by J. V. Jones
“Certainly, Your Eminence. Though the lady might not be willing to respond to your overtures.”
“Really, Gamil, like a shortsighted archer your arrows always land wide of the mark. We’re dealing with heads of state now; they know better than to keep up petty squabbles. Rorn is powerful, Bren is powerful—the two cities need to work together, not apart. People and politics will always change, but the dance of power goes on.”
“Your Eminence is undoubtedly the most light-footed on the floor.”
“Thank you, Gamil. Wily movers like me always live to dance another day.” Tavalisk handed the bowl of tadpoles to his aide. “You may go now, Gamil. Take the tadpoles with you—they’re beginning to look far too slippery for comfort.”
Just as his aide was about to step from the room, a thought occurred to Tavalisk. “Oh, by the way, Gamil, did they ever recover Baralis’ body from the palace ruins?”
“I don’t think anyone knows for sure, Your Eminence. After all, one set of blackened bones looks much like another.”
Tavalisk shuddered. “Be gone, Gamil,” he said. “You’re letting in a draft through the door.”
The sun shone through the open shutter and into the kitchen of the old duke’s hunting lodge. With the light came a soft mountain breeze and with the breeze came the scent of spring flowers. Jack knew, as only a baker can, that somehow the scent, the breeze, and the light would find their way into the dough.
For the first time in many months Jack was baking bread. He had awoken with the strong desire to feel flour between his fingers, to cup yeast in his palms, and knead dough beneath his knuckles. He worked quickly, his hands remembering moves that his mind had long forgotten. The burns troubled him little now. There was some tautness where scars pulled at his skin and some lost sensitivity in his fingertips, but the blisters had all gone, and new pink skin covered once-raw flesh. He was lucky in many ways, and the quick healing of his wounds was just one of them.
Setting the dough in a bowl, he covered it with a damp cloth. It was the second rising, so it would be ready for the oven in less than an hour.
That done, Jack moved around the table, rubbing the flour from his fingers. The far corner of the working surface was set out for writing, not for baking, and Jack sat down on the bench before the square of parchment, the linen blotter, the ink, and the quill. The quill felt strange in his hand, small and awkward; it had been a long time since he’d last handled a pen. Turning it in his fingers, Jack couldn’t help recalling the very first time he picked up a pen to write with: all those years ago in Baralis’ study, the day King Lesketh was shot.
Jack surprised himself by smiling at the memory. He hadn’t known it then, but that bright and icy afternoon had marked the beginning of everything. All the fear, madness, and triumph could be traced back to that day.
And all the heartache, too.
Jack dipped the quill into the ink and tested the edge in the side margin of the parchment. Tarissa. The nib was fine and sharp. Jack blanked out the jotted-down name, and then rewrote it in finehand at the top.
Dear Tarissa,
Pausing to brush the hair from his face, Jack took a long, deep breath. This was going to be harder than he thought. At some point in the middle of the night, he had managed to convince himself that if he woke up early enough, and tired himself out by working hard enough, that somehow when the time came to write the letter, the words would flow quickly from his pen.
He’d been wrong, of course. He was wrong about so many things that sometimes he wondered how he’d managed to muddle through. Mistakes, misconceptions, and misjudgments had hounded him all the way.
For the past seven weeks, Jack had stayed in the old duke’s hunting lodge. Alone except for an elderly caretaker who aired the rooms and lit the fires, Jack had found plenty of time to think. Marod’s prophecy, his mother’s letter, and Tarissa’s reluctance to disclose her origins all needed making sense of. He didn’t want to make any more mistakes.
Now, as the time came for him to leave this place, Jack thought he had an answer to the puzzle that had occupied his mind for so long: he and Tarissa shared the same father.
