by J. V. Jones
Ever since they’d learnt the empire’s forces were in the vicinity, they had taken to riding along the foothills of the Divide. No one wanted to risk a chance encounter with a battalion of blackhelms, so they took a longer and more arduous path. The past four days had been hard going. The temperature dropped to below freezing at night and hardly rose significantly during the day. The knights still kept on the lookout for villages, but they hadn’t seen a single hut since Camlee.
Things had changed since the day at the lake. Tawl’s leap had transformed the party. The knights were his now. There were no more questions, no more doubts, nothing except respect and something close to veneration. Tawl had emerged from the lake a different person. His blue eyes were bright with purpose, his voice strong and clear. He was full of strength and light; it was as if the falls had renewed his soul.
Tawl had offered the knights a chance for honor by rescuing a highborn lady from her captor, and the knights seemed glad to take it. There was not a knight alive who would hesitate at saving a damsel in distress. Tyren was a more delicate subject. Tawl did not want to push the men into doing anything they weren’t comfortable with. He gave them time and space to reach their own decisions, and judging from the gradual shift in opinions that was taking place within the party, it was the wisest thing he could have done.
Jack was pleased that Tawl had managed to win the loyalty of the knights, but he felt a certain sadness, too. He and Tawl were moving apart; they had different motives, different goals, different fates. Bren would mark the end of their partnership. From there they would go their separate ways.
“Smoke ahead!” cried Andris.
Jack looked up. He had been drifting off into the future and was glad of the chance to get back to the present. In the distance, in a cleft between two hills, a silvery stream of smoke could be seen rising against the gray sky. As his gaze focused, Jack could see that there was more than one plume: it had to mean there was a village ahead.
The party was excited by the sighting, and everyone spurred their horses on. It was well past midday, and thoughts of a hot meal and a warm bed for the night were uppermost in Jack’s mind.
It took them longer than they thought to reach the village. They had to cross a snowbound valley where the deep drifts and a frozen pond forced them to dismount their horses. Snow started falling when they were halfway across, and the wind from the mountains whipped it into a flurry, making it difficult to see anything. By the time they approached the two hills it was already growing dark.
Crayne sent Andris and Mafrey ahead to scout the village. Although it was far to the west of the army’s path, Crayne was taking no chances. The party gathered in the lee of the hill and waited for the two men to return. The snowfall grew steadily heavier, and the temperature began to drop for the night. The men huddled close, their breath crystallizing in the darkening air, their cloaks white with snow.
Tawl, Crayne, and Borlin were speaking in hushed voices. Jack could see them glancing toward the path that led between the hills. Andris and Mafrey should have been back by now. After a moment, Crayne nodded. “Let’s follow them in,” he cried.
Jack kicked his horse forward, steering toward Nabber and his mule. Tawl had a similar instinct and held back until Nabber drew level. Together they picked a route along the base of the hill until they crossed the path leading into the village.
“Do you think Andris and Mafrey have been attacked?” shouted Jack above the roar of the wind.
“I don’t know,” Tawl said. “The villagers may have spotted them and assumed they were part of Kylock’s forces.” With his right hand he made a small gesture down toward his scabbard.
Jack nodded. Tawl was warning him to be ready with his sword.
The snow was falling so fast that hoofprints were covered within minutes; there was no sign of Andris and Mafrey’s passing. As they rode through the narrow pass, a subtle change began to take place within the party: everyone sat forward on their horses, Borlin and the archers slung their quivers over their backs, Crayne took his spear from its horn, and all but the thinnest gloves were stripped off.
Sharply slanted roofs came into view above the hill line—a few at first, and then more. The village was bigger than they thought. Pale strips of light escaped from shutters and the smell of woodsmoke was carried on the wind.
They rounded a snowy crag and came face-to-face with a band of armed men. Andris and Mafrey rode in the middle. Borlin’s bow was out of its sheath in an instant.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Andris.
