He pushed the boy forward.

Nabber flushed with pride. He executed a rather impressive bow. "Your Grace."

The duke inclined his head graciously. "Please accept my apologies. Rorn, eh? Happen to know the archbishop, do you?"

"He's a slippery blighter, I can tell you that much."

The duke laughed. "You can come and work for me anytime, Nabber. I wish more of my counselors would put things as succinctly as you do."

Nabber was beaming from ear to sore ear. "Anytime you need a spot of advice, Your Grace, just look me up. Tawl always knows were to find me." He bowed again. "Now, I must be off. Commerce calls."

Tawl and the duke watched him go.

"A remarkable boy," said the duke once Nabber had left the room.

"In more ways than one," replied Tawl. He made up his mind that he wasn't going to question Nabber any further about Baralis. He had the strong suspicion that the boy had probably sold the man information, but that was Nabber's way. It was what made him who he was, and he could hardly be blamed for it. Besides, it sounded as if Baralis had another source of information. Someone else had told him about the search for the boy. Tawl scanned his memory for those who knew about the quest. The archbishop of Rorn. Tyren. Larn.

"Tawl." The duke interrupted his thoughts. "Are you all right? You look like a man whose thoughts are far from his body."

Very far. Hundreds of leagues to the south, across a stretch of treacherous ocean, on the cursed island of Larn. The place of his undoing. Were the powers that be still working against him? Were they not content with all that they had done? Tawl pulled himself back. "I'm a little tired, Your Grace. Nothing more."

"You have been spending too much time guarding my lady," said the duke.

"Do you wish to speak with me?"

"Yes. Briefly." The duke motioned toward the far door. "Is Melliandra in her bedchamber?" When Tawl nodded, he lowered his voice. "In two nights time, on the Feast of First Sowing, I will make my wedding announcement. I'm counting on you to monitor the events at the table. I will have my hands full fending off verbal attacks. I need you to keep an eye on people. Note their reactions-especially Lord Baralis'--and be ready to pull Melliandra out of there if anything should happen."

"I will be there," said Tawl.

The duke nodded. "Good. Do you want to sit at the table next to Melliandra, or would you prefer a more discreet vantage point?"

"I would rather be concealed."

"As you wish. Arrange whatever is necessary." The duke looked grim. "That's all for now. I mustn't keep my bride-to-be waiting." He walked over to the connecting door. "Remember, Tawl, I'm counting on you to tell me who my enemies are."

Darkness had fallen and it was time to look for shelter. The land he was walking across was plowed and ready for sowing, so that meant that there was probably a farm nearby.

Farms boasted outbuildings and chicken coops and barns: places where a man could rest undisturbed for the night. Provided, of course, he was prepared to leave before dawn. Farmers woke earlier than priests.

Jack scanned the horizon. Which way to turn? Since leaving Rovas' cottage, his instincts had pointed him to the east. Why should he change his course now? Tired, hungry, cold and alone, he carried on walking straight ahead.

The last time he had eaten was two days back. Almost crazy with hunger, he had risked nearing a farmhouse in daylight. The chicken coop was farthest away from the main building, so he headed there.

He managed to crack open and eat half a dozen eggs before the dogs were set on him. With yolk dripping down his chin and a few more eggs stuffed down his tunic, he made a run for it. He had escaped unharmed, though sadly he couldn't say the same for the eggs. Not only had the shells cracked open, but the yolk had somehow gotten down his britches. A few hours later, the smell was enough to put him off eggs for life.

In the end he'd finally thrown himself, fully clothed, into a stream. Having lived through the rains of a week ago, he was not only accustomed to being soaked to the skin, but he'd also built up a certain immunity to it. It would take more than a quick dip in the stream to kill him-even if it did take his clothes a full day to dry.

Sometimes Jack just wanted to laugh. Here he was: onetime baker's boy and scribe to Baralis, fleeing across eastern Halcus being pursued by the enemy, nothing to his name except the clothes on his back and the knife at his waist, and with a body bearing so many wounds that he had to keep checking to see if any had reopened and started to bleed. This was definitely not how adventures in books went. He should be famous by now, rich and accomplished, a band of ardent followers in tow, and royalty waiting upon his every word. He should have the girl of his dreams, too.

Sometimes Jack just wanted to cry. When he thought of Tarissa, of leaving her kneeling in the rain outside Rovas' cottage, her saying that she was sorry and pleading to come along with him, he wondered if he'd done the right thing. Those were the worst times of all. The times when it was hardest to carry on.

The times when he had to physically stop himself from turning around and running back to her door.

Once, just once, he'd given in to the impulse.

It was late at night-always the worst time for people alone-and he couldn't sleep. No matter what he tried, he could not get Tarissa off his mind. And then, as the moon began to dip toward the west, he reached a point where he no longer wanted to. He wanted to see her, touch her, put his arms around her, and whisper softly that everything would be all right. He headed back there and then, not bothering to wait until dawn. Hours he walked, retracing steps he'd already taken, walking paths he'd already walked.

The darkness was his ally and the shadows were his friends. They led him on through the night, making him feel so small and insignificant that he questioned his own judgment. Who was he to condemn another? Who was he to walk away from someone, when he himself was guilty of so much? In a world made large by the glimmering of distant stars, Jack began to feel that nothing he said or did was important. To be alone was frightening, and he needed someone else to make up for all that he was not.

He needed Tarissa.

The sunrise changed everything.

