by J. V. Jones
“You destroyed the temple, Jack. Not me.”
“No. We both did.”
Tawl didn’t reply. He turned to Nabber and said, “Open up,” and peered down the pocket’s throat. Next he felt for lumps under his jawline and then clamped a palm over his brow. He seemed pleased with what he found. “You’re getting better.”
“How come I don’t feel no better, then?”
Tawl smiled. “Because I didn’t put any brandy in your holk this morning. Now go and lie down for a while. Take my extra blanket and make sure you cover yourself well. I’ll be over with some hot food soon.”
Nabber looked at Tawl and then Jack. “I know when I’m not wanted. I might be sick, but I’m not stupid.” He began to walk toward the water’s edge. “Make sure you bring me plenty of cheese.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Tawl said, “Jack, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. I can deal with these men on my own.”
“I know you can, Tawl. But we haven’t got much time. If they’re not going to help us, then we have to escape.”
“You think I’m holding you up.” It was not a question.
“That’s not why I spoke to Andris.”
Tawl managed half a smile. He brought up his hand and laid it on Jack’s shoulder. “I know.”
The two men looked over toward Andris. All the knights had gathered around him, and judging from the amount of noise they were making, a heated discussion was taking place.
Tawl took a step forward. “I’ll go and talk to them.”
“No,” said Jack. “Let them come to you.” He reached over and took his flask from his pack. “Come on, let’s get some water.”
Tawl followed him down to the edge of the stream. Nabber was close by. Bundled in a heavy blanket, he was leaning over the water looking for skimmers. “Where does all this water come from, Tawl?” he said, holding a pebble up to the light. “Ain’t seen so much wet stuff since we took our leave of Marls.”
“It runs down off the Divide,” said Tawl, dipping his flask in the stream. “All these little streams eventually run into the Silbur.”
“Is the river close by?” asked Jack. Everyone in the Known Lands had heard of the mighty River Silbur.
Tawl shrugged. “About five leagues west of us. It runs along the base of the foothills. It’s current is so strong it actually cuts a path through the Divide.”
“It runs through the mountains?”
“Yes. A hundred leagues south of Valdis.” Tawl put the cap on his flask. “Tomorrow we should pass close to Lake Ormon. It’s the deepest lake in the Known Lands. It’s where the River Viralay joins the Silbur. The Viralay flows northward through the mountains until it hits the lake.” As he spoke Tawl’s voice grew quieter. His eyes focused on a distant point across the stream. “I followed the Viralay’s path my first year at Valdis. I had to make it to the mountain shrine to gain my first circle. I’ll never forget my first sight of the falls.”
“The falls?”
“The Faldara Falls. The Viralay drops down from the mountains and into Lake Ormon. It’s the place where Valdis . . . ” Tawl’s voice trailed away. He was crouching by the water’s edge, and he began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. Abruptly he stood up.
A warning pulse beat in Jack’s temple. “What happened at the Faldara Falls?” he cried, suddenly afraid. Something dangerous and unnamable shone in Tawl’s eyes.
The knight began to walk back to the campsite. “Valdis earned the faith of his first followers.”
Kylock dropped his gaze to Melli’s stomach. “How much longer?” He was so close Melli could smell him. A faint sulfurous odor escaped from his lips.
“Five weeks,” she lied. It was more like three.
Kylock made a small clicking noise with his tongue and turned his back on her. He had let himself into her chamber only a few minutes earlier. Melli had been almost glad of his arrival. Mistress Greal had failed to make her daily visit, and Melli found she missed the usual clashing of tongues.
Melli moved closer to Kylock. She had her eye on his knife. She was determined to have it in her stash before the visit was through. “Does five weeks fail to meet with your approval, sire?”
The clicking sound came again. Kylock swept around to face her. “Women are such lying whores.” He grabbed her by the throat. “Tell me the truth this time. How much longer before you give birth?”
