Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 50

Kylock's eyes grew blank. The air surrounding him rippled. Something sparked in his fist: the letter. A lick of flame ran up his arm. He didn't even flinch.

Jack felt the buildup of terrible pressure. The heat was unbearable-the skin on his face was being seared like a piece of meat. He had to stop Kylock. Raising the palms of his hands to face him, he cried, "Look, these are a baker's hands, not a king's."

The terrible bright blankness left Kylock's eyes for an instant. The heat wavered.

Jack edged to the side, his sights set on the knife. Kylock began shaking his head. "No, king's son," he said, speaking very softly. "You'll never have what is mine." Jack lunged for the knife. Heat blasted against him. His skin was on fire, the air was sucked from his lungs. Still he went on. His fingers touched the hilt. Railing against instinct, he clasped the red-hot metal in the palm of his hands. Pain ripped through his mind. A second, maybe two, was lost to him as he spiraled down toward a fiery h.e.l.l. The smell of his own burnt flesh brought him round.

Flames. He was surrounded by flames. The silk rug on the floor was ablaze. Wall hangings and furnishings caught light as he watched. Panicking, terrified, breathing in smoke, Jack fought to keep his mind intact. Strangely it was the pain throbbing in his hand that kept him focused. It throbbed in time with his heart. It was as if Larn was behind each agonizing pulse-slapping him on the cheek to keep him conscious.

Jack felt himself growing stronger. He knew he had never been abandoned by his father. He knew who his mother was and where she had come from, and what she had planned a decade to do. After a lifetime of lies and evasions, the truth was his at last. And there had to be power in that. Forcing himself to his feet, he ran through the flames toward Kylock. The blaze blinded, the smoke choked, the scorching heat shredded his flesh. A warm breath of air buffeted his body, and then he came face-to-face with Kylock. Surprise flitted across Kylock's face. A dark glimmer in his eyes might have been fear, but by the time Jack had blinked away the smoke-tears it was gone.

Time stretched to a fine film like oil over water. Flames formed a hissing, crackling ring around the two men. Jack could feel the fire's heat on his back. Kylock was surrounded by a halo of golden light; it spilled over his shoulders and down along his torso. It flickered like candlelight upon his face. Never had he looked more like Baralis.

Watching him, Jack felt a hard block of fear rise in his throat. There was no doubting Kylock was Baralis' son. Baralis. Even now that he had killed the man, Jack could only guess at the full range of Baralis' powers. Focusing his gaze on Kylock's face, Jack wondered if the son was capable of more. Kylock's eyes were sharp with madness-Baralis' brilliance was there, but it had been distorted into something new and monstrous. As Jack watched, Kylock's lips curved into a smile. Yes, he could do much worse.

Jack shuddered.

The pain pulsed hot in his hand. Larn again, pushing, reminding, keeping him on track. The reflex reaction of the pain caused him to raise his hand. The knife came up with it.

Kylock's gaze flicked to the blade. He raised his arm to defend himself. Jack moved ahead of him. Driven to madness by the pain of his b.u.ms, he had developed a madman's reflexes. The moment Kylock's arm came up to his heart, Jack raised the dagger to his throat. Blind panic registered on Kylock's face. For the briefest instant he looked as shocked as a child who had been slapped for no reason.

And then the knife went in. Kylock's mouth fell open. Jack flinched, expecting sorcery. Quickly, he worked to turn the blade within the muscle of Kylock's neck, seeking to sever the windpipe. Kylock fought him all the way.

Jack smelled the metal tang of sorcery. He saw Kylock's lips move. Within the wet redness of his mouth, Kylock's tongue began to vibrate.

The pain in Jack's arm and hand was unbearable. His eyes were stinging with sweat and smoke. Kylock's body tensed. Panicking, Jack fumbled with the knife for what seemed like an eternity. Blood gushed over Jack's fist and down Kylock's chest. Jack's knife hand wouldn't stop shaking. Finally the blade sc.r.a.ped against the elastic wall of Kylock's windpipe.

In that instant Kylock's mouth opened wide. The air thickened around his lips. The odor of hot metal sharpened into a stench.

With one razor-quick movement, Jack sliced Kylock's windpipe in two.

