by J. V. Jones
Mistress Greal quickly set about piling various items into her large woolen sack. Clever as well as fast, she never took too much: a gold goblet here, an embroidered tunic there. Nothing in sufficient quantity to be missed. Lord Bathroy’s family might be unsure of his status at the moment, but once he’d been gone a month, they’d have the Church declare him dead and be round within an eyeblink to split the spoils.
Once the sack was heavy enough for her liking, Mistress Greal took her leave and headed toward the next chamber on her list.
Her dear but rather silly sister, Madame Thornypurse, would sell the scavenged goods at market. Sadly, the brotheling business had taken a decided turn for the worse since the Highwall army had been defeated. The night following the battle all the troops in the city had gone on a raping spree; their blood was hot with victory, and with no enemy women to ravish, they turned instead to Bren’s whores. No brothel was left untouched, no streetwalker overlooked, and not so much as a copper penny to show for it! Kylock had done nothing. It was well known he had no love for women, and he simply let his men do their worst.
Things had hardly been better since. Once the men realized they could get away with their behavior, they simply took women at will. Madame Thornypurse had hoped for an improvement once the siege army left for Ness, but that was two weeks ago now, and chaos still reigned in the city. If you were a member of Kylock’s army, then you were free to do as you pleased.
It didn’t help matters that the city was now rumored to be riddled with Kylock’s spies and informants. Everyone was under suspicion of dissension: guildsmen, merchants, petty gentry, and great lords. Men were so nervous of being accused of treachery against the king that they preferred to stay home at night and talk to their wives. Dull evenings were nothing compared to the threat of a public hanging.
Mistress Greal didn’t really care what happened in the outside world. The palace was her home now. She knew its every nook and cranny. All the servants feared her, the noblemen regarded her with wary distaste, and Baralis and King Kylock treated her as if she didn’t exist. All of which suited Mistress Greal very nicely, indeed. She was queen bee in this domain.
There was no need for her to resort to her old plan of blackmail now. She was making an excellent living from her predawn excursions, and as long as she continued to make herself useful, she would be able to carry on. Besides, blackmailing Baralis would not be a smart move. Now that Mistress Greal knew him better, she realized that if she ever tried to use her knowledge of the duke’s murder against him, he’d kill her where she stood. The man had too much to lose.
Mistress Greal approached the second door of the morning. The door to the very rich and now very dead, ex-chancellor, Lord Gantry’s chambers. Why risk her life with blackmail when there were so many safer ways to make money?
Just as she was about to turn the handle, she heard a noise coming from the other side. Strange, just yesterday she had seen Crope carrying Lord Gantry’s body down to the lake. So who would be in his chamber now? His wife had apartments of her own. Putting a bat ear to the wood, Mistress Greal took a thin listening breath.
A vague mumbling could be heard. There was something familiar about the voice . . . Mistress Greal sucked in the sound like a leach siphoning blood . . . it was Crope!
She flung open the door. “What are you doing in here, you hapless imbecile?”
Crope was sitting by the great lord’s desk. By his side was a bamboo cage, and on his wrist perched a bright green bird with a hook-shaped beak. Crope looked decidedly guilty. “I was feeding the birdie, miss. It must be hungry now it’s on its own.”
“Well, don’t just sit there looking at me,” said Mistress Greal. “Put that ugly green thing back in its cage and leave this room at once.”
The bird squawked loudly.
Crope stood up and began fumbling with certain items on the desk, stuffing them into a little painted box.
Mistress Greal came forward and clamped down a proprietorial hand on the box. “You leave this stuff alone, you great big robber. These things aren’t yours.”
Crope became immediately agitated. “They’s mine, miss. I swears it.” He pried Mistress Greal’s hand from the box and hugged it tight to his chest. “I swears it.”
Mistress Greal snatched the box from him. Crope struggled to stop her, and the box went flying into the air. The lid came off and the contents spilled over the desk. Crope issued a low whine and scrambled to gather the contents together.
