by J. V. Jones
“Well, whatever he did has gone up in smoke, so we’ll never know the truth of it.” Tavalisk decided it was time to retreat. He stood up.
“Tell me, my friend,” said Baralis, just as Tavalisk’s foot touched the stair. “Do you intend to publish your work?”
At that moment Tavalisk knew that Baralis had not been fooled. He had seen through his lies as surely as a nightfeeder sees through the dark. Tavalisk’s first instinct was to get away. Leave now, with the silent, accusing manuscripts in tow. He mumbled, “Possibly. It’s too early to tell,” as he took the stairs two at a time.
Baralis’ voice reached the top before he did. “I shall watch out for you, my friend,” he said. “I’ll be most interested to see just how far you go.”
Tavalisk didn’t leave that night, he left just before dawn the following morning. The tavern-maid took care of the bill. “Oh, I nearly forgot, sir,” she said as she handed Tavalisk the change. “That handsome gentleman from last night asked me to send you his regards. He said he had a feeling you’d be making an early start.”
Tavalisk glanced around the room. There was no sign of the man. It was time to get going. He sorted through the copper pennies. “Here,” he said to the girl, handing her four of them. “Give these to the stableboy. I’ve a chest in my room that needs to be brought down.”
The girl and her bosom simpered simultaneously. She shook her head and raised a flattened palm. “Oh, the stableboy’s already been paid for the job, sir. That nice gentleman thought you’d be traveling with a heavy trunk.”
Tavalisk couldn’t leave Lairston fast enough. He paid the wagon master to take the whip to his horses and wouldn’t hear of stopping, even for food.
Two weeks later he reached Ness. His neck was badly cramped from constantly looking over his shoulder, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick. Time and the warm climes of the south eventually cured him of his watchfulness, and by the time he arrived in Rorn he had shaken off all his doubts. Baralis might indeed know that he was in possession of Rapascus’ lifework, but he was just one man with no proof. It would be the word of a suspected sorcerer against the word of a man of God.
And that was what Tavalisk styled himself on coming to Rorn: a man of God. It was his last and final incarnation: Brother Tavalisk, classic scholar, man of letters. Visionary.
Working out of a small basement located beneath a fishmonger, it took Tavalisk two years to transcribe Rapascus’ work into his own hand. During the last few months, he distributed a series of religious pamphlets as a taste of what was to come. Even before he published the first of his masterworks, his name was made. Rorn, with its growing merchant classes, its new found sophistication, and its burgeoning sense of pride, was ripe for the taking. It was hungry for new ideas, new leaders, and new blood. Successful in its own right, it was ready to step out from Silbur’s shadow and find a sun of its own.
It was so easy. With the pamphlets he gained disciples, with the masterworks he gained a city. He was feted by everyone: the merchant classes loved his position on wealth, the intellectuals loved his subtle attacks on religious traditionalism, and the lower classes loved his wit.
Only the Church hated him. And that was, for their part, the worst thing they could possibly do. At that time in Rorn clergymen were looked upon as Silbur’s spies. Silbur itself was eyed with growing resentment by the people of Rorn. What business did that old, decaying city have telling them how to live their lives? Rorn was vital, new, flourishing. Silbur was as bloodless as old bones.
Tavalisk became a champion of this movement. He nudged, he stirred, he inflamed. Each night he rifled through Rapascus’ works, looking for more fuel for the fire. Pamphlet after pamphlet he published. His fame spread, his following grew. He couldn’t leave the cellar without being mobbed.
Then the old archbishop died and everything came to a head. Silbur sent a replacement out straightaway—it was a grave error in judgment. They acted rashly because they were afraid their influence was waning in Rorn, and they felt a flex of holy muscle was in order. The man they sent was unknown to the good people of Rorn—he was a dour-faced authoritarian who originally hailed from Lanholt—and the city forcefully rejected him. During his welcoming parade, he was dragged from his horse and stabbed in the back countless times.
It was a sight Tavalisk never forgot. It demonstrated exactly what the people of this fair city were capable of: brutal, daylight murder.
