Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 40

The white-clad woman was as good as her word--better, even. By the time everyone had wiped the sleep from their eyes, buckled their belts, and rolled up their packs, the kitchen mistress had laid out a breakfast feast: warm bread, cold chicken, damp cheese, and special brew. Her one stipulation was that the feast be eaten in the hall. Jack had picked up his platter to follow the others when she put a hand on his arm.

"Now, if you can just get rid of those maroons for me." Jack laughed. The kitchen mistress' kindness filled him with a simple joy. There were so many good people in the world, and so much more than vengeance worth fighting for. The kitchen mistress kissed Jack firmly on the cheek. "Hold on a minute while I find a little extra chicken for your plate." She dashed off to the larder and came back wielding a pair of matching drumsticks, which she promptly deposited on Jack's plate. "There. That should keep you going through the day."

Jack put down his plate and gave the woman a big hug. "I'll be taking those maroons out of your way."

"Aye, lad. Be sure to leave me a couple, though. A woman needs someone to cook for."

The main hall was cold. The men of Highwall had mourned until the embers had died in the hearth, and no one wanted to be the first to bring a new flame to the fire.

Jack and Tawl ate in silence. The atmosphere in the room was subdued; the men were gaunt-faced, pale, tired.

The rest of the knights came in from the stables, and Crayne came to sit at Jack's side.

"What happening?" he whispered.

"Maybor's dead. He asked us to use his troops." Crayne glanced around the room. "These men are in no fit state to travel today. They're exhausted."

Jack nodded. "They'll have to follow us. It will take them a full day to get enough mounts together, and we can't afford to wait that long."

Tawl looked up from his breakfast. "They can ride behind us to Bren. Once there, they can lie low on the eastern plains until we need them."

"Tyren's camped outside the city," said Crayne. "East or south?"

"South, a full league from the gate." Unblinking, Crayne looked straight into Tawl's eyes.

The two regarded each other for a long moment, and then Tawl's hand came up to rest on Crayne's shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was oddly strained. "How many men has he got with him?"

Crayne shook his head. "I can't be sure. Could be three hundred, could be more."

Suddenly Jack realized what had pa.s.sed between them: by giving Tawl privileged information about Tyren's camp, Crayne had denounced Tyren as his leader. His acceptance of Tawl was now complete.

The two men carried on talking as if nothing had happened. When Jack glanced at Tawl next, the knight was looking at the Highwall troops with renewed interest Jack got the distinct feeling he was doing a head count.

Crayne and Tawl were now fighting men once more, discussing strategies, weaponry, and numbers. Deciding the best way to take Tyren's camp.

"Our priority is to get inside the palace," Jack reminded them. Tawl had long had his own agenda with the knighthood, but since he'd taken the leap over the falls it had turned into a burning cause. Whatever it was, Jack couldn't allow it to interfere with saving Melli and eliminating Kylock.

Tawl gave Jack a pointed glance. "Don't worry," he said. "I know what my priorities are."

Crayne and Andris exchanged looks.

Nabber, whom no one had noticed wandering off, came bounding back to the table. "Grift's upstairs, Tawl. He wants to talk to you and Jack."

Jack stood up, and after a moment Tawl followed him. Together they climbed the stairs. As they reached the top step, Tawl pulled Jack aside. "Look," he said, "I know what we've got to do. I know what you've got to do, I know what I've got to do. Marod's prophecy and my oath to the duke come first-don't doubt that-but I just want you to know that I will try to rid the knighthood of Tyren. I haven't got a choice. As long as there's blood in my body I'll do it."

"What happened at Lake Ormon, Tawl?" Jack spoke softly. He respected Tawl's determination, but he needed to know the reason behind it.

Tawl stared at the floor. His chest rose and fell many times before he spoke. "I found what I've spent the last six years searching for: a chance to make up for the past. I caused the death of my family, Jack. Two sisters, two beautiful golden-haired sisters and a chubby little baby who always looked up at the sound of my name." Tawl's voice began to break. "I abandoned them-just left them, just took off and left them."

