Master and Fool (64 page)

Jack knew he spoke
the truth. The falls were a personal ordeal for Tawl-they weren't just about
winning over the knights, they were about testing his own worth. "What
will happen if you do succeed?"

Tawl shrugged.
"I don't really know-I haven't got a plan. I just know that I want to
replace something in the knighthood that has been lost." Tawl paused a
moment before adding, "And perhaps something in myself, too."

As if embarrassed
by this admission, Tawl rushed on. "With the knighthood corrupt there's
nothing to look up to anymore. There's no ideal-there's just men, merchants,
and mercenaries. To say you were a knight used to mean something; strangers
would trust you, old ladies would invite you into their homes. People were
never afraid to ask for your help. Now, if you're a knight in the north you're
branded a mercenary, and if you're a knight in the south you're a
fugitive."

Tawl stopped a
moment and gazed out over the lake. "I want the ideal back. I want it for
the knights who have deserted and all those who are
thinking
about
desertion. I want it for these men here and I want it for myself."

Jack had never
heard Tawl speak so long and passionately, and he began to understand just how
deep his feelings ran. Nothing short of drugging and binding would stop him
from taking the jump. Some things were madness-helping a golden-haired stranger
escape from the guards, entering the temple at Larn with only a handful of
rocks as a weapon, setting a rowboat down in a storm-and perhaps it was that
element of madness that helped them get so far.

They'd been acting
on faith all along: faith in Marod's prophecy, and in each other, and the
belief it could all be done. Jack tugged his horse away from a snatch of grass
and made his way up the trail. Could he really blame Tawl for taking one more
leap?

The men formed a
crescent around the bank. They were silent, faces grave, weapons unsheathed,
arms bared to reveal their circles.

Tawl looked at
them, meeting their gazes one at a time, making a connection with all who were
there. The knights regarded him with grim respect: the falls were the ultimate
test of a knight. Not of his training, or his skills, but of his courage and
his heart. Believe in something enough to ride the river down to the lake and
you might not be a good man, might not be a bad man, but at least you had the
strength of your convictions.

And to Tawl that
was what it was all about: showing these knights that he believed in himself.

He took a step
back toward the edge. Jack raised his hand-in farewell or warning, Tawl didn't
know. Seeing him from this distance, Tawl realized just how much Jack had
changed. He was so much older now.

Nabber was looking
down at the ground. Dark brown hair falling over his eyes, shoulders slumped,
hands clasped into tight knots by his side---he didn't like this one little
bit. Tawl wanted to say something to him, to reassure him, but false promises
had no place at the falls. As he looked on, Jack put his arm around the pocket.
That would have to do.

Tawl turned to
face the river. The Viralay belonged to the mountains. It flowed through
valleys and clefts and hollows, gathering mass during the spring thaw, running
low in midwinter. It was low now, down to two-thirds of its normal level. Low,
cold, and slow-moving until it came to the twist before the drop. Tawl looked
along its length: it ran straight, right up to the end, and then a sharp
outcropping of rocks changed its course, bending the river into the shade of
overhanging cliffs, concealing the drop from all who stood on the bank.

No one would see
him go over the edge. They would wait until he was out of sight and then make
their way down the path to the lake. He was on his own once he disappeared
behind the bend. It had taken the party almost an hour to climb up here. It
would take them at least half of that to come down: by that time he would be
saved or damned.

Tawl took off his
leather tunic and his heavy boots. He unhooked his sword and laid it on the
ground. Reaching for his knife, he went to discard that, too, and then thought
better of it. He replaced it in its scabbard.

He didn't turn to
look at the knights. He looked only at the water. With the words "Es
nil
hesrl"
on his lips, he jumped into the river.

The shock of the
cold hit him straightaway. The water was only a few degrees above freezing. He
had minutes before his body started to numb. He felt the water soaking his
undershirt and his britches, settling against his skin.

The current took
him, dragging his body away from the bank, tugging his torso under. Water
splashed, then covered his face. Tawl looked up through the wetness to the
bank.

