by J. V. Jones
Once his eyes could make out variations in the darkness, Jack set to work looking for whatever food he could find. The cheeses were on a shelf and he brought one of them down. With steady hands he unwrapped the linen cloth. He resisted the urge to bite straight into it and cut himself a fairsized wedge, instead. His wound would have to wait until tomorrow now; he couldn't risk slicing it with a dirty knife.
The cheese was well worth the sacrifice. It was delicious: sharp, crumbly, and dry. Further investigation uncovered a large jug of buttermilk. He sat down on the rush-covered floor and ate and drank himself sick. Cheese and buttermilk, while fine on their own, did not make the best combination. Too rich and creamy by far.
With a stomach now grumbling from overindulgence, Jack curled up in a ball and covered himself with rushes. Closing his eyes, he settled down and listened for rats. He could never sleep without first being sure that there were none of the evil glassy-eyed rodents around. He hated rats. He was almost disappointed when there was nothing to hear but the creak of the woodwork and the sound of the breeze whistling through the cracks. An absence of scurrying noises meant that he was free to sleep. Nowadays he was almost more afraid of sleep than he was of rats. His dreams gave him no peace. Tarissa was always in them, crying and pleading one minute, laughing slyly the next. The garrison burned anew each night, and sometimes she burned along with it. Rats might make his flesh crawl, but they never left him feeling guilty and confused.
Before he knew it, his eyelids had grown heavy, and sleep gently eased her way in. Perhaps it was the unique combination of cheese and buttermilk, perhaps not, but for the first time in many weeks he didn't dream of Tarissa. He dreamed of Melli. Her pale and beautiful face kept him company through the night.
THIRTY-TWO
Smoke rose from a forest of candles. A field of wildflowers rested in silver bowls. A mine's worth of silver graced the finest linen and a mountain's worth of crystal caught the light. A rainbow of colors decked the walls, whilst a meadow of fragrant grasses graced the floor. It was the Feast of First Sowing in Bren, and the duke's palace was dressed in its springtime best.
Long tables spanned the length of the great hall. Swans swam across the tabletops, their brilliant white feathers masking cooked birds beneath. Boar's heads stuffed with songbirds rested upon exquisite tapestries of blue and gold, and newly birthed calves were impaled upon spits.
The lords and ladies who sat around the tables were the most influential people in Bren. Their clothes were made from the finest materials, but the colors were strangely subdued: dark grays, deep greens, and black. The women made up for the plainness of their dresses by wearing their grandest jewels. Diamonds and rubies flashed in the candlelight, and precious metals tinkled with each raised cup.
The duke surveyed the hall. The court was apprehensive tonight. Men and women alike were drinking heavily, yet eating barely anything at all. Lord Cravin caught his eye. He was an ambitious and powerful man who had long been opposed to the match of Catherine and Kylock. The duke inclined his head toward him. Cravin would be pleasantly surprised this evening. Lord Maybor, who was sitting nearby, spotted the exchange. The duke raised his cup to him. Maybor, red of face and dressed more magnificently than anyone else around the table, mirrored his gesture. The duke actually had to stop himself from laughing. The man had no inkling that this night would change his life.
He glanced quickly to the small door that stood to the side of the main table. Behind its wooden panels waited the lady who would alter the course of history: Melliandra, his bride-to-be. She had no idea her father was here. He could see her now, downing a little more wine than was good for her and scolding her servant for listening at the door, whilst she herself did the same. It wouldn't be long now before he brought her out.
Shifting his gaze from the door, back to the table, something caught his eye that gave him cause to be wary. Baralis was sitting next to Catherine. That in itself was a blatant disregard of his wishes, but what was more alarming, however, was the way the girl leaned over the man, feeding him meats and sweet breads, her breasts brushing against his arm. Any other time the duke would not have tolerated such behavior. He would simply have pulled Catherine from the table and sent her to bed. She had obviously been drinking, for nothing else could explain her immodest behavior. Even as he watched, Baralis placed a restraining hand upon Catherine's arm and moved his chair a little way back from hers. The duke was pleased, but not surprised. Baralis was not a stupid man.