He ran his hand over his face. A minute pa.s.sed in silence as he tried to control his emotions, and when he finally spoke again his voice was altogether different from before. "They were helpless without me, Jack. Helpless. I should have known better. I was old enough to know better. I knew the hands I left them in weren't safe."

A tight coil of self-accusation lay just below the knight's words and Jack knew that he was out of his depth. Tawl's pain was something he could neither begin to understand nor measure. Touching Tawl's arm lightly, he said, "I won't stop you from doing what you have to."

Tawl's eyes were bright. A muscle in his cheek was pumping hard. "That's all I'll ever ask from you, Jack."

Jack smiled. He wished very much he had more to give. "Come on," he said, laying a hand on Tawl's back. " Let's go and see Maybor one last time."

Grift was waiting for them outside the door. Seeing him in the harsh morning light, Jack was once again shocked at how much he had changed. The once portly guard was as lean as a pick. It was a day for touching and being touched, and Jack came forward and wrapped his arms around Grift's shoulders.

"He died without pain, you know. Just slipped away in his sleep." A huge tear slid down Grift's cheek. "He was a brave man. Some will try and tell you he was vain, others will say he was a devil, but don't ever listen to them. You go to the Lady Melliandra and tell her her father was a hero. That's the truth, and every man under this roof will tell you the same."

"I know, Grift. I know."

Grift opened the door to Maybor's room and let them in. The sheets had been changed on the pallet, and Maybor's body rested on top of them, his arms folded over his chest, a red silk robe draped across his torso. His face had lost its color, but his hair was still shiny and the skin on his cheeks looked newly shaved.

"Here." Grift handed Jack a small cloth bag. "That's the rings and the torc he wore for battle. He wants them to go to the villages to help pay for the horses and the lodgings. He signed them a note, too. Promising payment in full from his son."

Jack slipped the bag into his tunic. "Do you think Kedrac will honor it?"

"I doubt it, but that's not important. Maybor died believing he would and that's what counts."

"But surely after what happened at the battle-"

"No. Maybor was adamant his son would honor his memory-by leaving this note he's offering Kedrac a chance to be forgiven. He doesn't want his son to go through life thinking his father went to his grave hating him." There was more than a touch of pride in Grift's voice, and Jack realized that the castle guard must have grown close to Maybor. "I know Kedrac," he continued, "and he may be headstrong and impressionable now, but one day he'll be sorry for what he did. And by giving him a chance to pay the villagers and the tavern-keeper, Maybor is offering him a way to make amends when that day comes."

Jack tried to think of a suitable reply, but he searched for words in vain. He had little to say on the subject of fathers.

Strangely it was Tawl who spoke. His voice hadn't recovered from his confession on the stairs, and his tone was rough and low. "Maybor was a good man to think of his son. Not all fathers would care enough to spare their sons from guilt."

Tawl's face was grim. Jack wondered what else lay in his past besides the death of his sisters. Why weren't his father and mother there to help him? Why were there always so many layers of grief and pain hidden within families?

Grift came forward to usher them from the room. "You'll be leaving today?"

"Yes," said Jack. "We'll meet next in Bren."

Grift nodded. He seemed very old to Jack all of a sudden. Old and small. "May Borc bless your journey," he said. "And yours, Grift."

Just as he walked through the doorway, Tawl turned and said, "I want to be able to give Melli something of her father's. "

Without a word, Grift moved over to Maybor's body and cut off a lock of his hair. He bound it with a strip of silk from his tunic and handed it to Tawl. Silver hair, red silkit was Maybor through and through.

Baralis was worried about Skaythe. The man had not responded to his sending. It had been over a week now since their last communication, and Baralis was beginning to think that something had happened to him.

After all, no one could ignore him for that long. Certainly not a man like Skaythe.

