Master and Fool (63 page)

Baralis' glance
flickered over to the girl. Kylock noticed the object of his gaze. "Don't
worry yourself so, my dear chancellor. Our little friend here will tell no
tales."

Kylock favored the
girl with a patron's smile. "Not after tonight, eh?"

Baralis walked
over to the chest against the wall. Two flagons of wine rested there. He took
the caps off both of them and inhaled their fumes deeply.

"Testing for
poison, Baralis?"

"Yes, sire. I
have a nose for such things," lied Baralis. He was testing for traces of
Ivysh. Kylock had drawn power this night, and Baralis needed to know how he had
managed it. The almost imperceptible odor of sulfur met his nostrils.
Ivysh
was
present. Kylock was still drinking tainted wine, which meant that once again he
had managed to break free from the restraints of the drug. It shouldn't be
possible.

Baralis turned
back to Kylock. "How are you feeling, sire? Are you weak, tired?"

Kylock raised an
eyebrow. "Since when did you become my doctor, Baralis? You will have me
urinating in a glass next." He downed his cup of wine and slammed it onto
the table. "I've never felt better."

Baralis sucked in
his breath. Kylock had just drawn enough sorcery to shake the whole north wing
and he'd never felt better? He should be physically drained, close to collapse,
and yet here he sat, confident and relaxed, a girl waiting close by to see to
his pleasures. "You know what you did tonight?"

"Quite a
surprise, wasn't it? The lady in question was swept off her feet." Kylock
stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Baralis. My little friend and I have
business to attend to."

Baralis bowed to
Kylock and inclined his head to the girl. Her pretty face would never see the
light of day again. Once the door was closed behind him, Baralis cut a path to
the north wing. He was anxious to see what damage Kylock had done. As he
walked, he wondered whether he should increase the king's intake of
Ivysh
one
more time. Aheady he was taking three times the normal dose, but it was having
less and less effect. Kylock was building an immunity to it. Baralis shook his
head. First the wedding night, now this.

Kylock was growing
stronger, and the one weapon Baralis could use against him had been blunted by
too many strikes.

Increasing the
level of
ivysh
might prove dangerous. Nerve and brain damage could occur
at higher doses. Baralis had already considered ways to bring about just such
an effect-he had plans to rule the empire through a weakchinned, weak-minded
king-but not now, though. It was too early in the game for that. He needed
Kylock strong. He needed his expertise, his military genius, his talent for
getting the best out of his troops. He needed him to stabilize the empire.
Annis, Highwall, Camlee, and Ness-they all must be brought into the fold. Then
and only then would Kylock's wits become expendable.

Up until that
point his power had to be contained. It was too dangerous to leave the king to
his own devices. He was irrational, unpredictable, and he couldn't be relied
upon to control the power inside.

More
ivysh
was
unfortunately in order; there was no other alternative. He would just have to
watch Kylock closely. Baralis climbed the stairs up to Melliandra's chamber.
There was a long, hard winter ahead.

The two guards let
him pass without a word. Their faces were strained and they both smelled of
ale. As Baralis entered the chamber, he felt the waves of the drawing ripple
over him. It was strong and, unlike the wedding night, when there had been no
definite target, an attempt had been made to focus it. Kylock was learning new
tricks.

Though he hadn't
mastered them yet. Melliandra would be dead if he had. Instead she was lying on
the stone floor, head propped up by pillows, legs thrown apart, bit between her
teeth, about to give birth to the duke's only heir. Her face was burnt, her
right arm looked as if it was broken, but all things considered the girl had
gotten off lightly.

Having seen
enough, Baralis turned away. He had no desire to see the child being born. Such
matters were distasteful to him. With a crook of his finger, he beckoned the
Greal woman over. Briefly, he considered taking the newborn for his own
purposes, but the memory of six men, two with their arms burnt black to the
elbow, chased the desire away. Baralis valued his body too highly to risk
losing it on a single, magnificent unleashing.

"As soon as
the baby is born, take it away and smother it. Destroy the body when you're
done."

The woman didn't
blink an eye. "And the girl?"