After that Silbur became cautious. Fearing that they might lose influence over Rorn altogether, that a dangerous fracturing might occur in the Church and the city might simply declare itself a religious power in its own right, Silbur agreed to let the city choose its own archbishop. Well, not the city itself exactly, rather the holy synod, but by that time Tavalisk was so powerful with the merchants and the masses that the clergy dared not pick another. Apparently Tavalisk was not the only one who never forgot the sight of the newly appointed archbishop lying in a pool of his own blood. After all, clergymen were notorious cowards.
Within a month Tavalisk was ensconced in the holy see of Rorn. He was the most popular archbishop in over a thousand years. Silbur hated him, the local clergy despised him, and He Who Is Most Holy had tried, unsuccessfully, to excommunicate him. The citizens of Rorn adored him: he had brought the Church to heel. He was young, brilliant, rebellious—a man of the people. He grew with the city; as it prospered, so did he.
Months, years, decades passed. Rorn became the greatest trading city in the Known Lands and Tavalisk became the most influential holy leader. His power was immeasurable, his influence still great enough to cower Silbur. No one dared challenge him, not He Who Is Most Holy, not even the old duke himself. He was the unofficial head of the Church in the east, and was as good as a king in his adopted home of Rorn.
Tavalisk laid a hand upon Rapascus’ manuscripts. He could trust no one with the task of moving these. Their discovery would ruin him. All the provocative theories, all the blinding insights, the subtle reinvention of the Church: none of it was his. And these documents alone could prove it.
Tavalisk dragged the chest across the room. It was time do what should have been done long ago. Picking a scroll at random, he threw it onto the fire. It crackled, caught, and blackened in an instant, giving off a thin plume of musky smoke. Tavalisk tossed in another straight after it, and another after that. Soon the fireplace was raging like a makeshift hell. The sight was comforting, to say the least. Now only he and Baralis would ever know the truth.
Twenty-six
Melli was huddled in a corner. She had two blankets to keep her warm, but it was still barely enough—even now, after Kylock had ordered Mistress Greal to have the shutters sealed and thick velvet curtains hung to keep out the drafts. No fire, though. That in itself was telling. Kylock was obviously worried that she might try to set either the palace or him alight. And he was right: she would.
Melli wasn’t at all sure if she liked the new refinements to her room. With the shutters closed, the light came in stingy slivers, banding the room like the markings on a tourney field. Melli had developed a certain superstition concerning the slow-moving lines and never liked to cross them. She was obviously going quite mad cooped up in here. Not crossing lines, indeed!
The problem was that when there was nothing else to do, little things began to occupy, then niggle, the mind. Those new curtains, for instance. Melli was quite sure—but not positive—that they were the same ones that used to hang in the duke’s bedchamber. Her wedding night was one of the few times she had been in that chamber, but minor details had a way of staying with her. Strange to think that whilst being held at knife-point, her gaze had wandered to the furnishings. Well, eyes had to look somewhere, and better the curtains than the knife. Anyway, the point was Melli believed that the curtains were one and the same, and she was now concerned with deciding if it was a bad omen or a good one.
The duke had died in sight of those curtains, but she, herself, had survived. Melli now knew that
she had never really loved the duke; she was flattered by his attention, impressed by his power, and drawn along by the sheer force of his will. She had desperately wanted to be loved for herself, and the moment she thought that was so, she swooned like a lovesick maiden. She had no experience of love, nothing to judge it against. The duke was the first person to woo her. He gave her exotic, eloquent gifts and filled her head with praise. He loved her spirit and acknowledged her intelligence by promising her equal say. All this coming from the most powerful leader in the north. Her vanity wasn’t just flattered, it was overwhelmed.
She hadn’t been in love with the duke, she’d been in love with his vision of her.
Her feelings for Tawl had put everything in perspective. When you really loved someone, their absence didn’t make you feel numb, it tore away at your heart. The duke’s death had been a shock, nothing more. It had left her cold, frightened, and bemused. She had hardly spared him a thought in months, and if it wasn’t for those green velvet curtains, she wouldn’t be thinking of him now.