Pale and majestic, the morning sun rose above the hilltops. Its gentle rays searched out uncertainties just as surely as shadows and made them both disappear with a speed unique to light. As the rays from the sun strengthened, so did Jack's willpower. As the sun rose higher, Jack's steps became slower. The world had boundaries again: hills and streams, forests and mountains. It was smaller, less intimidating: a place where one man could make a difference. Resolution returned to him. Tarissa had betrayed him. He didn't need her; better to be alone than with someone he couldn't trust.

Stopping by a stream, he brought water to his lips. He could feel the sun on his back, warming, encouraging, beckoning him to turn around. He had already said his farewells and come so far, it was pure foolishness to return. Standing up, Jack spun around and began once more to walk east, toward the sun.

As the day went on the sun slowly arced across the sky. Eventually, when it reached the point where it was shining from behind him, the very nature of its rays changed: no longer did they beckon, they pushed.

In the distance, Jack spotted a pinpoint of light. A farmhouse. His heart thrilled at the sight of it. If he was lucky he'd have shelter tonight. Making his way toward it, he took stock of his body. The gash Rovas had given him on his forearm was healing nicely. Running his fingers down the scab, he could detect no wetness or swelling. Good. His kidneys had pained him on and off for the past few days-the table corner had delivered quite a punch but for now there was just a bearable dull ache. Bringing his hand up he felt his lip: it was still as big as a barmcake. Magra had wielded the copper pot like a prizefighter, catching both his jaw and his lip in one well-placed blow. Jack dreaded to think what his face looked like: bruises, swelling cuts, and a week's worth of beard on his chin. He had taken to tactically avoiding still water in order to postpone the shock of seeing himself. He always drank from moving streams.

All the old injuries to his arms and legs--the dog bites and other wounds he'd received from various exchanges at the garrison-were in the process of changing from scabs to scars, and so they no longer bothered him. However, the one thing that did cause him trouble was his upper chest on his right side, where the Halcus arrow had hit. Mrs. Wadwell had tended the wound, and it would probably have been all right by now if only Rovas hadn't landed a punch squarely in its center. Jack found he had to be careful with it. He could never put too much pressure on his right arm, nor bear any weight on his right shoulder. All he had to do was slip his hand in his tunic to know that the wound was infected.

Bloated, sometimes weeping after a long day's walk, it looked about as bad as it smelled. Purple veins ran close to the surface, and it was now ringed, courtesy of Rovas, by a yellowy green bruise.

It throbbed as he approached the farmhouse. Later, before he slept, he would have to slice it open to let out the pus. He tried to keep it clean and always bathed it once a day, but he needed wine, not water, to do the job properly. That or a cauterizing iron.

Jack stooped down in the bushes. There was now only a small meadow between him and the farmhouse. This was a dairy farm. He listened for the sound of dogs or geese. He heard nothing but the gentle lowing of cattle and their young. He risked moving forward. The cattle picked up his scent, but after a few warning sounds they settled down. He was not a fox, and they knew it. Quickly he cut across the meadow. Stepping in cow pats wasn't pleasant, but it was useful; it made him smell familiar if there happened to be any geese or poultry around. He made his way around to the back of the building. There was a large pigpen, which he stayed well clear of, a bam and a dairyshed. He made for the dairyshed. If he was lucky, there would be cheese, cream, and buttermilk.

His stomach grumbled loudly at the thought of food. Jack whispered gently to it, as if it were a small animal. "Not long now," he said.

The door to the dairyshed was held closed by a rusty latch. It lifted easily. In he went, plunging from moonlight into darkness. For a few minutes he stood still, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His nose, however, needed no such luxury. It told him food was around, most precisely cheese.

Hunger did strange things to a man. Jack didn't feel in the slightest bit guilty about eating whatever he could find. If he had money, he would have left it. But he didn't, so he would take what he wanted anyway. He needed to survive, and if he had to steal to do so, then so be it. The one thing that he'd learned since leaving Castle Harvell was that the world wasn't a fair place. The farmer who woke in the morning to discover half a cheese missing should count himself lucky. A lot worse could happen to a man.

Too many things had happened to Jack over the past months for him to remain naive. When he'd left the kingdoms, he was little more than a boy. Trusting and innocent, he had taken everyone at their word. Not anymore, though. It would be a long time before anyone fooled him again. Still, in some ways he'd been lucky. Even amidst all the fire and chaos at the garrison he had been treated with kindness. Dilhurt and Mrs. Wadwell had saved him in more ways than one that night. They had shown him what goodness people were capable of. With generous hearts they had taken him in and cared for him. They asked no questions, nor for anything in return. Jack would remember that always.

No, the world wasn't a fair place, but it wasn't a bad one, either.

Once his eyes could make out variations in the darkness, Jack set to work looking for whatever food he could find. The cheeses were on a shelf and he brought one of them down. With steady hands he unwrapped the linen cloth. He resisted the urge to bite straight into it and cut himself a fairsized wedge, instead. His wound would have to wait until tomorrow now; he couldn't risk slicing it with a dirty knife.

The cheese was well worth the sacrifice. It was delicious: sharp, crumbly, and dry. Further investigation uncovered a large jug of buttermilk. He sat down on the rush-covered floor and ate and drank himself sick. Cheese and buttermilk, while fine on their own, did not make the best combination. Too rich and creamy by far.

With a stomach now grumbling from overindulgence, Jack curled up in a ball and covered himself with rushes. Closing his eyes, he settled down and listened for rats. He could never sleep without first being sure that there were none of the evil glassy-eyed rodents around. He hated rats. He was almost disappointed when there was nothing to hear but the creak of the woodwork and the sound of the breeze whistling through the cracks. An absence of scurrying noises meant that he was free to sleep. Nowadays he was almost more afraid of sleep than he was of rats. His dreams gave him no peace. Tarissa was always in them, crying and pleading one minute, laughing slyly the next. The garrison burned anew each night, and sometimes she burned along with it. Rats might make his flesh crawl, but they never left him feeling guilty and confused.