No one had a faster eye than Mistress Greal. Even before Crope made it to the box, she had taken a visual inventory of the contents: two baby teeth, a length of string, a butterfly cocoon, a lock of hair tied with a blue ribbon, several pieces of amber, some cheap jewelry, and an ancient-looking letter sealed with wax.
Mistress Greal reached for the letter. As she did so, her eye skimmed across the jewelry. Three brass owls hung from a brass chain. Mistress Greal felt her heart drop toward her belly. Tiny onyx eyes, painted yellow beaks, the owl in the center a little bigger than the other two: it was the very necklace she had given her niece five years ago. The same one that Madame Thornypurse swore Corsella was wearing the night she went missing. Mistress Greal remembered it well. She had commissioned its making, switching her order from gold to brass when the price quoted proved too high.
Crope went for the necklace.
Mistress Greal reached it first. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.
“It’s mine.”
“No, it’s not. Now where did you get it?” Mistress Greal was shaking. She wrapped the chain around her fist and brandished it at Crope. “If you don’t tell me right now, I’ll let everyone know I found you thieving. They’ll lock you in a dungeon and keep you there for life.”
Her words had a profound effect on Crope. He brought both hands to his head and pressed them against his ears. “No. Not lock up Crope,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Not lock him up.”
Mistress Greal sniffed victory. “Yes. Lock him up and throw away the key. Lock him up so deep he’ll never see the sun again. Now, tell me where you got it.”
“I didn’t steal it,” screamed Crope. He was shaking his head furiously. “Master said I could have it. I asked him, I swear.”
“Stop it!” shouted Mistress Greal. Crope’s wailings were fraying her nerves. “You got the necklace from Baralis—so who did he get it from?”
Crope stopped whimpering the moment the question left her lips. “Don’t know where master got it from.” With that said, he pressed his lips tightly together and dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Hmm.” Mistress Greal regarded Crope for an instant. The lumbering idiot had clammed up. She knew she wouldn’t get anything else out of him. He was protecting his master. “Go on,” she said. “Get going. Take your stuff with you.”
Crope moved swiftly to put the last of his things in his box. The green bird was pecking its way through a fine silk curtain, and the huge servant lifted it up and returned it to its cage.
“If you want to keep coming here to feed that thing,” said Mistress Greal, “you’d better not mention our little chat to your master. Understand?”
Crope nodded and left.
As soon as he was gone, Mistress Greal brought the necklace to her lips and kissed it. Tiny acid tears trickled down her cheek. Crope had gotten this from his master, who in turn must have taken it from Corsella’s throat. In Mistress Greal’s mind that meant only one thing: Baralis had murdered her niece.
“Tyren sold my services, just the way he sold yours. Five hundred pieces of gold.”
“Why should we believe you, Tawl?” said Crayne, the leader. “You forsook your oath and then you murdered Catherine of Bren.”
“Who had the most to gain from Catherine’s murder?” said Jack, speaking up for the first time. “Kylock, that’s who. Tawl didn’t gain a city. Tawl didn’t gain an army. He didn’t poison Catherine, either. You all know that—poison is a coward’s weapon. And I defy anyone her
e to call Tawl a coward.”
Silence followed Jack’s words. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack spotted Tawl about to speak, and with a small movement of his hand, he waved him down. Let the knights think about what he’d said for a while.
Slowly, the men began to move away from the campfire. Their faces were hard to read in the pale dawn light. Their movements were subdued. Still no one spoke.
They had been traveling north with the knights for eight days now. Every time they stopped—for water, to rest the horses, to bring down game, or to sleep—Tawl would go to work on them, slowly chipping away at Tyren’s leadership. He had been subtle at first, asking what role each of them had played in the capture of Halcus, mentioning the decline of the knighthood’s reputation, and bringing up the growing number of deserters. At first the men had ignored him, but as the days wore on, Tawl provoked them more and more. Now, having just told them how Tyren forced Bevlin to pay for the knighthood’s services, Tawl had finally said something they couldn’t ignore.