But he would soon be an angry one.
And Catherine? How would she react? She would not be pleased, that much was certain. The duke shrugged. Temper tantrums of young girls were easily dealt with.
It was time. Eating had stopped, and drinking had reached the point where people no longer bothered to hide the quantities they drank. The duke brought down his cup, banging it loudly on the table. All eyes turned toward the noise. He stood up, and a hush descended upon the room.
Maybor had been waiting for this all night. He'd barely tasted the seven pheasants, the haunch of venison, and the two jugs of lobanfern red which he had consumed. His mind was on what the duke was going to do to Baralis. It was high time that villainous demon was dealt with once and for all. Of course, the puzzling thing was that Baralis would finally be getting his way tonight: Kylock would wed Catherine. Indeed, His Grace was in the process of making the announcement now. Maybor sat back in his chair, his cup resting upon his knee, and listened to what the duke was saying.
"My lords and ladies," he said, speaking in a strong and ringing voice, "I have chosen the Feast of First Sowing to make two important announcements. As you know, First Sowing is traditionally a time when we pray for healthy crops and high yields from the seeds which we have newly sown. I hope for the same bountiful harvest from the two seeds I sow tonight."
The duke paused. A wave of nervous chatter and coughing rose up to fill the silence. People shifted restlessly in their seats. Maybor noticed many a person using the short break to bring wine cups to their lips. All was silence when the duke spoke again.
"Firstly, I must inform you of my decision to go ahead with the marriage of Catherine and Kylock-"
The duke was cut off in midsentence by the noise of the crowd. A wave of something close to panic spread fast across the room. Breath was sharply inhaled, eyebrows were raised, and expressions of disbelief were on everyone's lips. Maybor glanced toward Lord Cravin: the man's expression was grim. Baralis and Catherine, on the other hand, looked as smug as a pair of newlyweds. Maybor began to feel a little wary. What if the duke had been leading him astray? Promising something that would upset Baralis, just to keep him quiet?
The duke did not look pleased. The skin was drawn tight across the bridge of his nose and his lips were drawn into a whip of a line. He rapped his cup on the table. "Silence!" he boomed.
Every single member of the court froze on the spot. Cups were suspended in midair, tongues were caught in midflap.
Satisfied, the duke continued. "Not only have I decided to go ahead with the match, but I have also set a date. Two months from tonight, my beloved daughter Catherine will wed King Kylock."
The crowd lost control once more. The hall was filled with the hiss of dissatisfied whisperings. It was a testament to the duke's power that no one dared speak out loud.
Abruptly, Lord Cravin stood up. He bowed to the duke. "I request Your Grace's permission to leave the table," he said, pronouncing every word precisely.
"Request denied, Lord Cravin. You will sit and hear my second announcement like everybody else."
Humiliated, Lord Cravin shot a look filled with pure malice toward the duke.
Maybor fancied he saw a spark of amusement twinkle in the duke's eye. The court, seeing how sharply Lord Cravin was dealt with, grew more subdued.
The duke beckoned his daughter to stand. Catherine did as she was bidden, her pearls resting like raindrops against her dress. Borc, but she was beautiful! thought Maybor. Her pale and heavy h
air was piled high atop her head. Combs and pins didn't quite succeed in keeping all the locks in place, and several golden curls fell like jewels around her face.
"To my daughter, Catherine," said the duke, raising his cup high. "Who, even before the crops begin to ripen in the field, will become queen of the Four Kingdoms."
Maybor choked on his wine. Queen of the Four Kingdoms. Melliandra should be the woman who bore that title. His daughter should have been queen. In all the plotting and politicking surrounding Catherine's inheritance, somehow the fact that the duke's daughter would be made queen of the kingdoms had gone unnoticed. Even by himself. Maybor suddenly felt very tired. The crowd cheered halfheartedly. With Kylock rapidly approaching the Halcus capital, things looked very different than when they had first enthusiastically accepted the betrothal.
The duke waved Catherine down. "Now," he said. "I come to my second announcement. I have been a long time unmarried. It is over ten years since my beloved wife died, and I think now is the time for me to take another wife."