Melli felt the baby kicking. She tried to take a breath, but Kylock’s thumb was pressed against her windpipe. Even though she had witnessed Kylock’s mood swings many times before, they never failed to frighten her. She knew her best course of action would be to placate him: to beg, to apologize, to admit her guilt. He liked to see her sorry. Her mind was on his knife, though. She could feel it pressing against her side.
Moving her right hand down toward his hip, Melli grasped hold of the hilt. As her fingers closed around the leather binding, she raised her left heel and stamped down hard on Kylock’s foot. He jerked back, and Melli pulled the knife from its sheath.
Before she’d had chance to hide the knife behind her back, Kylock’s fist smashed into her face. Pain exploded in her jaw. Her vision blurred. Without thinking, she brought the knife forward and slashed at Kylock’s arm. The blade cut through linen and flesh. Even as the blood welled from the cut, Melli knew she’d made a terrible mistake.
Kylock looked down at his arm and then up at her. A faint smile was on his lips. He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that, Melliandra.”
Melli was scared now. Everything was happening too fast. She brought her left hand down to protect her stomach, and then dropped her knife hand down to her side. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.”
“Oh, I think you did. I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” Kylock lunged for the knife. Instinct made Melli raise the blade. The edge cut deep into Kylock’s palm. Blood poured from the gash.
“Get away from me!” she cried.
Kylock did as he was told. Very slowly he began to back away.
Melli’s heart was beating fast. The knife shook in her hand. She tried to calm herself; she was in charge, she had the knife, Kylock would do what she wanted. Then she looked into his eyes.
They were as blank as stone.
Melli dropped the knife. With both hands she hugged her belly. No, Borc. No, she mouthed. She had seen that look before. The day Jack turned and faced the mercenaries his eyes had looked exactly the same.
A metallic taste reached her lips. A warm breeze touched her cheek. The light went out. And then a band of solid air hit her full in the stomach. It was like being smashed with a metal bar. She was lifted off her feet and slammed against the chamber wall. Her back cracked. Her head hit stone. Something warm gushed down her thigh.
Melli slumped to the floor. The chamber around her was moving. Her face was burning up. Her skirt and legs were wet. Kylock stood above her, smiling.
“That should teach you not to lie.”
Melli barely heard him. She barely saw him walk away. Deep, heaving contractions gripped her stomach. A terrible, cold fear gripped her soul. The one arm she was capable of moving came up around her belly. And the baby within shifted downward like a dead weight.
Oh, no. Please. NO!
The night was filled with pain. Her own screams filtered down to her through layer upon layer of suffering. Everything was red. She opened her eyes, she closed her eyes, and all she saw was red.
Her body stopped being hers and became an instrument of the child. Violent, sickening contractions tore through her abdomen. Hot blood-flushes plumed up her neck and face. Her chest was a clawing hollow; it was as if her heart and her lungs didn’t exist. The muscles in her stomach were taut with straining, like ropes lashed around her belly. The center of the pain was lower, deeper, nestled between her hips. Flesh, muscle, and ligaments were stretched to the tearing point. Melli felt as if she was being split in two.
And then there were the oth
er pains. Little separate pockets lurking within the whole. Right arm throbbing, dead at the wrist. Head pounding against the stone. A knifing sting in the back, and the skin on her face scalding in the cool air.
At first there was no one. Melli was alone in the red-tinged darkness, screaming. Then came men with lights. A cushion was placed beneath her head, a blanket over her belly. Something warm dripped between her lips and she heard the tear of fabric as her dress was slit. Melli looked up. The figures looked like ghosts around a grave. Three of them now—the last one an avenging spirit who banished the other two.
Melli felt a slap upon her cheek.
“Take a grip of yourself, you little slut.” The figure dumped a cup of cold water over Melli’s face. “And stop that infernal screaming.”
Melli stopped screaming and started choking. Water splashed down her throat and into her windpipe. She raised her head up from the cushion to clear her lungs. Pain splintered her spine.
“Stay where you are, missy. You’re not moving anywhere.”
Melli actually laughed. Move? Mistress Greal was being overly optimistic.