Before he knew it, his eyelids had grown heavy, and sleep gently eased her way in. Perhaps it was the unique combination of cheese and buttermilk, perhaps not, but for the first time in many weeks he didn't dream of Tarissa. He dreamed of Melli. Her pale and beautiful face kept him company through the night.

Thirty-two

Smoke rose from a forest of candles. A field of wildflowers rested in silver bowls. A mine's worth of silver graced the finest linen and a mountain's worth of crystal caught the light. A rainbow of colors decked the walls, whilst a meadow of fragrant grasses graced the floor. It was the Feast of First Sowing in Bren, and the duke's palace was dressed in its springtime best.

Long tables spanned the length of the great hall. Swans swam across the tabletops, their brilliant white feathers masking cooked birds beneath. Boar's heads stuffed with songbirds rested upon exquisite tapestries of blue and gold, and newly birthed calves were impaled upon spits.

The lords and ladies who sat around the tables were the most influential people in Bren. Their clothes were made from the finest materials, but the colors were strangely subdued: dark grays, deep greens, and black. The women made up for the plainness of their dresses by wearing their grandest jewels. Diamonds and rubies flashed in the candlelight, and precious metals tinkled with each raised cup.

The duke surveyed the hall. The court was apprehensive tonight. Men and women alike were drinking heavily, yet eating barely anything at all. Lord Cravin caught his eye. He was an ambitious and powerful man who had long been opposed to the match of Catherine and Kylock. The duke inclined his head toward him. Cravin would be pleasantly surprised this evening. Lord Maybor, who was sitting nearby, spotted the exchange. The duke raised his cup to him. Maybor, red of face and dressed more magnificently than anyone else around the table, mirrored his gesture. The duke actually had to stop himself from laughing. The man had no inkling that this night would change his life.

He glanced quickly to the small door that stood to the side of the main table. Behind its wooden panels waited the lady who would alter the course of history: Melliandra, his bride-to-be. She had no idea her father was here. He could see her now, downing a little more wine than was good for her and scolding her servant for listening at the door, whilst she herself did the same. It wouldn't be long now before he brought her out.

Shifting his gaze from the door, back to the table, something caught his eye that gave him cause to be wary. Baralis was sitting next to Catherine. That in itself was a blatant disregard of his wishes, but what was more alarming, however, was the way the girl leaned over the man, feeding him meats and sweet breads, her breasts brushing against his arm. Any other time the duke would not have tolerated such behavior. He would simply have pulled Catherine from the table and sent her to bed. She had obviously been drinking, for nothing else could explain her immodest behavior. Even as he watched, Baralis placed a restraining hand upon Catherine's arm and moved his chair a little way back from hers. The duke was pleased, but not surprised. Baralis was not a stupid man.

But he would soon be an angry one.

And Catherine? How would she react? She would not be pleased, that much was certain. The duke shrugged. Temper tantrums of young girls were easily dealt with.

It was time. Eating had stopped, and drinking had reached the point where people no longer bothered to hide the quantities they drank. The duke brought down his cup, banging it loudly on the table. All eyes turned toward the noise. He stood up, and a hush descended upon the room.

Maybor had been waiting for this all night. He'd barely tasted the seven pheasants, the haunch of venison, and the two jugs of lobanfern red which he had consumed. His mind was on what the duke was going to do to Baralis. It was high time that villainous demon was dealt with once and for all. Of course, the puzzling thing was that Baralis would finally be getting his way tonight: Kylock would wed Catherine.

Indeed, His Grace was in the process of making the announcement now. Maybor sat back in his chair, his cup resting upon his knee, and listened to what the duke was saying.

"My lords and ladies," he said, speaking in a strong and ringing voice, "I have chosen the Feast of First Sowing to make two important announcements. As you know, First Sowing is traditionally a time when we pray for healthy crops and high yields from the seeds which we have newly sown. I hope for the same bountiful harvest from the two seeds I sow tonight."

The duke paused. A wave of nervous chatter and coughing rose up to fill the silence. People shifted restlessly in their seats. Maybor noticed many a person using the short break to bring wine cups to their lips. All was silence when the duke spoke again.

"Firstly, I must inform you of my decision to go ahead with the marriage of Catherine and Kylock-"

The duke was cut off in midsentence by the noise of the crowd. A wave of something close to panic spread fast across the room. Breath was sharply inhaled, eyebrows were raised, and expressions of disbelief were on everyone's lips. Maybor glanced toward Lord Cravin: the man's expression was grim.

Baralis and Catherine, on the other hand, looked as smug as a pair of newlyweds. Maybor began to feel a little wary. What if the duke had been leading him astray? Promising something that would upset Baralis, just to keep him quiet?

The duke did not look pleased. The skin was drawn tight across the bridge of his nose and his lips were drawn into a whip of a line. He rapped his cup on the table. "Si lence!" he boomed.

Every single member of the court froze on the spot. Cups were suspended in midair, tongues were caught in midflap.

Satisfied, the duke continued. "Not only have I decided to go ahead with the match, but I have also set a date. Two months from tonight, my beloved daughter Catherine will wed King Kylock."

The crowd lost control once more. The hall was filled with the hiss of dissatisfied whisperings. It was a testament to the duke's power that no one dared speak out loud.