A soft hiss escaped from Kylock's lips. He blinked once, his eyes revealing a raw, animal terror, and then the light disappeared from his face.

Jack couldn't stop shaking. His grip on the knife was so tight, his knuckles were as white as bone. He took a deep gulp of air, and as he did so, he breathed in what remained of Kylock's last breath.

The breath was the final link between them. Jack felt it settling within his lungs, sending messages to his blood. It was rich with the promise of sorcery, heavy with the remains of the man. Breathing it in, Jack realized the full wrath of Kylock's last drawing, shivered at the knowledge of all it could have destroyed. No one in this palace would have escaped alive. The power was as thick and black as tar. Yet there were other things besides destruction borne upon the sorcery-tainted air. Jack felt the force of Kylock's will, the breadth of his genius, and the dark depths of his madness. He saw the full tragedy of a brilliant mind ruined by drugs, manipulation, and lies. Baralis' creature entirely, Kylock had been lured into a delusional state where his emerging insanity was encouraged and his sadism overlooked.

Jack knew all this in an instant, and much, much more. There was little triumph here, only the end of a life that had been doomed from the start.

Tired beyond measure, Jack exhaled. He didn't want Kylock's breath in him a moment longer. The truths it had shown him were too disturbing. They left a bad taste in his mouth.

Baralis had turned his own son into a monster.

Jack yanked out the blade and blood gushed from the wound. Kylock's eyes were closed. His muscles stiffened, then relaxed. The blackened letter dropped into the flames by his feet. Jack made no attempt to retrieve it.

Kylock fell. The blaze closed in to take him.

Jack turned. There was nowhere to go. Shoulder-height flames circled the room. There were no walls, there was no door. everything was red and white. Thick smoke rolled from under flames, hot and acrid; Jack didn't want to take it in, but he had no choice. He had to breathe.

Pain had taken his sanity, now the smoke took his consciousness. In and out he drifted, the flames flickering higher and nearer each time he opened his eyes. He felt himself swaying, ready to fall. The heat was too intense; he couldn't fight it. All he wanted to do was collapse by Kylock's side. Drifting ... further and further away. Peace lay ahead. Peace, relief, and truth.

"Jack!"

A dark shadow broke through the flames. For one brief moment, Jack's heart thrilled: it was Tawl, come to carry him from the temple. But no, this wasn't Larn. And as the figure came closer, he realized it couldn't be Tawl. Yellow and black, the colors of Valdis--Tawl would never dress as a knight. "Jack!"

The figure hovered outside the ring of flames. Other figures joined him, all wearing yellow and black. There was shouting and moving and beating of cloaks.

Jack felt himself falling. The flames leapt up to meet him; hot little fingers eager to b.u.m.

He never hit the floor. Hands broke his fall, gentle hands that cupped him like a baby and carried him through the blaze. With eyes that could barely see, through tears that wouldn't stop coming, Jack looked up into the face of the person' who held him. That was when he knew it was Tawl. Tawl wearing the knight's colors, surrounded by other knights, shouting out commands, his voice filled with urgency, his blue eyes more fierce than Jack had ever seen them. Tawl. Together they went through the flames, and together they emerged into a world bright with hope, light, and laughter far on the other side.

"You-" Jack fought against the blistered dryness that was his throat, "you weren't supposed to come back for me." Tawl's smile was gentle. "I warned you about my heart, Jack. I said it might lead me astray."

Fire followed them from the palace, barreling down corridors, licking at their heels. Stairwells and pa.s.sageways were filled with smoke and motes of blackened dust. People were everywhere-screaming and panicking and running for their lives. No one paid heed to their pa.s.sing. No one cared about the dozen fully dressed knights who raced ahead of the blaze. If they looked at all, it was at the one tall, goldenhaired knight who carried a lifeless body in his arms. Something about his face gave hope to those who saw him. Something in his eyes spoke directly to the soul.

Melli stood in the knights' camp and watched the palace b.u.m. Bright, fierce, and liberating, it lit up the northern sky. Strange, but she wasn't worried anymore: there was something in the air besides the smoke: a sense of antic.i.p.ation, a feeling that everything would turn out all right.

"They're coming back, miss," said Borlin. "I can spot them now, just north of the plain."