If Mistress Greal slapped, kicked, or drenched her again, Melli didn’t feel it. A massive, muscle-tensing spasm racked her body. Her chest was a vacuum threatening to collapse. Spirals of pain caught her in their snare. She felt as if a sharp-toothed dog was tearing away at her abdomen.
Above her the light source bobbed and swayed. Mistress Greal’s toothless face glowed like an apparition. Spiny claws fingered Melli’s belly, prodding, pushing, scratching.
“Bite on this.” Something hard and thumb-sized was thrust into Melli’s mouth. Rough and wooden, its needle edges tore at her gums. Melli bit down on it anyway. Bit down hard and fast, puncturing the wood with flinty, saliva-glazed teeth.
Another spasm hit. It wrenched the middle of her being, twisting muscles and organs and flesh. Melli tasted blood. She smelled her child. It was on its way.
Melli prayed to Borc. She prayed for her father’s luck.
“What did you do to her?” Baralis willed himself to stay calm. He reminded himself he was addressing his king. “What happened, sire?”
Kylock was lounging on a cushioned bench in his chambers. His face was pale, his eyes unnaturally bright. A young girl sat cowering in a chair in the corner. Her pale hair was down around her shoulders and she was wearing a linen nightgown. Baralis noticed that both her arms were behind her back.
A jeweled goblet full of wine rested in Kylock’s hand. “Nothing happened that you need worry yourself over, Baralis. I merely taught the Lady Melliandra a lesson.”
Baralis’ glance flickered over to the girl. Kylock noticed the object of his gaze. “Don’t worry yourself so, my dear chancellor. Our little friend here will tell no tales.” Kylock favored the girl with a patron’s smile. “Not after tonight, eh?”
Baralis walked over to the chest against the wall. Two flagons of wine rested there. He took the caps off both of them and inhaled their fumes deeply.
“Testing for poison, Baralis?”
“Yes, sire. I have a nose for such things,” lied Baralis. He was testing for traces of ivysh. Kylock had drawn power this night, and Baralis needed to know how he had managed it. The almost imperceptible odor of sulfur met his nostrils. Ivysh was present. Kylock was still drinking tainted wine, which meant that once again he had managed to break free from the restraints of the drug. It shouldn’t be possible.
Baralis turned back to Kylock. “How are you feeling, sire? Are you weak, tired?”
Kylock raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you become my doctor, Baralis? You will have me urinating in a glass next.” He downed his cup of wine and slammed it onto the table. “I’ve never felt better.”
Baralis sucked in his breath. Kylock had just drawn enough sorcery to shake the whole north wing and he’d never felt better? He should be physically drained, close to collapse, and yet here he sat, confident and relaxed, a girl waiting close by to see to his pleasures. “You know what you did tonight?”
“Quite a surprise, wasn’t it? The lady in question was swept off her feet.” Kylock stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Baralis. My little friend and I have business to attend to.”
Baralis bowed to Kylock and inclined his head to the girl. Her pretty face would never see the light of day again.
Once the door was closed behind him, Baralis cut a path to the north wing. He was anxious to see what damage Kylock had done. As he walked, he wondered whether he should increase the king’s intake of ivysh one more time. Already he was taking three times the normal dose, but it was having less and less effect. Kylock was building an immunity to it. Baralis shook his head. First the wedding night, now this.
Kylock was growing stronger, and the one weapon Baralis could use against him had been blunted by too many strikes.
Increasing the level of ivysh might prove dangerous. Nerve and brain damage could occur at higher doses. Baralis had already considered ways to bring about just such an effect—he had plans to rule the empire through a weak-chinned, weak-minded king—but not now, though. It was too early in the game for that. He needed Kylock strong. He needed his expertise, his military genius, his talent for getting the best out of his troops. He needed him to stabilize the empire. Annis, Highwall, Camlee, and Ness—they all must be brought into the fold. Then and only then would Kylock’s wits become expendable.
Up until that point his power had to be contained. It was too dangerous to leave the king to his own devices. He was irrational, unpredictable, and he couldn’t be relied upon to control the power inside.
