Tawl needed help fast. He centered his thoughts upon the hooded men’s blades. He felt the cool-metal hardness, the solid form of iron shot with carbon. He formed the intent, forced his stomach to contract, and then nothing. No push, no energy, no coppery tang upon his tongue.

  Tawl was backed up against the wall; two hooded men held him at sword’s point. Desperate, Jack concentrated again. This time he thought of Rovas laying his hands upon Tarissa. The image was bright, biting, more vivid than he had expected. The emotions that came with it were like a slap in the face. His feelings hadn’t changed: he still loved her.

  Still there was no spark. Jack felt as if the temple, as if the very stone that surrounded him, was stopping the sorcery from coming through.

  There was no time to wonder why. Grabbing a torch from the wall, Jack plunged ahead. The third man came forward to meet him, his sword slicing half-circles around his body. Even now, even after everything that had happened, Jack still remembered Rovas’ advice: “Do anything to throw your opponent off guard: dance, laugh, cry. Anything.” Everyone was afraid of fire, thought Jack, and he thrust the burning torch right for his attacker’s face. It didn’t come even close to burning him, but instinct made the man step back.

  It was all Jack needed. His mind was on the space surrounding the first man’s body. His eye was on the blade. Switching the torch from right hand to left, Jack thrust forward. Streams of flame and smoke trailed from the torch. Sweeping down, Jack grasped the hilt of the first man’s blade. Then he threw the torch at what he hoped was the third man’s vitals—it was difficult to tell, as the man was wearing a long unbelted habit.

  Whether he reached the target or not, the effect was still the same. The man backed away, screaming. His habit caught fire, and Jack let him burn. He didn’t have time for a mercy killing.

  Swinging around, he tackled the nearest of Tawl’s attackers. The rhythm of Larn was throbbing in his head, and instead of fighting it, Jack made it his own, thrusting and hacking with each beat. The tempo fitted him like a glove. He felt exhilarated, powerful, in control. The hooded man was a bloody corpse within a minute.

  Tawl finished the last man off. Jack was shocked to see a gash running down the knight’s side.

  Shouts and more footsteps came from behind. Bending down to pick up one of the curved blades, Tawl thrust his fist against the wound. “You go ahead. I’ll hold them off for a minute to give you time to get to the cavern.” As he spoke, blood ran between his fingers and down his thigh.

  “No. We’ll go together.” The cries and footsteps were getting louder. Jack held out his hand. “Come on.”

  Tawl reached out and grasped it. They stood for a moment, bound together by the knight’s blood, and then they pulled apart and ran.

  The air above the Great Divide was perfectly still. Diamond-clear and diamond-cold, it cut through a man’s bones to the marrow beneath. Ice had formed on the path and the rocks and the broadsides of plants. Wafer-thin, fossil-white, it gained mass beneath the moon.

  The moon itself kept its distance. It hung above the mountains with the dispassion of an ancient god.

  Kedrac, Maybor’s firstborn and heir to the most valuable estate in the kingdoms, stood on a narrow rise and surveyed his troops. Six thousand men stood ready. Six thousand men fully-armed, fighting-fit, and impatient for a kill. It had been a long dreary summer at Annis. Their restlessness affected Kedrac like a drug. Sleep, he had told them five hours earlier. He might as well have told the dead to walk.

  No one had slept. They sat in circles unlit by fires, not drinking, not talking, just waiting. Those wearing plate armor were forced to sit ramrod straight, those in mail could have stooped. But they didn’t.

  The sound of blades being sharpened and buckles being fastened had long since faded away. Now the only noise was the nickering of the horses and the jangling of tack. The men wanted to get started, they’d bided their time long enough. It would take a good four hours to march down from the mountains and onto the southern plain of Bren. Kedrac looked up at the moon. If he gave the order now, they’d be there by dawn.

  He raised a gloved fist into the cold, crackling air, held it for six seconds—one for each thousand—and then brought it down to his side.

  The mountainside began to move. A swarm of dark forms rose up above the ice; banners were raised, horses were mounted, loose circles of troops became columns. Kedrac chose not to address the men—in their present state words would have no meaning. They knew the plan. They would take no prisoners. They were ready to slaughter the Wall.

