by J. V. Jones
The knight and his little party were still somewhere in the city. On Baralis' instructions all the gates were being monitored closely, so he would know if they left. He had promised Larn that much. Tomorrow he intended to persuade the newly bereaved Catherine to mount a door-to-door search of the city. He doubted if they would be found that way, but it looked good nonetheless. The duchess should be seen to be actively pursuing her father's murderers. Or at least those suspected of it.
Oh, the theories abounded as to who had murdered the duke: a rogue assassin working alone; an old lover of Melliandra who couldn't bear to see her wed; Tawl, the duke's own champion on a mission from Valdis; and of course the lady herself, Maybor's daughter, who never really loved the duke, just craved his power and wealth. Traff's body had been found: the knife the duke had been killed with embedded deep within his heart. At this point in time the city of Bren didn't know whether to call the mysterious dead man a murderer or a hero. Baralis' lips shaped a slow smile. It really was most delicious.
The fact that Tawl and Melliandra had fled the murder scene added impetus to the rumors of their guilt. Innocent people stay and face their accusers; it is the guilty who need to hide. A commonly held misconception it may be, but one it was never wise to go against. Everyone in Bren was looking to blame the murder of their beloved duke on someone, and what better candidates than the two runaways, a traitorous knight and a foreign whore?
Baralis began to idly flick through Bevlin's books. Dealing with Catherine had been his greatest challenge. The morning after the murder she had come to him. Furious, confused, tears streaking down her beautiful face, she had demanded to know why her father had been killed. He had been expecting her. The wine he gave her was drugged. Nothing much: a mere relaxant with a little something extra added to ensure her pliability. The potion was a fitting accompaniment to his words. He told Catherine his account of the evening. He explained that when the assassin burst into the room ready, to slit Melliandra's scrawny little throat, he found the duke already dead, and Melli abed with the duke's champion. Tawl and the assassin had fought, and the assassin had sadly lost.
Two things added weight to his tale: first, the duke's own physicians had concluded that the knife found in the assassin's heart was the murder weapon; and secondly, Catherine hated Tawl with a zealous frenzy. She was eager to believe his guilt: he had killed her lover. It did not take much to convince her that he had killed her father as well.
Catherine was now firmly in his court. The new duchess was allowing herself to be guided by him. Each day she would come to him, drink a glass of tainted wine, brush her plump lips against his cheek, and then listen eagerly to his advice. Her decisions were his decisions. Her orders were his orders. He was running Bren now. The marriage to Kylock would go ahead.
Once the official mourning period of forty days and forty nights was over, Catherine would wed Kylock here in the city. Nothing could stop his plans now. Nothing.
Even Kylock himself was playing his part well. Having conquered all of western Halcus, and taken the capital Helch, the young king had actually shown some restraint. Instead of continuing on and attempting to defeat the entire country, Kylock had sued for peace. The whole of the north had heaved a collective sigh of relief at the news. Baralis was well pleased. He could not have asked for better timing; this latest move of Kylock's had served to pacify Annis and Highwall. The two cities would now be less likely to hinder the joining of Bren and the kingdoms. Both powers had secretly been building up their armies for months and were in the position to raise powerful objections. War was inevitable, but it was far better that it be delayed until everything was in place. Annis and Highwall were still on their guard at the moment, after a few months of peace they would not be quite so alert.
Kylock would undoubtedly fare well in the coming peace talks with the Halcus. After his military success in the capital, he was in a strong position to negotiate and would doubtless come away from the parley with a good slice of enemy territory in his pocket. The Halcus warlords were no fools; they would rather give up a quarter of their domain than risk Kylock claiming all of it in yet another bloody war. The first meeting with the Halcus warlords was to take place this night, in Kylock's encampment just outside Helch. Baralis began flicking through another of Bevlin's books. It would be most interesting to see what the morning would bring.