“Give them time, Tawl,” said Jack, after all the knights had walked away. “You’re not going to change their opinions that fast. They’ve spent too long following Tyren to be converted overnight.”
Tawl’s blue eyes were unusually dark. “I’ve got to keep trying, Jack. I’ve got to make these men see the truth.”
There was a raw edge to Tawl’s voice that made Jack sad. “Why is it so important? We don’t need these men. We could escape tonight—you, me, and Nabber.”
Tawl shook his head. “No, Jack. I don’t want to betray their trust. They’ve treated us well—they let us ride freely during the day and don’t bind us at night. They’re men of honor . . . ” he hesitated, his gaze lingering over the dying fire “. . . and I was one of them once.”
That was it. Tawl was one of them. He was a knight, and having traveled with him for many months now, Jack knew just how deep his circles went.
“If I could just get them to believe what I’ve told them.” Tawl was speaking more to himself than Jack. “If I could just make them see that there is another choice.”
“What is that choice, Tawl?” Jack’s voice was harder than he had intended.
The knight didn’t seem to notice. He smiled, a little sadly, and said, “I’m not sure yet. I just know following Tyren isn’t right.”
Looking into Tawl’s eyes, Jack saw a man who was hurt and confused. After a moment he stood up. It was an hour after first light and the knights were preparing to break camp. Leaving Tawl to dampen the fire, Jack crossed over to where Andris was saddling his horse. Of all the knights in the party, Andris was the one who was the most sympathetic to them: Tawl had been a year above him at Valdis, and Jack got the impression that Andris had once looked up to the older knight.
“It’s getting colder all the time,” said Jack, stroking Andris’ horse. “I saw snow on the far hills yesterday.”
“We’ll reach those hills by the end of the day.” Andris bent down to buckle the girth. He had long, light brown hair and fine northern features. A jagged scar ran from just below his left eye down to his neck. “This time tomorrow we’ll all be stiff with cold.”
“I don’t mind snow and ice. It’s the wind that sets me shivering.”
“Aye. I know all about the wind. I’m originally from eastern Halcus, and they have winds there that can blow the sense right from a man’s head.”
“I know,” said Jack. Andris looked up at him, and he continued speaking: “I traveled through eastern Halcus in midwinter, and I might not have lost my senses, but I lost a good layer of skin. The wind was a demon.”
“You from the kingdoms?”
“Yes, Harvell. I spent some time in Halcus, though. It’s a beautiful place in spring.” As he spoke, Jack remembered the morning he and Tarissa had run off to the little pool ringed with daffodils. It seemed a lifetime ago now.
“What was your business there?” Andris began to brush out his filly’s mane. Jack noticed the tip of his left index finger was missing.
“I had no business, really. I was running away. I found people in Halcus who were willing to take me in. Good people.” Jack took a deep breath. “And some bad ones as well.”
Andris stopped what he was doing. “What did you come over here to say to me, Jack? I don’t think you really want to stand here and chat about Halcus.”
Jack respected the man’s directness. It was time to come clean. “I came to tell you about Tawl.”
“What about him?”
“He didn’t forsake the knighthood, not really. Not in his heart. Even now he’s still doing Bevlin’s work. We just came from Larn—we destroyed the temple there. No more stones, no more bindings, no more lives served up to God.”
Andris shook his head. “Larn is an old wives’ tale. There’s no such place.”
“I’ve been to the island. I’ve seen the seers with my own eyes. My mother was born there.” Jack’s voice was grim. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t exist. Go ask Crayne or Borlin; they’ll know about it.” Jack was taking a guess that the two eldest knights in the party would have heard of Larn; their timeworn, deeply lined faces told of countless sights seen and dark tales told around campfires at dusk.
Andris looked around the camp. The fire was dead, the bedrolls were up, most of the knights were already on their horses. His gaze returned to Jack. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m telling you because I know Tawl wouldn’t. He’d never speak out for himself. He’s too modest for that. You were with him at Valdis—you know what I’m saying is true.”