"Leave her.
She is nothing without the child." Baralis made his way toward the door.
"Let the king do with her what he wants."

It was midnight,
but the snow and moon mustered enough light to show a way in the dark. Most of
the men were on foot, so the trail was easy to follow. All but a dozen of the
horses were dead. There hadn't been enough room for them in the cavern and they
had died off one by one. Half of the men were dead, too. They were down to a
hundred now.

Maybor was riding
one of the last remaining horses. He was bundled up well and the night, though
cold, was mild compared to most. Maybor knew he was in a bad state. Frostbite
had taken his toes and his left hand. Lung fever had set into his chest. All
his life he had been a lucky man, yet tonight, here on the eastern side of the
Divide, with the wind blowing northward and the frost coming down from above,
Maybor was overcome with the sudden feeling that he'd just seen the last of his
luck.

He shivered
violently, his teeth clicking together and his shoulders arching upward.

"Come on,
lads, let's go," he said, speaking only to hear the sound of his own
voice. He kicked his horse forward, eager to leave all misgivings behind.

They didn't have
much time left: a hard freeze or a sudden storm and they'd be at the devil's
side before they knew it. So they were coming down the mountain while they
still could.

They weren't
traveling north toward Bren-Kylock was patrolling the northern foothills and
they'd be picked off by marksmen as soon as they came within range-they were
heading to Camlee, instead.

Southeast along
the divide, traveling both day and night, they skirted the great peaks,
gradually winding their way down to the foothills north of Camlee. For the most
part conditions in the mountains had been in their favor: the air was clear but
cold, snowfall light, and once they'd turned south, the northern winds were
behind them. Underfoot the snow was hard, frozen, and the farther they
descended the lighter the coverage became. All the men were wrapped up well
now, dead men's clothes on their backs, dead men's boots on their feet. No more
limbs would be lost to the cold.

Maybor had grown
to respect the quiet determined men of Highwall. He joined in their somber
songs of mourning and listened to their fireside tales of war. They were proud
men, and they bitterly regretted not being there to die by their leader's side.
Maybor thought them very young and naive, yet he loved them all the same. They
were his boys now. And he wouldn't let their retreat from Kylock's forces be in
vain. He was old, his life long, but they were young and had many battles left
to fight. He would bring them down from the mountain and see them safe into
Camlee territory. From there they could find glory on their own.

Maybor guided his
horse around a curve in the path. No, he didn't feel lucky anymore, so he would
have to save these hundred men on nothing more than guts.

It was warm inside
the pit. Warm and quiet and dark, with blankets layered high to keep out
sights, sounds, and drafts. The pit was safe. It fit her form like a coffin,
and like a coffin it offered peace. She didn't want to rise, didn't ever want
to wake up again. Sleep was her dark pit, and with instincts so potent they
pervaded her dreams, Melli knew that's where she should stay.

To awaken meant
the death of her soul.

Dreaming was the
only way to keep it alive. Nothing could be taken from her while she was here
in the pit. It was getting harder and harder to stay, though. Little
discomforts began to niggle away at her. the pit was growing horns. Pain
pricked at her arm, head, and back. Dryness tickled her throat. An aching
softness lay between her legs and her stomach felt strangely hollow. Melli tried
to burrow deeper, tried to gaze downward instead of up, but the walls of the
pit began to close in on her, and the floor rose up and squeezed her out.

She opened her
eyes. Bright bands of sunlight sliced the room. Melli blinked, trying to make
sense of the shadows and forms, forcing her mind into focus. She was looking at
the ceiling: curved stone, wooden beams, damp patches where the rain came
through. In the same way Melli knew she shouldn't wake up, she also knew she
shouldn't look down. Her eyes moved ahead of her brain, however, and her gaze
arched a quarter circle to the floor.

She was lying in a
pool of dried blood. Her dress, her legs, and the surrounding stone were sticky
with wine-dark stains. Melli was aware of a feathering sensation in her head: a
lightness, a ripple across her thoughts. All pain had left her. The slate was
clean. A tiny dark spot was all that was left, and as she raised her gaze to
her stomach, the spot hardened to lead in her throat.