Finding nothing of interest in the book he had just picked up, Baralis moved on to the next one. It was a very old copy of Marod's Book of Words. He very nearly decided not to bother with it at all--every minor clergyman and halfwitted scholar in the Known Lands had a copy of Marodbut there was something about the delicate patina on the sheep's hide cover that caught his eye. The book was not merely old, it was ancient.
As he turned the pages, his excitement began to grow. Clearly discernible beneath the text lay ghosts of words: pale fragments of what had once been written and then later washed away. The paper had been twice used. A thrill of pure joy raced down Baralis' spine. This was one of the four original Galder copies. It was a well-known fact that Marod had died penniless and that Galder, his servant, unable to buy new paper, had been forced to write over old manuscripts. Baralis began to treat the book with a new respect; it was more valuable than a chest's worth of jewels.
Holding it up to the light, he began to examine the paper more thoroughly. As he tilted it toward the candle's flame, something slipped from the book. A marker. Baralis caught the silk ribbon before it fell out all the way. Holding it in his hand, he opened the book on the page it had marked. It was a verse. At first glance he thought he knew it, but as he read on, he realized that the version he was familiar with was subtly different from the one before him:
When men of honor lose sight of their cause
When three bloods are savored in one day
Two houses will meet in wedlock and wealth
And what forms at the join is decay
A man will come with neither father nor mother
But sister as lover
And stay the hand of the plague
The stones will be sundered, the temple will fall
The dark empire's expansion will end at his call
And only the fool knows the truth
By the time he had finished reading it, Baralis' heart was thumping like a drum. The verse spoke of the marriage between Catherine and Kylock. It predicted the empire he intended to build and it named a man who could destroy it. Baralis took a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking of his hand and pounding of his heart. It was all here, written on this page. Everything. Three bloods were savored on the night of Kylock's begetting-he had tasted them. The men of honor were the knights-ever since Tyren had taken over the leadership gold had been their only cause.
Baralis stood up. Crossing over to the fire, he poured a slim measure of wine. He had to think. Bevlin had sent the knight to find the one in the prophecy: the man with neither father nor mother. The boy who Lam had said was to be found in the kingdoms. Trailing his fingers around the rim, Baralis stared into the cup. The wine was the color of blood. Who in the kingdoms could be the one?
A memory of a drawing skimmed across his brain. A drawing so strong that it had woken him from his sleep. He sent his mind further back in time to another drawing and eight score of loaves barely browned to a crust. Every fiber of Baralis' being was resonating, every hair on his body stirred at the root. The cup in his hands became a chalice and his fingers wove around it like a priest's. Jack the baker's boy. He was the one.
Tavalisk was in the kitchens choosing crabs. He and his cook were standing over a metal tank, putting the wily crustaceans through their paces. Choosing crabs was an art and the archbishop was a grand master. The secret to the perfect crab was neither size nor color: it was speed. The fastest crabs were the meatiest, the tastiest, and the most satisfying to the tongue. In order to judge the quickness of the various creatures before him, Tavalisk had devised a test. He would throw large heavy stones into the water,
aiming for the greatest density of crabs. Those crabs who were crushed by the stones were pronounced unworthy, while the fortunate few who managed to scuttle away -to safety were marked for the flame.
Tavalisk grimaced. The last stone had killed nearly half of them.
"Your Eminence," came a voice from behind.
"Yes, Gamil," said the archbishop turning round. "What is it?"
"Annis and Highwall have received the shipments of gold safely, Your Eminence."
"And the armaments?"
"They were sent out last week and so might take a little longer."
"I trust you made sure they were well guarded? I wouldn't want fifty wagons worth of steel and siege engines to fall into the wrong hands."
"A whole battalion rides along with the shipment, Your Eminence. And as a further precaution they are taking a lower pass. They will not come anywhere near Bren."
Tavalisk dropped another stone into the tank. "Good." The water splashed up against his sleeve. It was thick with crab spume. "So there's no chance of Baralis getting his eager little hands on them?"
"You mean the duchess Catherine."