Melli didn't ask if Tawl was amongst them, she didn't have to. She just knew. "Have some brandy and blankets ready," she said to Grift, who was hovering near to the fire. "Aye, miss."

Walking to the front of the camp, Melli heard the first strains of a song. A rich and mellow voice shaped words that pulled at the heart. Melli changed her course, drawn to the beauty of the voice. As she walked nearer, other voices joined in the song, and when she rounded the command tent, she saw a sight that made her smile with joy.

Twenty or so knights were gathered around a makeshift crib, singing little Herbert to sleep.

Andris, who had ridden out to Fair Oaks to fetch her earlier that day, caught sight of Melli and beckoned her over. She was drawn into the circle next to her baby, and the knights sang for her as well. Melli felt her heart would break. Anyone who heard them sing could not doubt that the knighthood was good. Looking at their fine faces, hearing the tenderness in their voices, Melli suddenly knew why Tawl had risked everything to save them. Some things were worth more than one life alone.

And, as the song came to an end and Tawl rode into the camp, Melli made up her mind that she would not stand in his way. She would release Tawl from his oath and give him the freedom to become leader of the knighthood. After all he had done for her she owed him that.

"Get the surgeon. Quick!" shouted Tawl from his horse. Melli saw someone riding at his back. She caught her breath. No. It couldn't be ...

But it was. It was Jack, nothing on his back except grimy, warped chain mail, no part of his skin that wasn't black with smoke or burns. Melli rushed forward, her eyes filling with quick tears, her throat closing in around her breath. The world suddenly seemed a place where miracles could happen. And the golden-haired knight who rode toward her seemed worthy, at long last, of all G.o.d's gifts. She loved him completely.

That night, as the fire blazed a league to the north, the surgeon worked on Jack. Melli held his hand through the long hours of torment, forcing water through his blistered lips, rubbing salve into his wounds. His forehead and hands were burnt the worst, but there were many lesser burns running the entire length of his body. One or two knights came over offering help and advice, and Borlin brought a drug to make him sleep. Only when Jack's breathing was easy and regular did Melli fall asleep herself.

Tawl woke her at dawn. "Come, Melli. We've got to go to the city."

"But---" Melli looked down at her lap. Jack's bandaged hand rested against the fabric of her dress.

"Jack needs to sleep. You've done what you can. Nabber can look after him while we're gone." Tawl's voice was gentle but firm. "You and the baby must come with me."

She didn't argue. She had many different responsibilities now.

Melli took great care with her appearance before she rode into the city. She brushed her hair until it shone, and disguised her burns with powder and paste. The innkeeper's eldest daughter had parted with her best winter dress, and Melli put it on in Tyren's tent. She struggled to pull it over her broken arm, far too proud to ask for help. When she finally emerged into the camp, Tawl was waiting with a beautiful bay gelding. He had just helped her onto the horse when, to her great displeasure, Nanny Greal rode over to join them.

"What's she doing coming with us?" hissed Melli under her breath.

"She's the only person in Bren who knows Baralis was the one who ordered the duke's murder."

Melli could think of no suitable objection to that, so she settled for an indignant snort instead. "She's not riding with the baby. I'm taking him."

Tawl actually laughed. Melli was struck by how young and happy he looked: almost like a child. "Well, if that's what you want, little Herbert will have to be slung over your back."

"Fine." Melli tried to sound firm, but Tawl's smile was infectious and she found herself giving in. "All right, all right, Nanny Greal can take him."

Nanny Greal beamed at Tawl. Tawl beamed at Nanny Greal.

Melli glared at both of them. And then smiled when their backs were turned. She felt madly, recklessly, happy. The ride into the city took less than an hour. Melli rode at the head of a cohort of two hundred and fifty knights and seventy Highwall troops. Word was out that Baralis and Kylock were dead, and with no one to give orders, the city was in chaos. A company of blackhelms challenged them at the gate, but Valdis' marksmen picked off a few of their numbers and their enthusiasm quickly waned.

Melli felt nervous entering the city. She rode through street after street where people stood and stared at her, many openly hostile, some cursing as she pa.s.sed. Gone was the mad euphoria of earlier. Instead she was sobered by the sheer brevity of events: the future of a great and ancient city lay in the balance-its fate dependent upon her and her son.