Crayne raised an open palm, halting his archers. His glance took in the half-dozen mounted men. “Release my brethren, or be shot where you stand.” The steel in his voice cut straight through the snow.
Andris urged his horse forward. “They haven’t captured us, Crayne. They’re just escorting us back.”
“They’re Highwall men,” hissed Tawl to Jack. “Silver and maroon.”
Highwall? What business did the Wall have seventy leagues northwest of Camlee? Jack moved ahead of Tawl. Crayne was speaking to one of the armed band and he wanted to hear what was being said.
“Yes,” said Crayne, “Tawl of the Lowlands and Jack of the Four Kingdoms.”
The man nodded. “Come with us.”
Jack shot a glance at Tawl. The knight shrugged: he had no idea what was going on, either. The party began to move forward. Crayne still held on to his spear, but he seemed content to follow the men. The path began to widen out and the village soon came into view.
Nestled between two hills, it was saved from the bite of the wind. Thickly timbered cabins dotted the slopes, and three-story houses clustered in the valley. All the buildings had eaves and pointing roofs. There was one road: it ran from east to west along the center of the valley, tapering off abruptly when it reached a huge, fenced enclosure full of sheep. Jack didn’t think he’d ever seen so many sheep in his life. There were thousands of them, their backs daubed with red and blue markings.
The armed men led them to the largest building in sight. A sign creaked over the door, but Jack couldn’t read what it said.
As soon as they came to a standstill, Crayne beckoned Jack and Tawl over. “There’s a man inside who wants to speak to both of you.”
“Who?”
Crayne shook his head. “They wouldn’t say. I think we should all go in together.”
“I agree,” said Tawl. “Where did these men come from?”
“Bren. They escaped from the battlefield.”
“They were lucky not to be picked up by Kylock’s forces,” said Jack.
“They probably stayed close to the mountains.” Crayne jumped from his horse, signaling the rest of the party to do likewise. He looked over at the tavern and then back to Jack and Tawl. “I don’t expect any trouble in here, but the first sign of anything strange and we’re all coming out. Is that clear?”
Jack nodded. He didn’t feel in any danger. Almost without being aware of what he was doing, he had sniffed for sorcery in the air. Nothing sinister was lying in wait for them. He walked forward toward the tavern door, the armed men moving ahead of him, Tawl and Crayne behind.
After the freezing cold darkness of the night, the tavern’s warmth and brightness were shocking. Jack was dazzled by the light, his senses overpowered by the smells, sights, and sounds. The aroma of roasted meat and onions wafted through the low-ceilinged room. The place was packed with men wearing maroon and silver. Gaunt-faced, hollow-eyed, they fell silent as Jack moved amongst them.
“Up here,” said the one who was leading the way.
Jack followed him to the back of the tavern and up a flight of narrow stairs. Tawl was at his heels. They came to a curved oak door. Two men guarded the way.
The taller man held out a restraining arm. “Wait here.” He went inside the room. After a moment he came out with another man.
“Jack, Tawl, come inside.”
It took Jack a moment to recognize the figure in front of him. It was Grift.
His voice was the same as ever, but the face and body were changed beyond recognition. He had lost a great amount of weight. His double chin had gone, his once chubby cheeks were now slack, and dark circles ringed his eyes. “Come on,” he said. “Lord Maybor’s waiting for you.”
Melli lay on the bed and held the pillow to her stomach. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes tight enough and hugged the pillow hard enough, she could imagine her baby was still there. Other times she fell asleep with the pillow beneath her, and in the morning when she awoke there was a moment of pure joy. Those were the moments she lived for; those fragments of seconds, those blinks of an eye, when the past eight days were lost inside her mind.
Tonight there was no forgetting. The pillow was just a pillow, her belly just a curve, time was too rigid to be changed and her mind too sharp to let go. There was nothing except the emptiness in her stomach and the terrible, aching soreness in her breasts.