  Kedrac turned and made his way down from the rise. The storm was behind them, Bren was ahead of them, and if he met his father on the field, then so be it.

  They raced down corridors, their swords wet and dripping, the blood slow to dry in the damp air beneath the stone. Jack’s lungs were burning, ready to explode. His head felt as if someone was beating it with a hammer.

  They were descending quickly now. The corridors sloped downward and began to look like tunnels, the rock only planed smooth where it jutted too far from the wall. The narrowness of the ways worked in their favor—the hooded ones could only tackle them one at a time.

  By setting light to a corridor lined with bookshelves, they had managed to slow their pursuers down. In reality, there was more smoke than flames and it had probably given them an extra minute at the most. Even so, they still had priests ahead of them to deal with. Jack glanced around the naked stone. There was nothing to burn here, that was for sure.

  Down and down they went. Hacking men out of their way, choosing the darkest paths, never pausing once to catch their breaths. Instead of dropping, the temperature was actually rising. The air was thickening, warming, pulsing. Jack felt it brushing against his face in waves. He was too exhausted to be afraid.

  Then he heard the sound. High, discordant, it was like the braying of hounds on the scent. Every hair on Jack’s body bristled. It wasn’t hounds, it was the seers, and they were waiting for him. That was it, he thought, waiting. The old woman rocking in her chair had been waiting, the rock he hit his head against had been waiting, the island itself had been waiting. Not the priests, not the hooded ones, but the land, the stone, the soil.

  Tawl was by his side, clearing a path. Blood spattered over Jack’s cheeks and forehead. He let his sword drop to the ground. He could no longer hold it. Stepping ahead into the crowd of milling, panicking priests, he made no effort to defend himself. That was why the knight was here, so he let him do his job.

  The visual world was sloughing away. The seers keened, the rhythm beat, the blood cooled his skin as it dried.

  Then he was there, in the cavern, where he was meant to be. A domed ceiling glowed with seams of crystal, below it rows of stones were laid out in neat rows. Bound to each stone was a man. Wailing and shifting gracelessly against their bindings, they had little meaning to Jack. They weren’t important. It was the cavern itself that counted.

  It was the source, the heart. It throbbed with power, setting everything resonating in time. Jack felt his own heart racing to fall in with the rhythm. T
he pounding in his head already matched the beat.

  Tawl was at his back, at his side, in front of him. The red and silver blur of his sword was as good as a shield. Clashing metal, ragged breaths, and death cries diminished to so much background noise. The pulse was everything. Jack was drawn to the back of the cavern. His eyes no longer saw, but his blood pulled him forward nonetheless.

  Reaching the end wall, he stretched out both his arms and laid his flattened palms against the rock. A jolt like the one earlier, only stronger and more compelling, raced down Jack’s spine. His muscles tensed and his body jerked. Warm air blasted down his body. Jack felt the cavern’s heart, felt its ancient and terrible power.

  And then he knew what he must do.

  Ignoring all instincts for survival, Jack relaxed, leaving his body open to the pulse. Panic swept over him. He ignored it. His legs shook beneath him. He paid them no heed. His heart had to beat in time with the cavern; only then, only when his blood pumped through his arteries at the same rate as the power pulsed through the seams in the rock, could he do anything. No sorcery could be drawn. No risks could be taken. Nothing could be done without the bond. Fear was a sprung trap within his stomach. He felt its cold metal teeth tearing away at his resolve. He was sick, sweating. The world his senses had shaped for him was lacking markers. Jack felt as if he had been cast adrift upon a sea of blood-warm oil. Unable to get his bearings and unwilling to break his connection with the stone, Jack took his chances in the dark.

  The two beats were close to matching. Off-kilter by a tenth of a second, they jarred against each other, the stronger of the two exerting all the pressure of a mountain’s worth of rock. Jack felt his heart racing, pumping, aching with the strain. A sharp, needling pain darted up his left arm.

  His heart stopped.

  His lungs sucked in air, but there were no takers.

  There was an instant of pure blackness. Like death. With it came glimpses of secrets, memories left like an aftertaste in his blood. He knew this place. He was familiar with the power. Coming here was like coming home.