Measuring a thumbnail of the mind-freeing drug into the palm of his hand, Baralis swallowed it dry. Only when the bitter taste of the drug had gone from his tongue did he see fit to take a sip of wine. Such small acts of willpower had helped make him who he was today.

Baralis raised his hand, and Crope, who was busy sealing the shutter cracks with carded wool, came over and saw to the fire. By the time the flame was high, Baralis was ready with the compound. Blood, leaf, and drug moved within a copper bowl, swirling in time with the motion of his palms. From his heavily cushioned chair, he inhaled the toxic fumes. As always there was a brief instant when his body fought him tooth and nail. The physical world detested relinquishing its mastery to the dark.

Baralis' thoughts shifted out of place. His point of consciousness rose above his body, as insubstantial and weightless as pollen on the breeze. Up and up he went, pa.s.sing through stone as if it were water, and water as if it were air. He skimmed the great lake to gain momentum and circled the city to catch the scent. Skaythe's responses to his sending had left a trail, a trace of sorcery that could be followed like a thread through a maze. Baralis sniffed him out, then tracked him down: Skaythe would not ignore him tonight.

South he went, high above the mountains, well above the clouds. The moon shed light but not warmth on his back, and the stars glinted like beacons upon his soul. They would have him for their own if they could. Not tonight, though. Not ever if he had his way.

Skaythe had left a tenuous trail. Weak to begin with, the past ten days had reduced it to a broken line. Baralis was a hound on the scent of blood, and then a scholar making guesses. The last time he had heard from Skaythe was after Valdis had captured the baker's boy and the renegade knight. Skaythe had intended to follow them north and, as soon as he had a chance, a.s.sa.s.sinate both of the fugitives. That was what the man had said, anyway. Baralis was beginning to suspect that Skaythe had a drama of his own to play. Still, no matter what happened to Skaythe, Baralis knew he could count on the knighthood to bring the fugitives to Bren. At least Tyren would not fail him.

Baralis continued soaring southward along the Divide. Gradually he began to make his way down. The peaks were like spearheads below him, the stars like pinheads above. The trail was stronger now, and he followed it lower, the cold mountain mist brushing against his mind. Eventually he came to the area where Skaythe had last communicated with him. It was an exposed hillside at the foot of the Divide. There was nothing to tell of his pa.s.sing. No sign of anything amiss.

Gathering his wits and his perceptions about him, Baralis pulled in the air to the north. He was searching for a physical trail now. The vestiges of sorcery would be too weak to track. Slowly, Baralis began to make his way northward again. This time he used all his senses, spotting signs of campfires well dampened, sighting paths most likely to be taken, catching whiffs of old horse dung on the breeze.

Just as he approached the cool depths of Lake Ormon, Baralis felt a glimmer of Skaythe again. A tiny speck long stale. Swooping down to the mineral-green surface of the lake, he tried to hone in on the scent. It was as if the power was dissolved into the water itself. Puzzled, Baralis spread himself out and skirted along the waterline.

He could feel himself weakening. He had been out too long and his body was calling him back. Ignoring the wamings, he carried on, plunging in and out of the water, tearing through dried reed beds and leafless shrubs, racing along the sh.o.r.e. The trail went no farther than the lake, so the answers had to be here for the finding.

Finally he came to a gra.s.sy bank. The scent was a fraction stronger and Baralis tracked it down. At the water's edge, under the shade of an old mountain ash, half in, half out of the water, lay the partially frozen body of Skaythe. Dead. An arrow in his heart.

It seemed Skaythe had drawn his power at the moment of death, and with neither the time nor strength to send it further, the icy water of Lake Ormon had claimed it for its own. Death drawings had a way of lingering long after the corpse was cold, working their quiet intent until their potency was lost to time. This one was weaker, but no different, than most.

A sharp spasm racked through Baralis' thoughts. He didn't have much time now. His flesh was cold and soulless and it couldn't survive much longer without a mind to give it meaning.