Abruptly, Lord Cravin stood up. He bowed to the duke. "I request Your Grace's permission to leave the table," he said, pronouncing every word precisely.

"Request denied, Lord Cravin. You will sit and hear my second announcement like everybody else."

Humiliated, Lord Cravin shot a look filled with pure malice toward the duke.

Maybor fancied he saw a spark of amusement twinkle in the duke's eye. The court, seeing how sharply Lord Cravin was dealt with, grew more subdued.

The duke beckoned his daughter to stand. Catherine did as she was bidden, her pearls resting like raindrops against her dress. Borc, but she was beautiful! thought Maybor. Her pale and heavy hair was piled high atop her head. Combs and pins didn't quite succeed in keeping all the locks in place, and several golden curls fell like jewels around her face.

"To my daughter, Catherine," said the duke, raising his cup high. "Who, even before the crops begin to ripen in the field, will become queen of the Four Kingdoms."

Maybor choked on his wine. Queen of the Four King doms. Melliandra should be the woman who bore that title. His daughter should have been queen. In all the plotting and politicking surrounding Catherine's inheritance, somehow the fact that the duke's daughter would be made queen of the kingdoms had gone unnoticed. Even by himself. Maybor suddenly felt very tired. The crowd cheered halfheartedly. With Kylock rapidly approaching the Halcus capital, things looked very different than when they had first enthusiastically accepted the betrothal.

The duke waved Catherine down. "Now," he said. "I come to my second announcement. I have been a long time unmarried. It is over ten years since my beloved wife died, and I think now is the time for me to take another wife."

The crowd was stunned. No one spoke. No one moved. Maybor leaned forward in his chair. He had an idea of what the duke was up to: he was attempting to supplant Catherine as his heir by producing a legitimate male child to take her place.

The duke continued. "I have recently met a lady of high birth. A beautiful young woman who has agreed to be my wife. I know this will come as a surprise to most of you here, but I intend to marry her within the month."

With the noise of the crowd sounding in his ears, Maybor turned to look at Baralis. The man was as pale as a corpse. This was coming as a rather nasty surprise. Maybor smiled softly. The great lord's plans were about to go sadly awry.

Melli was growing impatient. She had paced the length of the antechamber so many times now that she could swear her feet had worn a path in the stone. "Nessa, what d'you hear now?"

"Well, m'lady," said the small and dumpy girl. "I think His Grace looks set to introduce you."

"Out of my way." Melli pushed Nessa away from the door and put her own ear to the wood. The crowd, which had been so vocal only minutes earlier, was now ominously quiet. Melli stepped away when she realized the duke was speaking. For some reason, she didn't want to hear what he said about her. "Pour me another glass of wine," she ordered. Nessa swiftly obliged. Melli's hands were shaking so much that she was forced to drink the wine leaning forward, with her neck stretched out, to avoid any spilling on her dress.

Just as she brought the cup to her lips, three knocks sounded upon the door. The signal for her to make her entrance. Thrusting the cup into Nessa's waiting hand, Melli smoothed down her dress. "Do I look all right?" The maid nodded, but Melli barely noticed. The door opened up in front of her and she was blinded by light and smoke.

Melli heard the sound of a thousand bated breaths. She froze, unable to move a limb. A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek. Never in her life had she been so afraid. She felt a strong desire to turn around and run away, all the way back to the kingdoms and the safety of her father's arms. What had she gotten herself into? A hostile court awaited her, ready to criticize and condemn.

Then, just as her eyes grew accustomed to the light, the duke was by her side. His arm was upon hers, lending her strength. His lips gently brushed against her lips. "Come, my love," he said. "Come and meet your courtiers. I promise I will not leave your side." Never had she heard him speak so tenderly. His voice was both a caress and a comfort. He looked into her eyes. "Your beauty makes me very proud tonight." Guiding her from the shadows, he led her into the great hall at Bren.

"This, lords and ladies," he said, walking her toward the main table, "is Melliandra of the Eastlands, daughter of Lord Maybor, and the woman who will soon become my wife."

Maybor dropped his cup. It was Melliandra. His Melliandra. All these months of not seeing her, and now she had turned up here. He stood up. In three mighty leaps he was beside her. A second later she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He didn't give a damn if anyone saw them. He ran his hands along her hair; it was as soft as he remembered. She was so small, so frail. He didn't want to let her go.

"Melli, Melli," he whispered. "My sweet Melli. I never thought I'd see you again." She was shaking like a newborn. He felt something wet on his neck, and realized that she was crying, too. Maybor pulled away, wiping the tears from his eyes with his fist. His daughter was ten times more beautiful than he remembered.

"Father, I'm sorry," she said quietly, for his ears alone. Maybor took up the corner of his robe and gently rubbed the tears from her cheek. "Hush, little one. Now is not the time for regrets. We are a family again, and the time has come for us to act like one."

Catching hold of Melli's hand, he turned to face the duke and his court. A performance was called for now. A good one. Not only did he need to make these people think that he had known about the wedding all along, but he also had to impress them. Three days back, the duke had asked if he could rely on his composure. Tonight, he would prove that he could be more than composed-he would actually seal the pact.

Maybor cleared his throat. He looked around the great haIl, meeting every eye that was focused upon him. When he spoke, he did so slowly, giving proper weight to every word.