Melli's nervousness showed itself as pride. Her chin tilted upward and her eyes flashed at those who cursed her. She had been married to their duke and had given birth to Bren's true heir-she had every right to be here.

As the cohort turned into a large public square, Melli got her first sight of the smoking skeleton that had once been the duke's palace. It had been reduced to a stone sh.e.l.l. The walls were intact, but the middle was now a gaping hollow: all the wood-all the roof beams and floorboards and furnishings and doorframes-had perished. All gone, and she couldn't say she was sorry to see it.

Mesmerized by the sight for some time, Melli looked around to see a large crowd gathering in the square. She glanced at Tawl.

"It's all right," he said. "The more the better."

Melli looked at the hundreds of people who were blocking the streets and pathways, swarming around the fountains, and rapidly filling every available cobbled s.p.a.ce. She was afraid now, but determined not to show it.

The knights-resplendent in full dress armor, lances at their sides, their horses proud and gleaming formed a defensive semicircle around Melli, Tawl, and Nanny Greal. A flash of yellow-and-black high up on a roof caught Melli's eye: Valdis' marksmen were leaving nothing to chance. When the square was full of people, Tawl urged his horse up the few steps to the raised dais at the head of the square. The crowd, recognizing the man who had once been the duke's champion, began to hiss.

Tawl raised his hands. "Silence," he commanded. "Hear me first before you condemn me." His voice carried to all four corners of the square and the noise of the crowd died down. "Baralis and Kylock are dead. They were both killed last night in the fine. Your city and your armies are no longer commanded by a foreign king-"

"Why should we listen to you?" snapped a man near the front of the crowd. "You murdered our duke."

"Aye," murmured a hundred others.

Tawl's face darkened. He pressed his lips together as if he were forcibly containing a reply. With a quick gesture he beckoned Nanny Greal forth. Melli took the baby from her before she guided her horse up the steps.

Nanny Greal brought her horse to rest next to Tawl's, and arranging her bony body high in the saddle, she told her story to the crowd. First she told how she had overheard Baralis plotting to kill the duke, about the payment that changed hands, and the true name of the a.s.sa.s.sin.

Then, with the crowd still reeling in disbelief, she told them how Kylock had murdered dozens of n.o.blemen and had their mutilated bodies thrown into the lake. When someone called her a liar, she took out a little pigskin book and recited their names one by one. When she came to the name, "Lord Bathroy," a voice cried out from the crowd: "The lady is right." The voice belonged to an old man who made his way to the front. Painfully thin, covered only by rags, the man was missing his left hand. Slowly he climbed the steps of the dais. "Bathroy is dead."

Tawl glanced at Melli.

Someone in the crowd jeered, "How would you know?" Turning to face the mob, the old man held up the scarred stump that had once been his left wrist. "I know because I was one of Kylock's victims." His gaze darted around the crowd, challenging anyone to contradict him. No one could meet his eye. "I shared a cell with Bathroy. I was there when he was taken away, and I stayed awake as he screamed through the night" The man's voice was thin and piercing. "And let me tell you, he wasn't the only one. Night after night I heard men scream, and night after night I gave thanks to G.o.d that Kylock hadn't come for me."

The crowd was silent now. They shifted uneasily where they stood.

"Only one night he did come," said the man. "One night our king, our duke, our warlord came and asked for me." Hearing the old man speak, Melli felt the hairs on her arms p.r.i.c.kle. Her throat and lips were dry.

"Bound and gagged, I was led into a room lit up like a surgeon's tent. In the middle of the floor was a butcher's block. After the guards left, Kylock laid my arm against the wood and hacked off my hand with a cleaver."

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd.

Tawl grasped Melli's hand tightly. She felt as if she would faint.

The man brought his arm down to his side. "Kylock wasn't going to stop there, but word came that he was needed urgently upstairs, so I was led back to my cell. He never called for me again after that night whether he forgot, or whether he just wanted to prolong my suffering, I will never know." The man shook his head slowly, and when he next spoke, his voice had lost all its former power. He sounded tired and very old. "So, whatever you do today, remember this one thing: Kylock may have led us to victory, but he would have led us to d.a.m.nation as well."

A single tear streaked down Melli's face. Quickly, she brushed the wetness away. Of all who were gathered here today, she alone knew just how right the old man was.