Milk soaked through her bodice. Sticky, slow to dry, it seeped from her breasts, running down along her rib cage, forming dark stains on the fabric of her dress. Melli couldn’t bear it. She reeked like a wet nurse.
In one quick movement, she made a fist and slammed it into the pillow. She felt the blow in her stomach and didn’t care. Again and again she brought down her fist, pummeling the soft fabric with all her might. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.
Bringing up her second fist, she struck the pillow as hard as she could. Crack! A blinding pain coursed up her arm. Melli’s face crumpled and quick tears flared. She slumped against the bed, cradling her broken arm against her chest. She had forgotten how fragile it was. Now she had rebroken it before it had a chance to heal.
When the pain subsided to a dull throb, Melli ran her fingers over the bone. An uneven swelling jutted out against the skin of her forearm. It was too dark to see anything except the outline, so she wouldn’t be able to do anything until first light. She had made a halfhearted attempt to reset the bone a few days earlier, but she didn’t know the first thing about physicianing, and the pain she experienced trying to force the bones to meet smoothly had been frightening enough to make her give up. Tomorrow she would try and fix a splint.
Melli knew she wouldn’t get any help from Mistress Greal or Kylock—she hadn’t seen either of those two since the night she had given birth—but the guards outside the door might be persuaded to cut her a length of wood. She would ask them when they brought her breakfast in the morning.
Melli stopped herself in the midst of her planning. Here she was, thinking how to fix her arm with as little discomfort as possible, while her baby was dead—torn away from her before it had taken its first breath. She hadn’t even seen its face, didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. Suddenly, every thought she spent on her own survival seemed like a betrayal. Her life was carrying on, and more than just allowing it to, she was actively protecting it.
A dark shroud fell over Melli’s thoughts. Guilt and shame were its rough-woven fabric. Was it wrong for her to want to survive? Was she being callous and self-centered by thinking of herself?
Keys jangled on the other side of the door. A sliver of light stole across the floor. The door opened and light flooded in. Kylock stepped into the room bearing an oil lamp in front of him.
Melli sat up on the bed. Her right arm fell to her lap with a sharp, streaking pain. Seeing Kylock’s shadowed face in the doorway banished all doubts from her mind. She had to survive. Give up now and she would be used as a depository for all of Kylock’s sins. He wasn’t going to renew himself by coupling with her. He had done too many things, sanctioned too many deaths, set her brother against her father, and allowed Baralis to murder her child: he couldn’t be allowed to wash himself clean.
Taking a deep breath of light-filled air, Melli leant forward and said, “Go away. You seek me out too soon, my lord.”
Surprise flitted across Kylock’s face. He put the lamp down on the table and walked toward the bed.
Melli brought her hand up to halt him. “Come no nearer. I am not ready for you yet.”
“Oh, but you are.” Kylock’s voice was seductive, his movements as careful as a lover’s. His gaze lingered over the damp patches of milk on her bodice. “I’ve given you a week, there’s no need for more time.”
Melli crossed her hands high on her chest, covering up the stains. Her breasts ached with a dull, sickening pain. “I need longer,” she said, scouring her thoughts for a plausible reason. She wanted to shock him, to throw him off guard. “You can’t come near me yet. I haven’t healed inside. You wanted me clean and pure, but right now I’m filthy with old blood and old scars. You must wait until I am fully mended, or risk failure and infection if you don’t.” Melli relished every word she was saying. For the first time in many months she felt her old power returning. She was Maybor’s daughter: confident and in command.
Kylock recognized it, too: she could see it in his eyes. He believed her.
“I will give you another week.”
“No. I need ten days.” Melli tilted her chin upward and fixed him with her dark blue eyes. She had no reason for naming ten days—it was just another way to reassert her power.
“Very well. Ten.” Kylock didn’t seem annoyed; if anything he seemed excited.
Melli was repulsed. “Please go now. I need to rest.”