Andris mounted his horse. “So what’s your point?”
“My point is this: Tawl’s not a liar, he’s not a murderer, he’s the bravest man I’ve ever met. The knighthood is part of his soul. I’ve been with him for months now, and up until twelve days ago he refused to hear a bad word said against Tyren. He loved the man like a father. And now he’s learnt the truth he feels betrayed. He’s hurting inside. I know how he feels, and I think you do, too. Tyren’s betrayed all of you.”
A second or two passed. Andris looked down at Jack, his gray northern eyes the same color as the sky. Kicking his horse forward, he said, “I’ll talk to the others at midday.”
They made good time that morning. It was cold enough to harden the mud, and as the temperature dropped so did the wind. The mountains were close now. The party was to the southwest of them, their peaks shrouded in mist.
The farther north they traveled, the more excited Jack became. A subtle pressure had started building in his stomach the moment he landed in Marls. Every day the knot grew a little tighter. He felt as if he was being reeled in, pulled forward to Bren, to Baralis. To Kylock. Things were different now. Learning about his mother’s identity had made him stronger. It was as if he had claimed her strength along with her true name: Aneska. It was a charm to ward off evil. Whatever happened in the coming weeks, nothing could take that away from him. He knew who he was, where he had come from, and what he was fated to do.
There were still things he didn’t know or understand: who his father was, why he had to destroy more than just Larn, and what the link was between Marod’s prophecy and his mother. He could live without those answers, though. For the time being at least.
Now, today, and every day until they reached Bren, he had to prepare himself to face Kylock. The king had to die. There was no other alternative. The northern empire would crumble without a leader. Baralis, with all his cunning and special skills, wouldn’t be able to hold it together once his figurehead was gone. Kylock had the birthright to rule the kingdoms and the marriage right to rule Bren. If he was assassinated, the two powers would spring apart like a severed bowstring. There was no natural connection between them, no history to bind them close: Kylock was the only link. If he was murdered, Bren and the kingdoms would stand alone once more, and the empire they held between them would disintegrate into its separate parts.
Jack had thought long and hard about what he would do when he f
inally arrived in Bren. There was no need to deal with Baralis, no need to wage a war. Kylock’s death was all that counted.
And he, Jack of the Four Kingdoms and Larn, former baker’s boy and scribe, was the one man who could bring it about. He and Kylock were connected, and the time was coming close to sever the thread.
Tawl had his own concerns: the knighthood, Melli, and whatever ghosts lay in his past. Jack would help him as far as he could, but there was a limit—a point when only he and Kylock mattered—and the nearer they got to Bren, the closer that limit came.
Jack glanced over at Tawl. The knight was riding close to Nabber’s mule. He caught Jack’s gaze and offered a silent salute. Jack saluted back. They both knew the way things were.
Midday came, cloudy and cold with gentle but bitter winds. Crayne decided to stop along the banks of a slow-moving stream. “When it’s as cold as this,” he said, in his blunt, soldier’s voice, “there’s little point looking for tree cover.”
All morning they had been traveling through snatches of woodland separated by grassy hills and valleys. Everywhere Jack looked there was water: streams, pools, scampering brooks. Some of the smaller pools were just starting to frost over, and greasy plates of ice could be seen floating around their edges. For the most part the water was flowing free and the sound of it rushing, tinkling, and dripping filled the midday air.
Jack watched as Andris approached Crayne. The two men exchanged a few words. Crayne then beckoned Borlin over. Although he was some distance from the three men, Jack could see Andris’ lips shaping the word Larn. Borlin nodded. More words were exchanged. Two other knights came over to join them.
Jack rode over to Tawl and Nabber.
“What’s going on, Jack?” asked Tawl, lifting Nabber down from his mule. “What did you say to Andris earlier?”
“The truth. I told him we destroyed the temple at Larn.”