Melli shrugged. Perhaps she was hard-hearted, but having endured over four months of imprisonment and persecution and abuse, she was inclined to think her husband got off lightly.
The curtains were a good omen, she decided. They weren’t red, and that in itself was a blessing, but more importantly than that, they were the curtains that had swished on the breeze as Tawl raced in to save her life. With luck they just might swish again.
Not that she was content to count on luck. Melli stood up. Her knees cracked like an old woman’s and her back protested like an old man. Her body was now heavy with pregnancy and every movement she made was a challenge to her spine, her joints, and her hips. Swollen-ankled, belly cupped, Melli made her way toward her secret stash. She crossed two light lines just to spite herself and paused to put her ear to the door for safety’s sake.
Her collection, as she liked to call it, was hidden in the space between the large linen chest and the wall. It had started with Mistress Greal’s left glove and now had grown to another left glove—courtesy of Kylock this time—a glass goblet, a candle, a belt and buckle, and a handful of old bones. Melli wasn’t entirely sure that all of them would prove useful, but she cherished them all the same. Turn Kylock’s glove inside-out and it would do for her right hand. The belt could tie someone up. The candle was a problem—she needed a flint to light it—but the goblet was a weapon in the making.
It was easy to acquire things. The secret was to push them discreetly from the line of view while the other person’s attention was occupied elsewhere. Both Kylock and Mistress Greal made a point of scanning the room before they left, checking that nothing had been left behind. If they didn’t see anything, then that was that. After all, a king could hardly be expected to remember a candle or a glass.
Now all Melli needed was a knife. Kylock always had one hung at his hip, but so far that’s where it stayed: he preferred using hot wax and thin rope on her. She might have to do something to provoke him into drawing his blade—either that or steal it right from his thigh. Whatever she did, it must be done soon. As best she could work out, she was drawing close to her final month of pregnancy, and the way her belly was expanding she doubted whether she’d be able to make it across the room, much less escape from the castle, once the last few weeks were upon her.
Melli returned her collection to its hiding place, careful to ensure that the chest was in exactly the same position as when she’d started. Mistress Greal would be along soon, and she had eyes like a hungry cat.
Making her way back to the corner, Melli pulled her blankets close around her. Soon, very soon, she would make her escape.
The weather grew progressively worse as they rode east then north from Marls. First the wind sent clouds scudding across the sky, and then the clouds ganged up and styled themselves a storm. Midday became as dark as twilight, rain struck in small but dense patches, the ground underfoot softened to mud and the air blasted against their faces like a gale.
The horses weren’t happy; the riders weren’t happy. Wet clothes, wet food, no fires at night, no rest, no warmth, no give.
The terrain itself proved easy enough to maneuver. Farmland for the most part, it was flat or rolling: pastures, meadows, and plowed fields broken up by hedgerows and low, grassy hills. The rain had plumped and greened the earth, and the landscape had the look of spring.
As the days went by the weather became colder, and Tawl realized spring was only an illusion. The journey was hard on all of them, especially Nabber. The young pocket had caught a chill and spent a lot of his time sleeping at Tawl’s back. Tawl knew he was setting a hard pace, but he just couldn’t bear to slow down.
Slowing down meant time to think, time to dwell on what Gravia had told him in that squalid little tavern in Marls. Tawl wished the conversation had never taken place, that he’d never learnt the truth about Tyren. But he had. So the best he could do was ride fast and furious and create the illusion it was all in the past.
It was getting harder, though. Every step his horse took brought him a step nearer to Valdis. They rode in its shadow now. Tawl could feel its presence pushing against his left cheek, like heat given off by a fire. They were perhaps fifty leagues southeast of the city. Tomorrow they would draw parallel to it. The only thing that stood between them was a thick stretch of forest known as the Gandt. Tawl remembered it well. He had trained, fought, hunted by day, and tracked stars by night, all within its leafy bounds. He’d got blind drunk on more than one occasion, too. He and Gravia would place bets on who could drink the most. Gravia always won. He won at everything except swordplay. Tawl beat him hands down at that.