Kylock stood over the bed, looking at her through black-banded eyes, a trace of a smile upon his lips. After a moment he turned and left.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Melli fell back amongst the covers. She was physically and emotionally drained. Shaking from head to foot, pain snaking down her arm, she drew the sheets up to her neck and immediately began to fall asleep. Just as she was about to slide into the blissful darkness, a thought drifted down from above: she hadn’t asked Kylock what had happened to her baby. It had not occurred to her once.
Grift ushered them into a small, hot room. A mighty fire blazed high in the hearth and the windows had been hung with woolen blankets. A low pallet lay in the corner and upon it rested a man. A soft, rasping sound escaped from his lips and his chest rose and fell very fast.
“Jack, Tawl,” murmured the man. “Come close so I can see you.”
Jack crossed the room and knelt beside the pallet. Blue eyes the same color as Melli’s looked up at him from a face slick with sweat.
“It is you,” he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. “They told me it was.”
Jack searched the man’s face for signs of the old Maybor. His full lips were shrunk to lines, his red jowls now pale. There was so little of the man left that Jack could hardly bear to look at him. Grift stepped forward and dabbed Maybor’s brow, and as he drew back with the cloth, he nudged Maybor’s hair into place. That small gesture made Jack look again—not just at Maybor’s face, but the whole man.
His hair was shiny and beautifully brushed, his chin shaven smooth, fine red silk was wrapped around his shoulders, and the smell of fragrance escaped from beneath the sheets. Jack smiled softly. There was more of Maybor left than he thought.
“You escaped from Kylock’s forces at Bren?” Tawl came and knelt by Jack’s side.
Maybor nodded. “We stayed in the mountains for a few weeks and then made our way down.” He spoke so softly that Jack and Tawl had to lean forward to hear him.
“How many men are here with you?”
“Eighty survived. I lost more than that number in the mountains.” Maybor began to cough. His whole body jerked with each strained rasp of his throat. A hand came up from under the sheets; the skin was black and shiny, the fingers curled into a misshapen fist.
Jack had to look away. Tawl’s eyes met his. They both knew Maybor was dying.
Grift came over with a cloth for Maybor to spit into. The guard was careful to fold it well before taking it away.
After a moment Maybor’s cough subsided. When he spoke, each phrase was punctuated with a wheezing breath. “There’s ten horses as well. The villages will sell us some. I had one of the men
count them—said there’s eighteen horses and double that in ponies.”
Jack was beginning to understand what he had in mind. “What state are the men in?” he asked.
Maybor made a small gesture with his ruined hand while he cleared his throat. “They’re young. A few lost fingers and toes, but most of them are fine.” He leant a fraction forward. “Take them with you, Jack. They’re good lads who need a chance to fight. I thought I was doing the right thing by leading them off the field, but now I know it was wrong. I stopped them from being soldiers and made them men, instead.”
Jack didn’t hesitate. “If they’re willing and able they can come with us. We need all the help we can get.”
“They know some fine songs, Jack,” said Maybor, swallowing hard. “And they’re not afraid of long hours on the move.”
After Maybor had finished speaking, his facial muscles relaxed and his eyes started to close. Tawl touched him lightly on the chest. “What was the last thing you heard about Melli?”
“She’s alive. I’ll swear to it.” Maybor’s eyes sprung open and his voice rang clear. He looked first to Tawl and then to Jack. “You’ve got to save her. Promise me you’ll save her.”
Tawl reached forward and took Maybor’s hand. He ran his fingers over flesh that had died on the bone. “I promise you I’ll try.” His words were as gentle as a kiss.
Jack brought his hand to rest on top of Tawl’s. He looked straight into Maybor’s shining eyes. “I promise I will not rest until she’s safe.”
Maybor nodded slowly. His body seemed to diminish, growing smaller and less substantial. He settled back against the pillows and said, in a voice that faded with every word, “You should have seen her when the guards came to the cellar, Jack. She was so beautiful, kicking up a holy storm—for me. Just for me.”
Grift came forward and stroked back his hair. The guard’s hand shook as he smoothed the lustrous gray locks.