"No, Gamil. I mean Baralis. It is perfectly obvious that he is ruling Bren now." The archbishop peered into the murky water. Another clump of dead crabs met his eyes.
"Does Your Eminence think it's wise to send arms to Annis and Highwall with peace looming on the horizon?"
"Peace!" Tavalisk snorted. "This so-called peace will last about as long as that crab over there." He pointed toward the corner of the tank where one of the few surviving crabs lay hiding in the shadows. The archbishop promptly dropped a stone upon it. The feisty little devil actually managed to run away. Tavalisk found compensation in the fact that its two surviving companions were agreeably flattened.
"May I ask why Your Eminence has been putting such great effort into rallying southern support for Annis and Highwall?"
"Certainly, Gamil. Kylock will now marry Catherine, that much is certain. With the duke out of the way, the kingdoms and Bren will become one. Already Kylock has secured the support of the knights." Tavalisk looked quickly at his aide. "Can't you see? The lines have now been drawn. It will only take the slightest provocation for the war to start, and the way things are at the moment, Annis and Highwall won't have a chance. They need our support, else before we know it Kylock will have all the north to himself. That is something we simply cannot allow to happen. We all know where his ambitions will lead him next: south." The archbishop dropped another stone in the tank. "And the southern cities are hardly in a position to put up a fight. We don't go in for fortresses and high battlements like the north."
Gamil nodded. "Does this relate to Marod's prophecy, Your Eminence?"
"You remember that, do you?" Tavalisk rubbed his pink and hairless chin for a moment, considering whether to let Gamil in on his theory. The time was right: he had been modest for too long. Turning to his cook, he said, "Kindly excuse us, Master Bunyon. I will call you when I need you." The cook, whose main duty at this point consisted of handing the archbishop stones on command, nodded and left. The archbishop turned back to Gamil. His aide was looking decidedly sheepish. Taking a deep breath, Tavalisk began to recite the prophecy. He now knew it by heart:
"When men of honor trade in gold not grace
When two mighty powers join as one
The temples will fall
The dark empire will rise
And the world will come to ruin and waste
One will come with neither father nor lover
But promised to another
Who will rid the land of its curse. "
Tavalisk finished his recitation with a suitably dramatic flourish and then turned expectantly toward Gamil. "I trust everything is clear to you now?"
Gamil was cautious. "Not exactly, Your Eminence."
"Really, Gamil, and you call yourself a scholar!" The archbishop crooked a finger, beckoning his aide nearer. "It is not obvious to you that the verse predicts the moral decay of the knights, Kylock's rise in the north, and the decline of the Church?"
"The decline of the Church, Your Eminence?"
"Yes, you dimwit. The temples will fall. Who besides the Church has temples, eh?"
Gamil nodded slowly. "Your Eminence could be right. Who then will be the one to rid the land of its curse?" Tavalisk smiled like a rich widow. "It is I, Gamil. I am the one named in the verse."
"You!"
"Yes, me." The archbishop was not at all put out by the stupefied expression on his aide's face. "Think for a moment, Gamil. Consider the line: `One will come with neither father nor lover'-I have no father, and my position prevents me from taking lovers. And then in the next line: `But promised to another'-I am promised to another, Gamil. I am promised to God."
Gamil was looking at him as if he were mad. "What does Your Eminence intend to do about this?" he asked.
"I am already doing it, Gamil. It is obvious from Marod's prophecy that I have a sacred duty to put an end to Kylock's ascension in the north. I must do everything in my power to bring about the new king's downfall. It is my destiny. If I fail, then when Kylock comes south, he'll be bringing the knights with him. Before we know it Tyren will be burning our places of worship and forcing everyone to follow Valdis' creeds of belief. It would mark the end of the Church as we know it."
"It is certainly a great responsibility, Your Eminence." Gamil's eyes narrowed. "Will you gain anything personally by it?"