Just as he turned to go, Baralis took a quick glance at the arrow in Skaythe's heart. A dark thrill pa.s.sed over him. It wasn't just any arrow: the yellow-and-black fletchings were an emblem of Valdis. The knights sent to capture Jack and Tawl had shot down Skaythe.

It could be a random shooting of an intruder, but why then was the body in the lake and not on a hillside near a camp? Baralis gave in to the pull of his blood and began the journey back to Bren. He had no eyes for the moon or the clouds or the stars, no thoughts to spare on the firmament. He saw only the yellow-and-black fletchings of an arrow loosed by Valdis. What possible reason could the knighthood have for coming to the defense of Jack and Tawl?

Tavalisk was studying. It was making him hungry, irritable, and sore. He had craned his neck over so many books now that it clicked whenever he moved. Sounded like a d.a.m.n cricket in his collar!

Slamming his current book closed, Tavalisk pulled on the bell rope. It was time for a stiff but sweet drink, a large dinner, and his daily dose of Gamil. Studying was for lesser mortals, and as archbishop it was his moral obligation to free up his mind for higher pursuits. Which meant he might just ask Gamil to do his research for him.

After a commendably short period of time, his aide appeared at the door. Not only had he been speedy, but he had also been resourceful. He came bearing a platter of hot food.

"Aah, Gamil. Come in, come in. Just the man I was hoping for. Bring that tray straight over here." Tavalisk patted the desktop. "Any wine on you, by the way?"

"Alas no, Your Eminence. I only have one pair of hands."

"Hmm, you really should look into that." Tavalisk took a duck egg from the platter. "Any news of Kylock's army?"

"They reached Camlee four days ago, Your Eminence. I received a message on the leg of a bird that stated the army attacked the moment it arrived."

"Camlee won't be able to hold up to a full-scale army for very long. I'll give them six weeks at the most."

"Less, perhaps, if Valdis sends troops from the south." The duck egg turned to sawdust in the archbishop's mouth. Of course Tyren would send troops from Valdis. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? He spat out the egg into a cloth. '"This is ill news."

"There's more, Your Eminence," said Gamil with a touch of relish. "All the towns and villages between Bren and Camlee have been ravished. Kylock's forces seized all their livestock and grain for army supplies. The reports I've received tell of people being killed by the thousands, of villages being burnt to the ground, and women raped and defiled. It sounds as if Kylock is allowing Kedrac free rein to do whatever he pleases."

"No. Not free rein, Gamil. Kylock will be actively encouraging Kedrac to ravish the northeast. The young king knows the value of fear." Tavalisk was looking around for a drink. There was nothing on his desk except a jug of water. It would have to do.

"Fear, Your Eminence?"

"Yes. Word will spread that Kylock's forces are brutal and merciless. People will soon surrender to him rather than risk his wrath. At the end of the day, an occupied town is better than no town at all." Tavalisk drank his water. It tasted quite strange without a decent measure of wine. "Of course, the other thing fear is good for is keeping conquered cities in line. A man's not going to risk revolt if he thinks his wife and children might be killed."

"Your Eminence is most wise."

Tavalisk glanced up at his aide. There was no sign of irony on his face. He made a quick decision. "Maybe not as wise as I thought, Gamil."

"How so, Your Eminence?"

"You know Marod's prophecy, the one that starts with men of honor?"

"Certainly, Your Eminence. The verse that names you as the chosen one?"

Tavalisk waved an arm. "Yes. Yes. That's it. Recently I've been wondering about the authenticity of the verse. Its origin, its wording, and so forth." The archbishop took a pause. This sort of thing wasn't easy for him. "I'm beginning to think that I might have been wrong. Only thinking, mind."

"Why, Your Eminence?"