The crowd was stunned. No one spoke. No one moved. Maybor leaned forward in his chair. He had an idea of what the duke was up to: he was attempting to supplant Catherine as his heir by producing a legitimate male child to take her place.
The duke continued. "I have recently met a lady of high birth. A beautiful young woman who has agreed to be my wife. I know this will come as a surprise to most of you here, but I intend to marry her within the month."
With the noise of the crowd sounding in his ears, Maybor turned to look at Baralis. The man was as pale as a corpse. This was coming as a rather nasty surprise. Maybor smiled softly. The great lord's plans were about to go sadly awry.
Melli was growing impatient. She had paced the length of the antechamber so many times now that she could swear her feet had worn a path in the stone. "Nessa, what d'you hear now?"
"Well, m'lady," said the small and dumpy girl. "I think His Grace looks set to introduce you."
"Out of my way." Melli pushed Nessa away from the door and put her own ear to the wood. The crowd, which had been so vocal only minutes earlier, was now ominously quiet. Melli stepped away when she realized the duke was speaking. For some reason, she didn't want to hear what he said about her. "Pour me another glass of wine," she ordered. Nessa swiftly obliged. Melli's hands were shaking so much that she was forced to drink the wine leaning forward, with her neck stretched out, to avoid any spilling on her dress.
Just as she brought the cup to her lips, three knocks sounded upon the door. The signal for her to make her entrance. Thrusting the cup into Nessa's waiting hand, Melli smoothed down her dress. "Do I look all right?" The maid nodded, but Melli barely noticed. The door opened up in front of her and she was blinded by light and smoke.
Melli heard the sound of a thousand bated breaths. She froze, unable to move a limb. A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek. Never in her life had she been so afraid. She felt a strong desire to turn around and run away, all the way back to the kingdoms and the safety of her father's arms. What had she gotten herself into? A hostile court awaited her, ready to criticize and condemn.
Then, just as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, the duke was by her side. His arm was upon hers, lending her strength. His lips gently brushed against her lips. "Come, my love," he said. "Come and meet your courtiers. I promise I will not leave your side." Never had she heard him speak so tenderly. His voice was both a caress and a comfort. He looked into her eyes. "Your beauty makes me very proud tonight." Guiding her from the shadows, he led her into the great hall at Bren.
"This, lords and ladies," he said, walking her toward the main table, "is Melliandra of the Eastlands, daughter of Lord Maybor, and the woman who will soon become my wife."
Maybor dropped his cup. It was Melliandra. His Melliandra. All these months of not seeing her, and now she had turned up here. He stood up. In three mighty leaps he was beside her. A second later she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He didn't give a damn if anyone saw them. He ran his hands along her hair; it was as soft as he remembered. She was so small, so frail. He didn't want to let her go.
"Melli, Melli," he whispered. "My sweet Melli. I never thought I'd see you again." She was shaking like a newborn. He felt something wet on his neck, and realized that she was crying, too. Maybor pulled away, wiping the tears from his eyes with his fist. His daughter was ten times more beautiful than he remembered.
"Father, I'm sorry," she said quietly, for his ears alone. Maybor took up the corner of his robe and gently rubbed the tears from her cheek. "Hush, little one. Now is not the time for regrets. We are a family again, and the time has come for us to act like one."
Catching hold of Melli's hand, he turned to face the duke and his court. A performance was called for now. A good one. Not only did he need to make these people think that he had known about the wedding all along, but he also had to impress them. Three days back, the duke had asked if he could rely on his composure. Tonight, he would prove that he could be more than composed-he would actually seal the pact.
Maybor cleared his throat. He looked around the great haIl, meeting every eye that was focused upon him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, giving proper weight to every word.
"I am more than pleased to give my only daughter, Melliandra, in marriage to Bren. I choose the word Bren carefully for I am well aware that Melliandra will wed more than just the duke; she will wed the city itself. I can never hope to repay such an overwhelming honor, but as a father it is my duty to try. I have humbly offered the duke one-third of my eastern holdings and one quarter of my wealth. He has cordially accepted, and the contracts have been drawn." There. Let no one say that Maybor could not think on his feet.