But sister as lover. The line had stayed with him since that long night in the palace. Disregarded at first, it had needled away at his thoughts until it could no longer be ignored. Tarissa was his half-sister; an illegitimate child of the king—just like himself. It explained so much: Magra’s noble birth, her bitterness, their exile from the kingdoms. Even his mother’s letter had hinted at the truth: “Like everyone else, I heard rumors that the king had affairs with other women . . .”
Suddenly tired, Jack closed his eyes. Straightaway a vision came, unbidden, into the blackness. It was the glade where Tarissa had said she loved him. Jack could see the willow branches trailing in the pool, smell the daffodils casting their scent to the breeze. He saw himself looking down into the spring clear water and mistaking Tarissa’s reflection for his own.
Jack blinked the image away. A soft pain, mostly sadness, pulled at the muscles of his chest. They had looked so alike, yet neither of them had known it.
Jack took up the quill once more, wondering what to write first. How could he possibly say what he had to? Was there any way he could word the letter without causing Tarissa more pain? In his head, Jack tried out several beginnings, but none of them seemed right. After not hearing from him for so long, after his self-righteous exit from her life, when she pleaded with him to stay, what would she want him to say?
Jack stretched back in his chair, thinking. Specks of dust and flour floated in the strip of morning sunlight that split the kitchen in two. After watching them rise and fall for a short while, each mote entirely separate yet following the same path as the rest, Jack leant forward and began to write.
I’m writing this letter for many reasons, but most of all to say I am sorry. I should never have walked away from you that day I fought with Rovas. I know now that you spoke the truth when you said you loved me. . . .
The words flowed out of Jack. The ink was a shiny black ribbon unraveling from his pen. He knew what to say and how to say it. There was no need for fancy words or high-blown sentiment, he just needed to tell the truth. It was what he would want if he were in Tarissa’s shoes. It was what he had searched for all along.
Jack sat and wrote for an hour, speaking of forgiveness and love and friendship. He told Tarissa all he had guessed about her parentage and disclosed all he knew about his own. No matter how conclusive the proof sounded, a small part of Jack couldn’t help but wish he was wrong, so right at the end of the letter he added an extra sentence, stating that Tarissa could always contact him through Stillfox in Annis if he had made a terrible mistake. He signed his name quickly, determined not to dwell upon that one single hope. They had to move on with their lives now. Both of them.
While he was writing the dough had formed a fat globe beneath the cloth. Jack blotted and folded the letter, then slipped it into his tunic before cutting the dough into loaves. Now that the letter was finished, he felt clear-headed. He would leave the lodge today, leave his friends and his life here, and try to find himself anew. Writing the letter had been the right thing to do: it was an explanation, an apology, and a farewell.
Jack shaped the loaves, placed them on the floured paddle, and then transferred them to the oven. Just as he fixed the oven door in place, he heard the sound of horses trotting up the path. A few seconds later Nabber burst into the kitchen.
“Hey, Jack. How are you, my old friend?”
“Nabber!” Jack was genuinely surprised. It had been many weeks since he had last seen the young pocket. “I hadn’t expected to see you all the way out here. Are Tawl and Melli with you?”
“Tawl is.” Nabber strolled over to the table where Jack was preparing the bread and began prodding at various things he found there. “We’re on our way south—heading back to Rorn. Thought we’d just stop by and say farewell.”
It was a day for parting, then. Jack glan
ced toward the doorframe where his pack lay ready for the taking. “So what business do you have in Rorn?”
Nabber ran his finger through the layer of flour on the table top. “Well, I can’t speak for Tawl, but personally I’m hoping to move up in the world. Last time I was in Rorn I got a very interesting offer. Very interesting, indeed. The Old Man said he might have a place for me in his organization. You know, helping with his personal finances and so on.” Nabber waited a moment to give Jack time to look suitably impressed. “’Course I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”
“Of course.”
“Jack!” Tawl stepped through the door. Crossing the room in two mighty strides, he caught Jack in a huge bear hug. “It’s good to see you, friend.”