The knights'
figures rippled above, green-hazed, distorted, like a coven of witches. The
water was too cold to bear and Tawl closed his eyes. Moss-green light filtered
through the lids. He raised his neck out of the water and took a gasp of air.
The current snatched him back before he'd finished. He felt himself moving
downward and along, his speed quickening. Arms and legs moved rapidly at first,
working to counteract the current's pull, buoying, steering, keeping him
afloat. It was so cold, though. Freezing. Tawl started to shiver. His instinct
was to curl up, to bundle his body into a warming ball. He fought his desire
for warmth, forcing his feet to keep kicking and his arms to stay straightened
out. The shivering changed to shaking as he rounded the bend. The current was
strong now; it was an icy band around his waist. It wanted him under. Tawl
flexed his shoulder muscles and sent his arms beating against the water. His
face broke the surface. The air was warm on his forehead, hot in his lungs. He
took two mighty breaths and then the current was at him once more. As he was
sucked under, he risked opening his eyes again. Everything was green--above and
below-green flecks floated on the surface, fragments of plant life swirled
beneath. Suddenly his body was yanked around. His shin hit something hard. Tawl
was glad of the pain. His mind was growing torpid, and anything that helped him
fight the numbing cold was welcome. In water near freezing, losing
consciousness was the greatest danger. He had to stay alert. The end was just
ahead of him now. The various eddies within the river were streamlining, giving
way to the overpowering pull of the falls. Tawl felt as if his whole body was
being sucked forward. Feeling the beginnings of panic, he opened his eyes,
trying to orientate himself. The green flecks on the surface had stretched to
lines. He was moving quickly now. He spotted the cut-off point ahead. The water
ended abruptly, leaving only the green-gray sky.

He needed to take
a breath. His arms were slow to respond. He had no sensation in his forgers.
Stretching his neck up as far as it would go, he propelled his elbows backward.
Up he went, through the mineral-heavy froth, up to the surface. He took a
mariner's breath. A deep, lung-stretching, water-chasing gulp. The river water
slid along his tongue. It tasted of copper and cloves.

There was a lot of
white in the green now. The rocks bounced the water into a surface frenzy.
Below, the current remained unaffected, the foam nothing more than a sideshow.

Tawl had stopped
moving his arms and legs; he didn't want to exert himself. His last breath had
to take him over the falls.

He was fully under
now. The current had flipped him over onto his back and swung him around
feet-first. Panic had fallen from him. Calmness remained. Whatever happened now
was just water over the falls. Melli could survive without him, the knighthood
would go on, Jack was capable of reaching Kylock on his own, and whoever
prevailed in the end would find their triumph only fleeting.

A sucking rush
filled Tawl's ears. The drop was a void that pulled him in. His body careened
forward, buffeted by the current. Hard, driving water surged between him and
the sky. A blink revealed the gray-green and then the world turned inside out.

Down he went,
reality dropping from beneath him. The current was gone, replaced by crashing
water and damning gravity Wind ripped along his body, pushing on the soles of
his feet. The wind blew upward, but the water plunged him down. The light was
beautiful, radiant, a many-hued green. The water glittered around him in tiny,
dazzling drops.

He was so cold. So
very cold.

And then he
crashed into the water below.

His body slammed
into the lake. The jolt was shocking. His wrists bent backward, his teeth smashed
together. Downward he speared, the water from the falls ramming him under.

The greenness
became thicker, heavier. Colder. The light grew dim. Down and down he went,
leaving it all behind. The water was a heavy cloak about his shoulders. The
coldness was a drug that made him sleep. Descending ever deeper, he gave in to
the icy darkness, leaving all thoughts, dreams, and oaths silently behind. Air
no longer had any business in his lungs, and the future had lost its hold upon
his heart.

Tawl glided into
Lake Ormon's depths, memories racing ahead of him like torches to light the
way. Sara and Anna were there, arms open in welcome, leafy tendrils trailing
from their hair. His mother flitted past, not pregnant anymore, but young and
beautiful, a smile just for him upon her lips. Bevlin was there, too: age
wrinkles and water wrinkles vying to line his face. Their welcomes were a rite
of passage. He was finally being allowed home to the cottage by the marsh.