He quickly looked toward the duke. The man nodded his approval. Hastily grabbing a cup from the table, Maybor came to stand between the duke and Melliandra. "A toast," he cried, uniting the two lovers' hands. "A toast to a glorious match between two of the oldest families in the north. May the might of Bren and the Eastlands forever be united."
As Maybor drew his cup to his lip, something dark in the corner of his vision caught his attention. It was Baralis. He looked ready for murder.
Tawl watched as the crowd went into a frenzy over the toast. They hardly knew what to make of the marriage, but somehow Lord Maybor had managed to whip up support.
Who could not be moved by the sight of a man weeping in happiness at the announcement of his daughter's marriage? The worldly and cynical court had been touched by such a spontaneous show of paternal affection. Particularly when the man in question had gone on to compose himself and then give a gracious speech. Tawl smiled, his lips brushing against the thick satin curtain. He could certainly see where Melli got her spirit from.
Tawl could see nearly everyone in the room from his position at the side of the head table. He was concealed in the passageway that connected the great hall to the kitchens. Normally it was used by servants carrying hot food to the tables, but tonight Tawl had turned it into his own personal den. He had arranged to have a thickly lined curtain hung from the entrance and had forbidden anyone in the kitchens to set foot in the passage during the feast. It was the ideal place to keep a discreet eye on what was going on, and if matters came to a head, it would also provide the means for a quick escape. He could have Melli out of the hall and into the kitchens in less than a minute.
He didn't think it would come to that, though. Not tonight. But it would come soon. He pressed his eye against the slit and searched out Baralis' face. The man was not even bothering to keep up appearances. Whilst the people of the court were at least putting on a show of goodwill for the newly betrothed couple, Baralis was sitting there, lips drawn to a thin line, eyes dark with hatred, stabbing away at the tabletop with the point of his eating knife.
Tawl's gaze traveled to the girl sitting to the right of Baralis: the exquisite Catherine of Bren. Appearances could be so deceptive. She looked like a chaste virgin: she was not.
> She looked like a sweet angel: she was not. She looked like the sort of girl who would never harm a fly: most definitely, she was not. Even now, Tawl could remember the venom in her voice the day she had sworn to see him dead. Unpredictable, dangerous, and a consummate actress, the duke's daughter was not what she seemed.
Just as the cheering died down, Catherine stood up. Tawl saw how pale her face was and how her hand shook as she grasped the back of the chair. His fingers encircled his blade.
"I would like to propose my own toast," she said, her voice high with emotion. "A toast to my father. A man who would rather make a fool of himself by marrying a woman half of his age than let his daughter keep her rightful place."
With that, she swept her arm across the table, sending plates and cups flying.
Two unarmed guards, whom Tawl had briefed earlier for just such a situation, came to lead her away. She fought them off. "This marriage is a farce," she cried, wrestling free of the first guard's grip. Her body became stiff and her eyes began to cloud over. Her cheeks began to fill out as if she were holding her breath. The hand that held the chair shook violently. The very air surrounding her seemed to thicken. All of a sudden she composed herself.
Tawl, from his position at the far side of Catherine, saw the reason why. Baralis had caught and squeezed her hand, then whispered three words in her ear.
The effect the words had on Catherine was dramatic. With great dignity, she pulled away from the guards. "Unhand me," she said. "You forget who I am." A withering gaze completed the reproof. Both men fell back immediately, not even pausing to check with the duke. Head held high, back straight as a spear, Catherine made her way across the hall. She exited through a side door.
When she was gone, the court began to whisper uneasily.
Behind the curtain, Tawl was nervous. His palm was wet around the knife. He had taken a risk not coming forward the moment Catherine stood up. He had no wish to humiliate her by leaping out of nowhere, brandishing his knife in her face. The duke would not have approved. It would have looked as if he didn't trust his own daughter. So he had stayed put, prepared to show himself only if Catherine made a move toward Melli. Yet now, thinking about it, Tawl wasn't sure that she hadn't.