Jack looked into the knight’s face. All the hardness and strain that had once been there had now disappeared completely. It was as if he had been made anew. “It’s good to see you, too,” he said, meaning it more than he could ever hope to convey.
The two men stood and looked at each other for a moment. Jack got the feeling Tawl was appraising him, looking for damage . . . or signs of repair. After a moment he nodded, seeming satisfied with what he saw. “Has Nabber told you where we’re headed?”
“Where but not why.”
Tawl grinned like a naughty choirboy. “I think it’s high time someone finally put the archbishop of Rorn in his place.”
Jack smiled, catching his mood. “And what place is that?”
“I’m not fussy—the gutters or the streets, either will do.” Grabbing a wedge of cheese from the table, Tawl began to chew on it. Jack noticed that he had an extra circle on his forearm: three of them now, the third one red around the edges, newly branded. The white scar that had once cut through the circles had disappeared completely. “Seriously, I’m leading a party of knights down to Rorn. Nabber here knows a thing or two about the archbishop, that will—how should I put it?—help hasten His Eminence’s departure.”
Nabber was on his way out of the back door. “You’d better not tell anyone it was me who snitched on him, Tawl. Lose my reputation, I would.” With that, Nabber strolled out in the courtyard and into the fields beyond.
Jack watched him go. “What will happen to Melli while you’re away?” he said, turning to Tawl after a few minutes.
Tawl raked his fingers through his hair. “You know how strong-willed she is, Jack. She practically forced me into taking the leadership—even rescinded my oath.” Tawl shook his head, smiling softly. “She’s right though; getting rid of Tyren is only half the job. There’s a lot of work to be done at Valdis, things that I think I can help with, changes I’d like to make. At one time men used to be proud to call themselves knights: I’d like to see that day again.”
“I think you can make it happen.”
“I hope so.” Tawl’s voice was soft. “I really hope I can.”
“So, you and Melli . . . ” Jack’s words trailed off as he realized he couldn’t think of a polite way of putting things.
“Won’t get married.” The grin had returned to Tawl’s face. “Well, I wouldn’t say no for definite, Jack. After all, I did say I wanted to make changes.” His blue eyes twinkled brighter than Jack had ever seen them.
“You mean—”
“Yes. I always thought it was a senseless rule that knights couldn’t marry. Give me a couple of years and I’m sure I’ll bring others around to my way of thinking.”
“I’m sure you will.” Both men laughed. Tawl’s excitement was infectious.
“So you’re leaving, too?” Tawl nodded toward Jack’s pack.
“Yes. I’m heading to Annis. There’s a man I know there—Stillfox, his name is. He started to teach me things, only I ran off before he could finish. Now I think it’s time I went back and learnt something.”
“Will you come back here when you’re done?”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I think I might do some traveling first. See some places, head west to Silbur, then south to Isro.”
Tawl turned his face to the window. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “We’ll be a long time parted.”
Jack felt a sharp ache in his heart. He and Tawl were connected in so many ways: through prophecies, dreams, and shared adventures. And blood. Jack remembered the first time they met in Cravin’s wine cellar. They were joined by blood, too.
It was hard to believe the time had come for them to part. He owed Tawl so much. The knight had saved his life, not once but twice, and ultimately led him to the truth. He was always there when he was needed.
Jack took a quick breath and asked Tawl what had been on his mind for many weeks now: “What made you come for me that night in the palace?”
Tawl continued to stare out of the window. His answer came quickly, as if his thoughts had been following the same path. “I’m not really sure, Jack. After I killed Tyren I lay in the tent for hours sleeping, daydreaming, thinking of my family. Somehow my thoughts drifted to you, and there was something—” Tawl shrugged. “I didn’t feel any grief, just a sort of niggling emptiness. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the camp arranging a raid into the palace. It all happened so fast; my clothes were covered in Tyren’s blood, so someone gave me the knights’ colors to wear, many of Maybor’s men were injured, so a couple of knights volunteered to come along. An hour later we were in the heart of the palace.