"This business with Kylock is getting out of hand. He's becoming too strong, too powerful. Short of a knife in his heart, I don't think there's any way to stop him. The other southern cities will never join forces with Rom to defeat him-they're too busy thinking about their own personal interests. They're not going to take action until he's right on their doorsteps. And by then it will be too late." Tavalisk's chubby cheeks were quivering. "Our only hope is that Kylock will draw the line at Camlee."

"I think he will for the time being, Your Eminence. After all, he'll have Highwall and Annis to take care of once spring comes."

"Time being! Time being! What about time coming? What about all the years ahead? What about ten, twenty, thirty years of springs? Kylock is young-he has a lifetime ahead of him. He could take over the entire continent before he finds his grave."

Gamil was looking worried. It was unusual for Tavalisk to become so animated. "What can we do about it, Your Eminence?"

The archbishop let out a heavy sigh. "We must do whatever is expedient. Rorn must survive intact, that much is certain, but how such a thing will be managed is anything but clear. Up until now it was my natural inclination---and my Marod-given duty--to fight Kylock's forces. However, I'm beginning to suspect that such a course of action may not be in Rorn's best interest."

"An occupied town is better than no town at all?"

"Exactly. If I stick my head up and openly oppose Kylock, who knows what he will do to Rorn?" Tavalisk was thinking more of himself than Rom at this point, but he knew it was prudent to link the two. "Now, say I am the chosen one in Marod's prophecy, then ultimately I can be sure of prevailing. But if I'm not, then I risk ruining Rom's livelihood in the pursuit of a misdirected dream."

"Aah," said Gamil slowly, "I see Your Eminence's dilemma."

"It is Rorn's dilemma, too," reprimanded Tavalisk. He would not have his fate separated from Rorn. They were one and the same. "So, I need to know for sure if I am the chosen one. And that's where you come in, Gamil. I want you to discover all you can about Marod and his prophesying, and find out just how accurate he is. I need to know if I am reading things right."

Gamil bowed. "I would be honored to do such a task, Your Eminence."

"Good. You can start today." Tavalisk pushed all the various charts, ma.n.u.scripts, and books on his desk over toward Gamil. "Here. These should be enough to be getting along with."

They rode north through the day and much of the night. Maybor's death had given them a new impetus. It made them realize they weren't playing a game. Real people were dying. The little village in the valley was full of men, women, and children whose lives would soon be shattered. Kylock's forces would take whatever they wanted and tear the rest apart. Nothing was safe from them now.

Jack's blood itched. He felt it coursing through his heart, ribboning along his cheeks. His desire to get to Kylock was becoming a physical need; he had to see him face-to-face and, with his own hands, destroy him.

Jack rode at the head of the party-he couldn't bear to be at the back. Maybor had died and that meant Melli could die, too. They weren't immortals anymore. None of them. They had to get to Bren before it was too late.

Their route brought them down from the foothills and onto the plains. They rode through frost-tipped fields and white-green meadows, along frozen mud roads and cattle paths thick with dung. The land was quiet, deserted, the smell of burning lingered in the air. Occasionally they would catch glimpses of farms and villages, their charred timbers black against the icy landscape. They were traveling in Kedrac's wake.

Eventually they fell upon the army's path. Thousands upon thousands of footprints stamped in the light snow. Debris lay on both sides of the path: pots, pans, fragments of tunics, sandals, boxes, jewelry-sc.r.a.ps of people's lives, plundered then discarded.

Two hours after finding the path, they came upon a camp. The smell warned them away. Tawl wanted to ride around it, but Crayne insisted they stop and investigate. There was the usual wreckage--burnt ground, hacked trees, decaying food, and human waste-but at the back, in a shallow ditch hidden by a cl.u.s.ter of bushes, lay the bodies of thirty women. Their naked limbs were smeared with blood, ice, and mud. Their hair had been shorn from their heads, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s sliced open, and their s.e.xual organs were black with clotted blood.

Every man in the party crossed themselves. Borlin took his shield from his horse and, using it as a spade, began to dig up the frozen earth. Crayne joined in, then Andris and the rest.