Her belly was a
slack curve. The gleaming roundness had gone.

Melli's body began
to convulse. Her spine jerked against the stone floor. Dry sobs pumped up from
her chest to her lips. Her mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, with
only a soft choking noise to show for it. She was empty. Empty. Her baby had
gone. They had forced it from her and taken it away.

"You're not
really going to do this, Tawl?" said Jack. "The water temperature
alone could kill you."

Tawl looked at him
in what Jack had come to recognize as his hard-headed way. "It's too late
to go back now." They were walking up a winding mountain path, their
horses trailing behind them. Rocks, tufts of dry grass, and thorny yellow
bushes marked their way. Lake Ormon lay below them, its deep green water as
glassy as a jewel. The sky was pale and cloudless, the sun already on its way
to the west. They had spent the last four hours edging the lake, and for four
hours before that they were riding along the Silbur's bank. Darkness was two
hours away at the most.

Crayne was leading
the way. Nabber and Borlin were bringing up the rear. A small mountain village
was their destination, a sheep herding village that lay in the same high valley
as the Faldara Falls. Tawl was going to jump into the River Viralay and go over
the falls to the lake. "Valdis did it," he explained, "to gain
the faith of the villagers. Over the centuries a handful of others have
followed his lead, seeking to prove their worth, or their faith. Or both."

Jack thought it
was madness. Like every child, he had heard the tale of Borc freezing the
waterfall, but he never thought it was true. And he couldn't believe that they
were actually hiking up to that same waterfall now.

"There must
be an easier way to make the men believe in you." Jack wiped the sweat
from his brow. It was cold, but the path was steep. "I can't see a dead
man inspiring much faith."

Tawl shrugged.
"The knights respect the falls. If I back out now, they will say I have no
faith."

"Why did you
offer to do it? No one forced your hand."

"You heard
them, Jack. They don't believe what I say. They still think I'm a murderer, a
liar. A man who has forsaken his oath."

"They were
beginning to listen to us. Andris and the younger ones are on our side."

Tawl started
shaking his head even before Jack stopped speaking. "Crayne, Borlin, the
others-they'll never listen. They understand courage and strength and faith.
Words mean nothing to them. Actions are the only way to judge a man."

"You've taken
actions enough," said Jack. Frustration over Tawl's stubbornness was
making him lose his temper. "You've got nothing to prove to these men.
Nothing."

"You don't
understand, Jack. You're not a knight. You don't bear the circles. You've never
lived your life for one thing only to find corruption at the very heart of
it."

"I understand
revenge."

Tawl looked at
Jack. He ran his fingers through his hair. When he spoke, the tension had
drained from his voice. "I won't lie to you, Jack. Part of this is
revenge. I'm only human; I hurt, I feel betrayed, but most of all I feel
lost."

"And what about
Melli?" said Jack quickly, grasping for anything that would make Tawl
listen to reason. "How lost will she feel if you don't survive?"

Tawl closed his
eyes. When he opened them a moment later, they were infinitely brighter and
darker than before. A soft sound, like the cry of a wounded animal, escaped
from his lips. Hearing it, Jack wished he had never asked the question. Seconds
passed. Tawl's face fell under the shadow of a nearby pine. He gripped the
reins of his horse so tightly that white bands of flesh swelled to either side
of the leather. When he spoke his voice was so low that Jack had to strain to
hear it. "if I don't make it over the falls, Jack, you must take my place.
You must protect Melli for me. She must be kept safe."

Jack nodded once.
Briefly he met Tawl's gaze and then looked away. He felt ashamed. There was a
lifetime's worth of anguish shining softly in the knight's blue eyes. "I'm
sorry, Tawl. I shouldn't have mentioned Melli."

Tawl seemed not to
be listening; he adjusted his horse's bit and then smoothed down its mane.
After a moment he patted the old horse gently and said, "Melli is
everything to me, Jack. But since we left Marls, saving her no longer seems
enough. I must be worthy of her, too. I can't bring all my failures back with
me and expect her to love me all the same. She deserves better than that."
Tawl made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. "If I don't take this
jump, I will have failed Melli as well as myself."