"Nothing for myself, Gamil." Tavalisk shrugged. "But if the Church felt the need to repay me in some small way by offering me the title of He Who Is Most Holy, then I could hardly refuse, could I?"
"Of course not, your Eminence."
Tavalisk clapped his hands together. "You may go now, Gamil. Send Master Bunyon back in. Oh, and be sure to keep an ear out for news of Kylock's peace meeting. It happens this night, does it not?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. The north will rest easier in its bed after tonight." Gamil bowed and left.
Tavalisk felt a moment of misgiving as he watched his aide walk away. Should he have confided in the man? The archbishop shrugged. He could always have Gamil silenced or certified if he started spreading rumors. Feeling immediately cheered by that thought, Tavalisk turned his mind to food. He watched as his cook scooped the one surviving crab from the tank. Perhaps the peace would outlive the crab after all. He certainly hoped it would, for Master Bunyon was about to put the resilient little creature over a very hot flame.
Strange that a night in midspring should be so cold. Kylock's breath whitened in the air, quickly dispersing before it reached the shadow's end. His hands were gloved, not against the chill, but against the all-pervasive filth. In the silk beneath the leather, he could feel his fingers sweating. The sensation sickened him.
Kylock stood within the folds of his tent and watched the arrival of the Halcus warlords. On massive horses they came, decked out in their ceremonial armor, torches in their free hands, swords buckled at their waists. Men of bearing and experience they were. Noble fighting men with gray in their hair; their necks and arms thick with muscle. Real muscle, formed in real battles, not the cultivated artifice of the tourney field. These men were veterans of many campaigns; they knew of blood and pain and victory. They were the power behind the Halcus throne.
And tonight they had come to talk of peace.
Their faces were grim as they approached the camp. They came alone, their escort-a full company of guardspositioned at a fitting distance from the camp. They were proud men, riding to meet their enemy with conscious dignity. Proud, but not foolish, thought Kylock. The camp was undoubtedly ringed with their troops: swordsmen lying belly-flat in the mud, and archers training their bows in the darkness behind bush and tree. Kylock ran a gloved finger along the roughness of the tent. He was not worried. He had rings around the rings.
Twelve men, he counted. Some of their faces were familiar, some not. Lord Herven and Lord Kilstaff dismounted their horses. They had fought against h
im at the border and so were the first to witness his success. Lord Angus, Helch's chief protector, was deep in conversation with Gerheart of Asketh; both men looked tense. They stood close and spoke in whispers. As Kylock looked on, the great Lord Tymouth himself rode up. Responsible for the defense of the realm, Tymouth answered only to the king.
Kylock slipped through the shadows and entered his tent. Lord Vernal stood waiting. Kylock nodded once. "They have arrived," he said.
Vernal looked nervous. Kylock would have preferred him not to be here, not tonight. But the one-time military leader of the kingdoms was a respected man in Halcus, and his name and reputation was what brought the warlords together this night. They trusted Vernal. He was a man of his word.
"If all is ready, I will go to them," said Vernal. His expression was unreadable, his tone guarded. He drank the last of his brandy. "I will expect you to follow after me. I know these men, it is not wise to keep them waiting."
"Lord Vernal, I don't believe I asked for your advice." Kylock's voice was deceptively light. "Go now. Greet my guests. Soften them up with brandy and tales of the good old days of stalemate."
"I warn you now, Kylock. Do not treat these men with contempt. You may have beaten them, but they deserve respect. They were fighting in campaigns before you were born."
Anger flared within Kylock. No one but Vernal dared to treat him like this. The leather of his glove crackled as he curled his fingers into a fist. With one sudden sharp movement, he brought his fist down upon the desk. The sound was violent, satisfying. "I think you'd better go, Lord Vernal," said Kylock very softly. "Those in the negotiating tent await you."
He had the satisfaction of seeing fear in Vernal's eyes. Fear and something else. Comprehension, perhaps? Kylock waved an arm in dismissal, then turned his back on the man. It was too late now. There was nothing Vernal could do.