Tawl's chest was
tight with joy. This was all he had ever wanted.

As he reached out
to Sara, a dark green shadow caught his eye. Two shades short of black, it
hovered behind his family like an armed man ready to strike. Tawl screamed a
warning, but it was drowned out by the pressure rush. The dark shadow showed
its carrion teeth and Tawl's family sped away, disappearing into the darkness
like ghosts before the dawn. The creature raised an armlike limb, and even
before Tawl's eyes focused he knew what was branded upon the flesh: the mark of
Valdis. Three circles. Everything began and ended with them.

Tawl looked more
closely at the shadow. A tremor of recognition passed along his spine. It
wasn't a random monster conjured up out of the depths, it was his own demon.

He had brought it
down with him.

And with him it would
stay until the very end. Unless.

Tawl began to kick
his feet, beating at the water with sheer willpower alone. Up came his hands,
over his head, fingers pointing skyward to the world of light above. His life
was far from finished, his fate far from complete, and as he rose toward the
surface, he knew what he must do.

Tavalisk was
eating pansies. Purple ones.

Flowers, his cook
said, were good for the digestion, the hiccups, and for garnishing a platter.
The pansies in question were here in their garnishing capacity, but, due to the
unsavory nature of the main dish--eels baked in a casing of pig's
intestines-the archbishop had promoted them to food. At this point he wasn't
entirely sure that he found them appetizingthey had the texture of damp velvet
and the taste of cheap perfume-but they were a definite improvement on the
eels.

He was just
considering having his cook fry a few for him when in bounded Gamil. The guilty
expression that was so often upon his face of late had been replaced with a
sort of stricken death mask.

"You're
looking remarkably well today, Gamil. That glazed expression is really most
becoming." The archbishop rose from his chair. "Would you care to try
a pansy?"

"Kylock's
forces are on their way to Camlee, Your Eminence."

The pansy fluttered
to the floor. The archbishop sent out a hand to steady himself against his
desk. His heart started pattering like hailstones against a shutter. "Not
Ness?"

Gamil shook his
head. "They turned at Lake Herry." Tavalisk closed his eyes. Of
course they turned. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? He knew Baralis, and
had learned not to underestimate Kylock, so why had this latest strategy passed
him by? Unsure that his legs could carry him any longer, Tavalisk sat down. He
slumped heavily in his chair, his many rolls of fat gathering around him like
worker bees. For the first time in years, he actually felt afraid. Events were
getting out of hand. The northern empire was no longer a vague possibility; it
was here, on their doorsteps, about to pry its way in.

Camlee. Gateway to
the south. Kylock had redrawn his boundaries, and might do it yet again.

Tavalisk spread
his chubby fingers out upon the desk. "When will Kylock's forces arrive in
Camlee?"

"My news is
late, Your Eminence. It is possible they are only a week away now."

"And what
numbers have been sent?"

"Conservative
estimates say six thousand, Your Eminence, but eyewitnesses have reported close
to nine. All the villages en route have been pillaged then burned. The army is
like a plague of locusts, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake."

A tiny wheezing
sound escaped from the archbishop's lips. "Is Kylock leading them
himself?"

"No. Maybor's
firstborn, Kedrac, is in command He led the kingdoms' forces to victory in
Halcus. He battles in Kylock's image."

"What about
Tyren and his branded cohorts? Are they on their way to knife their neighbors
in the side?"

"There
are
a battalion of knights in the army, Your Eminence. But Tyren himself is
still in Bren. Since Highwall has been routed, he has set up camp outside the
city and is currently in negotiations with Kylock."

"If I know
Tyren he'll be after first spoils. He was granted them in Helch, and he's
probably hoping to secure them in Highwall after spring thaw." The
archbishop drew sweaty circles on the surface of his desk-then wiped them out.
"Tyren is just a greedy little pawn. Baralis and Kylock are using him as
surely as they use the boot leather on their feet."