The eyes of the crowd were cast down to the ground. No one spoke.

Melli wanted to go to the man, to comfort him. She wasn't the only one: a young girl with dark shiny hair and pink cheeks came forward and took the man's arm. Without looking up at the dais, he let himself be led away. The crowd was silent as the old man and the girl made their way through their midst. There was something immeasurably sad about the sight of them, arms linked, shoulders touching, the old man leaning against the girl for support.

Watching them, Melli felt her throat tighten. How many other people in the city had been touched by Kylock's madness? How many years would need to pa.s.s before they were free of the memories and the pain?

After a few minutes of silence, Mistress Greal chose to speak. Clearing her throat loudly to ensure she had everyone's full attention, she began telling the crowd the story of how Melli had been imprisoned in the castle for five months-pregnant with the duke's child and victim of Kylock's cruelty. The crowd listened, subdued. Nanny Greal told of the night Melli gave birth and the orders Baralis had given her: "As soon as the baby is born, take it away and smother it. Destroy the body when you're done. "

A dark murmur united the crowd.

Melli shuddered. She heard the words as if they came straight from Baralis' mouth. For the first time, she realized just how much danger Nanny Greal had placed herself in by defying Baralis' orders. Later, when all this was over she would thank her-properly and from the heart.

For now, though, her first task was to show her son to the city of Bren. Kicking her horse forward, she joined Tawl and Nanny Greal on the steps. Tawl took her reins and Melli held up the baby for all the crowd to see.

"Look," she cried. "Look at the face of your future duke. Look at the son of the Hawk."

Many in the crowd cheered, others hissed, a few cursed. "Foreign wh.o.r.e! That baby could be anyone's brat." Tawl stiffened. He took a mouthful of air to shout, but Melli put a hand on his arm. "No," she whispered. "Let me handle this."

Turning back to the crowd, she took the left sock from the, baby. When Nanny Greal leant forward to give her a hand, Melli didn't slap her away.

"Here!" she said, presenting the barefoot and now very indignant baby to the crowd. "See the mark of the Hawk for yourself."

Most of the people cheered now. It wasn't enough for Melli. Looking directly at the man who had just insulted her, she beckoned him forward. "Come, sir, take a look at the baby close up. Run your finger over the mark-satisfy yourself that it won't rub off." Laughter rose from the crowd. "Come on," she said when the man hesitated. "With a tongue as fast as yours, I would have expected quicker feet."

The man who came forward became the most famous man in Bren. Quick-tongued Tarvold, as he was subsequently known to all and sundry, went down in history as being the man first to doubt, and then to proclaim, Melliandra's baby as the true heir to Bren. His words, "Aye, my friends, the lady's right about the mark-it won't come off," went on record as setting off the longest and loudest cheer in the city's thousand-year history.

Tradition later held that the one thing that stopped the cheering was when the Lady Melliandra turned her open palm toward the crowd and swore she would bring peace. Everyone was quiet after that. There was nothing more to say.

Epilogue.

"Aah, so what you're saying is that I'm definitely not the chosen one?" Tavalisk held out his little silver sieve and scooped a fistful of tadpoles from the tank. It was hatching season at last and the archbishop was looking forward to one of his favorite delicacies: frogsp.a.w.n.

"Well, as Your Eminence can see, there is a great difference between the two verses." Gamil waved toward the two copies of Marod's prophecy on the desk. "Me version that fell into your hands was a much later edition than the first, Your Eminence. Scribes had changed words, sentences, meanings."

"Hmm." Tavalisk inspected the sieve full of wriggling tadpoles, looking for the ones that were already sprouting limbs. "Well, I have no sister, so it surely can't be me. And even if I did have one, as a man of the Church I could never condone taking her as a lover."

"Exactly, Your Eminence." Gamil took the liberty of edging the copies to the side. A few stray tadpoles had landed on the parchment.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised, Gamil. Can't say I'm disappointed, either. After all, everything has turned out fine: the lovely Lady Melliandra is acting as regent in Bren, the Four Kingdoms have dragged up an old cousin of the late King Lesketh to take the throne there, the north is free of Kylock's forces, and the south is no longer under threat. I couldn't have planned it better myself. Though I still think I'm due part of the credit."