"I am more than pleased to give my only daughter, Melliandra, in marriage to Bren. I choose the word Bren carefully for I am well aware that Melliandra will wed more than just the duke; she will wed the city itself. I can never hope to repay such an overwhelming honor, but as a father it is my duty to try. I have humbly offered the duke one-third of my eastern holdings and one quarter of my wealth. He has cordially accepted, and the contracts have been drawn." There. Let no one say that Maybor could not think on his feet.

He quickly looked toward the duke. The man nodded his approval. Hastily grabbing a cup from the table, Maybor came to stand between the duke and Melliandra. "A toast," he cried, uniting the two lovers' hands. "A toast to a glorious match between two of the oldest families in the north. May the might of Bren and the Eastlands forever be united."

As Maybor drew his cup to his lip, something dark in the corner of his vision caught his attention. It was Baralis. He looked ready for murder.

Tawl watched as the crowd went into a frenzy over the toast. They hardly knew what to make of the marriage, but somehow Lord Maybor had managed to whip up support.

Who could not be moved by the sight of a man weeping in happiness at the announcement of his daughter's marriage? The worldly and cynical court had been touched by such a spontaneous show of paternal affection. Particularly when the man in question had gone on to compose himself and then give a gracious speech. Tawl smiled, his lips brushing against the thick satin curtain. He could certainly see where Melli got her spirit from.

Tawl could see nearly everyone in the room from his position at the side of the head table. He was concealed in the passageway that connected the great hall to the kitchens. Normally it was used by servants carrying hot food to the tables, but tonight Tawl had turned it into his own personal den. He had arranged to have a thickly lined curtain hung from the entrance and had forbidden anyone in the kitchens to set foot in the passage during the feast. It was the ideal place to keep a discreet eye on what was going on, and if matters came to a head, it would also provide the means for a quick escape. He could have Melli out of the hall and into the kitchens in less than a minute.

He didn't think it would come to that, though. Not tonight. But it would come soon. He pressed his eye against the slit and searched out Baralis' face. The man was not even bothering to keep up appearances.

Whilst the people of the court were at least putting on a show of goodwill for the newly betrothed couple, Baralis was sitting there, lips drawn to a thin line, eyes dark with hatred, stabbing away at the tabletop with the point of his eating knife.

Tawl's gaze traveled to the girl sitting to the right of Baralis: the exquisite Catherine of Bren.

Appearances could be so deceptive. She looked like a chaste virgin: she was not.

She looked like a sweet angel: she was not. She looked like the sort of girl who would never harm a fly: most definitely, she was not. Even now, Tawl could remember the venom in her voice the day she had sworn to see him dead. Unpredictable, dangerous, and a consummate actress, the duke's daughter was not what she seemed.

Just as the cheering died down, Catherine stood up. Tawl saw how pale her face was and how her hand shook as she grasped the back of the chair. His fingers encircled his blade.

"I would like to propose my own toast," she said, her voice high with emotion. "A toast to my father. A man who would rather make a fool of himself by marrying a woman half of his age than let his daughter keep her rightful place."

With that, she swept her arm across the table, sending plates and cups flying.

Two unarmed guards, whom Tawl had briefed earlier for just such a situation, came to lead her away.

She fought them off. "This marriage is a farce," she cried, wrestling free of the first guard's grip. Her body became stiff and her eyes began to cloud over. Her cheeks began to fill out as if she were holding her breath. The hand that held the chair shook violently. The very air surrounding her seemed to thicken. All of a sudden she composed herself.

Tawl, from his position at the far side of Catherine, saw the reason why. Baralis had caught and squeezed her hand, then whispered three words in her ear.

The effect the words had on Catherine was dramatic. With great dignity, she pulled away from the guards. "Unhand me," she said. "You forget who I am." A withering gaze completed the reproof. Both men fell back immediately, not even pausing to check with the duke. Head held high, back straight as a spear, Catherine made her way across the hall. She exited through a side door.

When she was gone, the court began to whisper uneasily.

Behind the curtain, Tawl was nervous. His palm was wet around the knife. He had taken a risk not coming forward the moment Catherine stood up. He had no wish to humiliate her by leaping out of nowhere, brandishing his knife in her face. The duke would not have approved. It would have looked as if he didn't trust his own daughter. So he had stayed put, prepared to show himself only if Catherine made a move toward Melli. Yet now, thinking about it, Tawl wasn't sure that she hadn't.

Quickly he looked over to Melli. She was sitting down. The duke was on one side of her, Maybor on the other. She looked tired and a little shaky. As he watched, her father poured her a cup of red wine.

With little ceremony, she raised it to her lips and downed it in one. Tawl smiled. Melli was her usual self.

Still, he had the nagging feeling that something had nearly happened here. Something had passed between Catherine and Baralis. A communication, a warning. And by the looks of it, it had been promptly heeded. In the space of a few seconds, Catherine had changed from a woman about to fall into an anger-driven trance to a self-possessed lady of the court. What had Baralis said to her to bring about such a change? And what would have happened if he had said nothing at all?

Tawl's mind traveled back five years to the very first time he'd met Bevlin. That evening was the only time the wiseman had ever spoken openly about sorcery to him. "Yes, there are those who still practice," he had said, "most think it would be better if they didn't. " Was Catherine one of those?

Was Baralis? The night he fought the duke's champion, he had felt something working against him, weakening his will, sapping his strength. Catherine had been Blayze's lover. Had she used sorcery to aid his cause that night?

Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn't be sure. All he had to go on was a dangerously blank look in Catherine's eyes and his own intuition. It should have been enough, though. Tawl was appalled at himself-ignorance was no excuse. He should have gotten Melli out of there. To hell with humiliating Catherine!