More ivysh was unfortunately in order; there was no other alternative. He would just have to watch Kylock closely.
Baralis climbed the stairs up to Melliandra’s chamber. There was a long, hard winter ahead.
The two guards let him pass without a word. Their faces were strained and they both smelled of ale. As Baralis entered the chamber, he felt the waves of the drawing ripple over him. It was strong and, unlike the wedding night, when there had been no definite target, an attempt had been made to focus it. Kylock was learning new tricks.
Though he hadn’t mastered them yet. Melliandra would be dead if he had. Instead she was lying on the stone floor, head propped up by pillows, legs thrown apart, bit between her teeth, about to give birth to the duke’s only heir. Her face was burnt, her right arm looked as if it was broken, but all things considered the girl had gotten off lightly.
Having seen enough, Baralis turned away. He had no desire to see the child being born. Such matters were distasteful to him. With a crook of his finger, he beckoned the Greal woman over. Briefly, he considered taking the newborn for his own purposes, but the memory of six men, two with their arms burnt black to the elbow, chased the desire away. Baralis valued his body too highly to risk losing it on a single, magnificent unleashing.
“As soon as the baby is born, take it away and smother it. Destroy the body when you’re done.”
The woman didn’t blink an eye. “And the girl?”
“Leave her. She is nothing without the child.” Baralis made his way toward the door. “Let the king do with her what he wants.”
It was midnight, but the snow and moon mustered enough light to show a way in the dark. Most of the men were on foot, so the trail was easy to follow. All but a dozen of the horses were dead. There hadn’t been enough room for them in the cavern and they had died off one by one. Half of the men were dead, too. They were down to a hundred now.
Maybor was riding one of the last remaining horses. He was bundled up well and the night, though cold, was mild compared to most. Maybor knew he was in a bad state. Frostbite had taken his toes and his left hand. Lung fever had set into his chest. All his life he had been a lucky man, yet tonight, here on the eastern side of the Divide, with the wind blowing northward and the frost coming down from above, Maybor was overcome with the sudden feeling that he’d just seen the last of his luck.
He shivered violently,
his teeth clicking together and his shoulders arching upward.
“Come on, lads, let’s go,” he said, speaking only to hear the sound of his own voice. He kicked his horse forward, eager to leave all misgivings behind.
They didn’t have much time left: a hard freeze or a sudden storm and they’d be at the devil’s side before they knew it. So they were coming down the mountain while they still could.
They weren’t traveling north toward Bren—Kylock was patrolling the northern foothills and they’d be picked off by marksmen as soon as they came within range—they were heading to Camlee, instead.
Southeast along the divide, traveling both day and night, they skirted the great peaks, gradually winding their way down to the foothills north of Camlee. For the most part conditions in the mountains had been in their favor: the air was clear but cold, snowfall light, and once they’d turned south, the northern winds were behind them. Underfoot the snow was hard, frozen, and the farther they descended the lighter the coverage became. All the men were wrapped up well now, dead men’s clothes on their backs, dead men’s boots on their feet. No more limbs would be lost to the cold.
Maybor had grown to respect the quiet determined men of Highwall. He joined in their somber songs of mourning and listened to their fireside tales of war. They were proud men, and they bitterly regretted not being there to die by their leader’s side. Maybor thought them very young and naïve, yet he loved them all the same. They were his boys now. And he wouldn’t let their retreat from Kylock’s forces be in vain. He was old, his life long, but they were young and had many battles left to fight. He would bring them down from the mountain and see them safe into Camlee territory. From there they could find glory on their own.
Maybor guided his horse around a curve in the path. No, he didn’t feel lucky anymore, so he would have to save these hundred men on nothing more than guts.
Twenty-eight
It was warm inside the pit. Warm and quiet and dark, with blankets layered high to keep out sights, sounds, and drafts. The pit was safe. It fit her form like a coffin, and like a coffin it offered peace. She didn’t want to rise, didn’t ever want to wake up again. Sleep was her dark pit, and with instincts so potent they pervaded her dreams, Melli knew that’s where she should stay.