“I wasn’t sure you were alive though, not until we saw a girl in a green dress wandering around the passageways. We took the gag off her and she said a tall, brown-haired man had tied her up. After that there was no stopping us.” Tawl made a deprecating gesture with his hand.
“You got there just in time.” Jack’s memories of the night were patchy, but the sight of Tawl coming toward him as he fell was something he’d remember for the rest of his life. So much fire and brightness and pain, and in the middle of everything came Tawl.
Tawl’s blue eyes met his. “I was blessed that night, Jack. We all were.”
The truth of the knight’s words stopped all talk for a while, and Jack returned to his baking while Tawl stared out of the window to the green and flowering meadow beyond. When finally he spoke again, the subject, although different, was in essence the same. “Grift found Bodger wandering the streets a couple of weeks back. He’d been locked in a dungeon for Borc knows how long, and when the fire in the palace started, the jailer had no choice but to let the prisoners out. In the confusion Bodger managed to run away.”
So many of them had been blessed that night. So many separate miracles had taken place within the whole. Jack closed his eyes a moment, overwhelmed with the closeness of it all. Although he was feeling more awed than happy, he smiled and said, “So Bodger and Grift are back together again, then?”
“Much to the horror of the entire female population of Bren,” said Tawl, laughing gently. As he spoke, Tawl beckoned to Nabber through the open window. Turning back to Jack, he said, “We’ve got to be going now. We’ve a long day’s ride ahead of us.” Again came the searching look of minutes earlier, only this time there was sadness at the heart of the scrutiny. “If you are in trouble, send a message and I will come. If you are weary of being alone, seek me out, and we will journey together once more.”
Jack couldn’t reply. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.
A minute later, Nabber appeared at the window. His sharp young eyes immediately took in the nature of the silence that lay between them, and he set about lightening it as only he could. “Once this journey’s over,” he said, “I swear on Swift’s mother’s grave that there’s no way I’m getting on a horse ever again. Why anyone would choose to ride when they could be sailing on the high seas, I’ll never know.”
Jack and Tawl looked at each other an instant longer, and then laughed with simple joy.
“Well,” said Tawl laying his hand on Jack’s shoulder, “it’s time we were off. Take care, my friend. My thoughts will always be with you.”
“And mine with you
.” Jack wanted to say more, wanted to thank Tawl for everything he had done and all he had just offered, but something in the knight’s face stopped him. There would never be any need for thanks between them.
Jack walked around to the front of the lodge to watch them go. Tawl looked exactly as Jack had always imagined knights to look: fair, powerful, self-assured. Raising his newly marked forearm in parting, Tawl turned his horse and rode away.
Jack swallowed hard, torn between sadness and joy. He watched the two riders disappear into the deep green shadows of the distant pines. His eyes strained to catch every possible detail he could, saving them as precious memories in his heart. When finally there was nothing more to see, Jack began the short walk back to the lodge.
The smell of baking bread filled the kitchen. Jack took the loaves from the oven and set them to cool on the table. He sat and watched the steam rise from the crusts for a few moments and then, suddenly overcome with a deep need to be gone, he made his way to the door. He’d leave this batch for the caretaker.
Hoisting his pack over his shoulder, he made his way out into the noonday sun. He didn’t feel much like riding, so he led his horse along the path and into the grassland beyond. The breeze from the mountains was soft and fragrant and fresh. Insects buzzed, small birds called from bushes, and a solitary hawk circled high overhead. The sun was warm on Jack’s neck and the side of his face, the grass crackled beneath his feet. The letter to Tarissa pushed gently against his heart as he followed Tawl’s path to the pines. By the time he reached the tree line, the shade had shifted from west to east, and although his horse was inclined to follow the eastern trail left by Nabber and Tawl’s horses, Jack guided the gelding due south. He felt like traveling alone for a while.