He brought his eye close to the slit once more. Melli was sitting at the head of the table. She was putting on an excellent show: eating, drinking, laughing, flirting with Lord Cravin whilst playfully reprimanding the duke about the lack of hot food. She was very brave and very strong. After such an unpleasant incident, most women would have run crying to their rooms. Not Melli. It would take more than bitter words to crush her spirit. Tawl noticed that her left hand was absent from view. Following the line of her arm down, he saw that under the table she was grasping a very tight hold of her father's hand. Her knuckles were white with the strain. Tawl became very still looking at the sight of Melli's small pale hand. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.

As he withdrew from the curtain, he noticed that Baralis was no longer in his seat. He hadn't even seen him leave. Yet he could guess where he was headed. Satisfied that Melli would be safe for a while, Tawl stole down along the corridor. Cutting through the kitchens to the main gallery, he worked his way back toward the hall. As he drew close to the main door, he noticed the black-robed figure of Baralis heading off in the distance. Tawl followed him. The man knew the palace like the back of his hand. Taking turnings Tawl had never noticed, climbing staircases that were hidden by either curtains or shadows.

Eventually they came to part of the palace Tawl recognized: the ladies' quarters. He watched from a stone recess as Baralis approached a set of bronzecovered double doors. He did not have to knock. The doors swung back and Catherine stood waiting. Hair loose and wearing a gown that revealed her naked shoulders, she beckoned Baralis to enter.

Tawl turned as the door closed behind them. With a heavy step, he made his way back to the great hall.

In the morning, when the duke summoned him to give his account of the evening, what should he say? He took a deep breath and was slow to let it out. How could he tell the duke that his greatest enemy might turn out to be his own daughter?

Thirty-three

For two days now, Jack had been walking across land that was both more populated and less flat. He was not happy about either. Walking downhill was fine; sometimes he even broke into a run, but uphill ...

Jack shook his head. Uphill was an entirely different matter. His thighs were sore, his knees were playing up, even his ankles were acting strangely, refusing to allow his feet to pivot properly, causing him pain with every step. If he were ever called upon to design a world, it would be downhill all the way.

Jack's main problem, however, was people. He just couldn't seem to avoid them any longer. The roads were packed with them, the fields were full of them, and the woods had grown so sparse that he was now forced to dash from tree to tree like a spider in search of shade. The one certain way to attract attention, Jack had discovered, was to run across fields in search of cover. He had been chased by two farmers with pitchforks, one dog, and an entire flock of geese. The geese were the worst, honking loudly and taking vicious pecks at his vitals. He'd rather be attacked by a dog any day.

Hearing a cart rattling by, Jack dived to the ground. He was just off a large road that was hedged on either side by bushes and bracken. Instead of carrying on, the cart lurched to a slow stop. Jack drew in his breath. Had the driver spotted him? Body flat against the ground, Jack lay as still as he could manage.

He heard the soft pad of feet in the dirt, and then the bushes next to him began to move. They continued to rustle for some time. Jack assumed that the driver was relieving himself and so decided to stay put.

Just when the rustling stopped, and he felt safe to release his breath, the bushes parted and a man stepped through. He had a basket in one hand and a scythe in the other. Seeing Jack, he stopped in his tracks.

Up came the scythe. "Young man," he said, in a pleasant, lilting voice, "if your intention is to rob me, I warn you now that I have nothing but herbs in my basket. And nothing but mushrooms in my cart." He smiled brightly. "Poisonous ones, at that."

Stunned, Jack stayed exactly where he was. The scythe was just about the deadliest-looking thing he had ever seen. The man noted what he was looking at. "For the herbs, you know."

Jack decided to speak. "Sir, I am sorry to catch you unawares. I didn't mean to frighten you." He tried to keep his words muffled to disguise where he came from.

The man smiled more broadly than ever. He was of middle height and had shoulder-length gray hair. Not exactly old, yet past middle age. With a casual gesture, he hooked the scythe onto his belt. "First of all, young man, you did not surprise me in the least; secondly, as I've been aware of your presence since before I stopped my cart, you most definitely did not catch me unawares."

Jack risked sitting up. He brushed the dirt from his face and chest. "You saw me duck into the bushes?"

The man raised his hand to his clean-shaven chin. "You could say that." From his chin, his hand sprang forward. "I'm Stillfox, pleased to meet you."

Gingerly, Jack took the proffered hand. With a grip as firm as a man half his age, he heaved Jack off the ground. "Find any interesting herbs while you were down there?" Stillfox asked, eyes twinkling.

Jack shrugged.

He lifted his hand up and examined his palm. "Of course you didn't. What would a lad from the kingdoms know about Annis herbs, eh?"

Jack pulled back his hand.

Stillfox laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not a fortune-teller. Your palm didn't tell me that, your accent did."

Feeling very foolish, Jack mumbled his apologies. Too many things had happened for him to take in at once. He could hardly believe he was in Annis, for one thing. Oh, he'd seen the mountains looming up on the horizon for days now, but he'd paid them little heed, thinking they were impossibly far away in the distance. For the past two days the clouds had been so thick that he hadn't seen the mountains at all. Had he really come that far? Or was it far at all? All the time he'd stayed in Rovas' cottage, he had no idea where it lay in relation to the rest of Halcus. He had been close to the border for months and not even known it; yet another thing Tarissa had kept from him.

It made sense now: the garrison was situated where it was-in what he had assumed to be the middle of nowhere -to protect the Halcus-Annis border. Even Rovas' smuggling business would benefit from closeness to the great trading center. "How far are we from the city?" he asked. Stillfox was busy searching his basket. He didn't look up. "Annis is twelve leagues to the east. A good morning's ride, or a full day's walk." Pulling out some rather drylooking pieces of bark, he cried, "Aha! I knew I had some."