They were such good days. Rivalry was fierce but never bitter. Fights were fought hard but without grudges, and friendships were slow to form but long to last. Above everything there was Tyren: father, mentor, hero, and god. He was the ideal that they all strove for, the man they most wanted to impress. Tawl would have done anything for him. Would have laid down his life.
And now he’d found he’d laid down his soul, instead.
All those years he’d spent believing that Tyren saved him when really he had been bought and sold. The most precious and enduring image in Tawl’s life had been shattered, and it left a dangerous hollow that was filling up with rage.
The last six years of his life had been based on a lie, and Tyren had been the master of the sham.
“Tawl!” called Jack. “Let’s stop. Nabber’s not looking too good.”
Tawl glanced to the northwest. They were so close to Valdis now he didn’t want to stop. “Just for five minutes,” he cried, pulling at the reins. “Then I want to get going again.”
Jack did not look pleased. He had changed a lot since Larn. He had become more confident, more aggressive, less willing to follow, more to lead.
They stopped by a small glade of trees. To the east there was farmland, to the west was the dark, far-ranging form of the Gandt. It was not raining, but a shower had passed by minutes earlier and everything was wet and dripping.
Jack lifted Nabber down from Tawl’s horse. He placed his bedroll down on the ground and urged the boy to rest. He then turned to Tawl. “Over there,” he hissed, indicating a spot where Nabber wouldn’t be able to overhear them.
Tawl jumped from his horse and prepared to do battle.
“This pace is too hard on the boy,” said Jack.
“You mean it’s too hard on you.”
Jack gave Tawl a hard look. “What happened to you in Marls?”
“It’s none of your business, Jack.”
“It is my business when we’re up before dawn every morning and ride well past sundown every night. I want to get to Bren as fast as you do, but this isn’t the way to do it. Nabber needs rest. He needs a warm bed and a hot meal. I say we stop overnight at the next village we come to. If Melli is alive, she’ll be all right an extra day. And if she’s dead, there’s no hurry.”
Jack’s cool assessment of the situation anno
yed Tawl. “Who are you to say—”
“I’m the one who’ll deal with Baralis and Kylock. Not you, Tawl. Me.”
“And who will cut you a path?” Tawl was shaking now. “Or do you expect the guards to just lay down their arms the minute you walk in the palace?”
“I expect you to be by my side, Tawl.”
The expression on Jack’s face killed Tawl’s anger dead. Some things were too important to fight over. Running his hands through his hair, Tawl took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Jack. You’re right, I haven’t been thinking straight since Marls. I talked to an old friend while I was there and he told me someone . . . ” Tawl struggled to find the words, “someone I cared about had lied to me.”
“Tyren?”
Either Jack was quick or he’d been talking to Nabber. “Yes, Tyren.”
“People lie all the time, Tawl.” There was a trace of bitterness in Jack’s voice. “All the time and for all sorts of reasons.”
Tawl nodded slowly. He was right.
The wind suddenly picked up. It was coming from the west, and for a moment Tawl thought he heard a high sound, like a cry. It was gone before he could place it. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll ride until the next village.”
Jack didn’t object and Tawl guessed he hadn’t been the only one to hear the noise.
Protesting vociferously despite his cold, Nabber was placed on Tawl’s horse. Jack worked quickly to secure his pack, then they turned onto the cow path and rode north.
An unspoken assent between Jack and Tawl caused them both to steadily pick up their pace. Before long they were cantering down the narrow trail, heads brushing against bare branches, mud flying in their wake. Tawl was concentrating, listening for the slightest sound. A pair of geese took noisily to the air as they passed, somewhere over the hill a lone dog was barking, then the rain started to fall, blotting everything out.
Tawl was nervous. The path they were on dipped and twisted, and the way ahead wasn’t clear. The farther they went, the nearer the dark expanse of the Gandt came. It seemed to be reaching out toward the path, closing in on them. Tawl broke into a gallop.