"Some what?"

"Willow bark for your fever, and witch hazel to clean out your wound."

Jack's hand stole to his chest. "But--"

"I can smell the fester," said Stillfox, answering his question before he had even asked it. "It needs seeing to, lad. It's a wonder you've got this far."

"You don't know how far I've come." Jack was surprised by the sharpness of his tone. His thoughts were on the garrison. He had to be careful; he didn't want this man knowing where he'd come from.

Everyone in Annis must have heard about the fire by now.

Stillfox smiled briskly. "Perhaps not, but I do know where you're going."

Jack looked directly into his eyes. He was older than he'd first thought. There were thick bands of black around the blue of his irises. "Where am I going?" he asked.

Stillfox blinked once. "Home with me." It wasn't the answer he expected. "Why?"

"You will not come unless I tell you?"

"No."

Nodding heavily, he said. "Very well. From the moment I put my cart on the road this morning, I sensed your trail in the air. I simply urged my horse forward and followed it here."

"What trail?" Even as he asked, Jack knew he wouldn't like the answer.

"Sorcery, lad." Gone was the brightness from Stillfox's face. "You are carrying the vestiges of your last drawing along with you."

Jack knew the color drained from his face, but could do nothing to stop it. He began to move forward.

"I don't know what you're talking about. It's time I moved on."

Stillfox caught his arm. His grip was not gentle. "Don't be a fool, lad. You need help, and I'm offering to give it. It would be most unwise to turn me down." The lilting tones had been replaced by a low and forceful voice.

Jack pulled himself free. "And who are you to decide what's wise and unwise?"

Stillfox gave Jack a hard look. "I'm someone who knows that Annis is crawling with Halcus soldiers who are busy looking for the man who burned down their garrison."

Rovas had told them where he was headed! Jack kicked at the dirt. Tarissa had asked him where he was going, and he'd replied east. She could have guessed he would head to the very place where they had planned to go together. Jack wondered how long it had taken her to decide to tell Rovas.

Obviously not very long, for the Halcus were now ahead of him.

Jack glanced sideways at Stillfox. How could he be sure this man spoke the truth? And what exactly did he know about the garrison? "I have nothing to fear from the Halcus," he said.

"They have posted descriptions of the man they're after all over the city. Tall, brown haired, speaks with a kingdoms accent." Stillfox gave Jack a hard look. "Annis and Halcus are very friendly at the moment-seems they'll soon be fighting on the same side-and there's nothing Annis wouldn't do to help her would-be ally. Nothing would delight her more than turning over a notorious war criminal."

"War criminal?" Jack didn't even bother to keep the surprise from his voice.

Stillfox nodded. "Kylock has just reached Helch. The garrison that was destroyed was due to send troops and supplies to aid the capital. But because all the provisions were burned and so many men were injured, the transfer never went ahead. Some are saying it was that one inspired act of sabotage that gave Kylock the edge. I don't know if that's true or not, but one thing's certain: Helch will be surrendering soon. Very soon."

Jack's blood ran cold. Was there no end to his crimes? A deep pit opened up in his thoughts, but he refused to look into it. Lined with his own guilt, it threatened to take him downward to prophecy and torment. He would not go there. He spoke to distract his thoughts, and then found he had not distracted them at all, rather refined them. "Kylock will win the war." Intended as a question, it turned to a statement upon his lips.

Stillfox's hand came back down upon his arm. "Come with me. I swear no harm will befall you whilst you stay under my roof."

There seemed to be more than pressure in the old man's grip. Jack drew strength and calmness from it.

The pit closed and he was no longer afraid, just confused. "Why would you help me?" he asked.

Even as he answered, Stillfox began to guide him toward the road. "I help you because I recognize my own."

The lilt returned to the man's voice, and Jack wondered for an instant if it was to disguise the trace of ambiguity in his words.

"Ssh!" hissed Stillfox, before he could speak. There were riders on the road, and they crouched down in the bushes until they had passed. Once the road was clear, Still fox urged him forward. Heading for the back of the cart, he pulled up the oil cloth. "Under here. Quick." Jack slid under the oil cloth. The cart smelled of mold. Stillfox tucked him in and then made his way to the front. Taking up the reins, he whispered, "Feel free to eat the mushrooms. I was lying when I said they were poisonous."

Tawl watched as the duke approached. His Grace had originally wanted to meet in Melli's chambers, but Tawl did not want to risk Melli overhearing what he had to say. So they had arranged to meet here, in the ladies' courtyard.

"Well met, friend," said the duke, coming forward to clasp his hand. "Last night went well, did it not?"

"Mel-" Tawl stopped himself. "Your lady conducted herself with strength and grace."

The duke nodded. "She was magnificent, wasn't she?" He paused a moment, obviously well pleased.

"Her father was brilliant, too. He won more hearts by dashing over to his daughter and weeping, than he could ever have done by giving away his gold. I couldn't have planned it better."

For some reason, what the duke said annoyed Tawl. "Have you heard the news from Helch yet?" he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

"No. I've been spending all morning seeing lord after relieved lord. Last night's announcement has certainly made the court rest easier in their beds."

"Kylock has broken Helch's defenses. He's made it inside the city, and now there're only the castle walls between him and certain victory."

The duke drew a quick breath. His hand fell to his sword. "Damn him! When did this happen?"

"Two days back."

"Castle Helch is a mighty fortress. A decent army could defend it for months."

"You forget that Kylock has inside knowledge. The knights have been feeding him information about Helch's defenses. That's probably how he managed to break through the city walls so fast."

The duke grunted. "This is ill news indeed." He turned his back on Tawl and began to pace around the courtyard. After a few moments, he spun around. "The sooner I marry Melliandra, the better. I told the court I intended to marry her within a month, but I can't risk waiting that long. I must disassociate both Bren and myself from what Kylock is doing to Helch. The moment that city falls, Highwall and Annis will be up in arms, and if they think, even for one instant, that Kylock will one day rule this city, they won't hesitate to move against us."

"By tonight they will all know of your intentions to marryg."

"Intentions are no longer enough. Right now I need Melliandra wedded and pregnant. Only then will Bren be safe."

Tawl knew the duke was right. He didn't like the way he spoke of Melli, though. "The lady herself may be in danger."

"What d'you mean?"

"I think Lord Baralis will make an attempt on Melliandra's life in the next few days. Last night I watched him at the banquet. He did not look pleased." As he spoke, Tawl wondered what, if anything, he should say about Catherine. "I have reason to believe he might try an attempt on her life." He found he couldn't bring himself to tell the duke that his daughter could be plotting against him. He hurried on, not giving the man a chance to question his reasoning. "So the quicker you marry the lady, the better. It will be a lot easier to keep her safe once she takes up residence in your chambers."

"Yes." The duke nodded slowly. "Just this morning I received the blessing from the clergy. They have no objection, so I am free to marry her when I choose. Of course everyone will expect me to wait a couple of weeks."

"It would be better if the marriage ceremony was a discreet one," said Tawl.

"You are right." The duke pulled his sword from his belt. He began to inspect the blade, holding it up to catch the sunlight. "Perhaps it would be better if we kept the ceremony secret and only announced it the following day, by which time it would be too late for anyone's objections." Finding the blade sound, he slipped it back in its loop. "And there will be nothing that Lord Baralis or the court can do about it."

Although Tawl knew it was for the best, there was a part of him that didn't want the wedding to go ahead too soon. Perhaps not even at all. He had started to care about Melli, and it angered him to see how casually the duke manipulated her for his own political ends. Tawl had no choice but to keep these feelings well hidden; his first loyalty was to the duke.

"Can any legitimate objections be raised to a secret wedding?"

"Not if all the proper clergy, the archbishop, and enough respected witnesses are in place," replied the duke. "My great-grandfather wed a girl in secret. She was a lowly lord's daughter and he, by that time, was well into his dotage. Everyone protested. The whole city was up in arms for months, but no one could annul the marriage because it was done with the Church's blessing."

"So there is a precedent?"

"Yes." The duke smiled thinly. "Just to make sure of legitimacy, I will order Catherine to attend."

This was the last thing Tawl wanted. The moment Catherine knew about the wedding, she would go running to Baralis. Tawl chose his words carefully. "Your daughter was very upset last night. She might do something irrational."

The duke made a dismissive gesture with his arm. "Do not be worried about her girlish tantrum. It was nothinghurt pride, that's all. It was to be her evening and I stole her thunder." He turned his back on Tawl. "I can hardly blame her, really."

"So you intend to tell her of your marriage plans?"

"The moment I have finalized them. Last night proved that I have already kept too much from my daughter. If I include her in the ceremony, she will no longer feel left out."

Tawl kept his face impassive. "Very well. When will the marriage go ahead?"

"I will arrange it for two days hence." The duke was thinking out loud. "Yes. That should give the old archbishop plenty of time to dust off his robes. The ceremony can be held in the ladies' chapel here, in the palace."

"The one belowstairs?"

"No. That is for the servants' use. The ladies' chapel is more fitting, and more discreet."

Tawl nodded. The servants' chapel was too public a place. Anyone could smuggle themselves in there; it was guarded by two men who were half drunk all the time. "I will see to the security. Tell no one today except the archbishop. Inform everyone else the morning of the wedding." Tawl's thoughts were on Catherine.

"Very well." Now that the decision was made, the duke looked eager to be off. "I will go to the archbishop first, then to Melliandra, then to Catherine."

"But "

"No, Tawl," interrupted the duke, "I cannot tell my daughter of my wedding only a few hours before it's due to go ahead. It will look as if I don't trust her." The hard look he gave Tawl put an end to the subject.

"Now, I will send Bailor to you, and you can coordinate everything with him. There must be flowers and so forth in the chapel. I do not want Melliandra disappointed in any way."

Tawl bowed. "I will make sure that everything is in place."

"Good. I will be counting on you." With that the duke turned on his heel and walked off across the courtyard. Tawl stood where he was for some time. The midday sun shone down upon his back, casting a small but dark shadow in front of him.

Crope hurried down the market streets. He hated being out in the daylight, especially when the sun was shining. People would stare, men would laugh, and children would throw stick and stones. He had tried keeping his hood up, but on a bright warm day like this, it just drew more attention to himself. He looked like an executioner. If only the people weren't there, then he could spend as long as he wanted looking at all the animals in cages: the partridges, the piglets, the owls. As it was, he barely risked slowing down at allexcept for the owls-for he was afraid the stallholders would curse him for scaring away paying customers. He'd been cursed a lot in the past for that.

Still, he had his comforts. In a small pouch in the side of his cloak nestled a large rat. Big Tom, as Crope liked to call it, went everywhere with him. Big Tom had been one of his master's 'speriments, and had been born one leg short of a foursome. His master had ordered the creature to be drowned, but Crope didn't have the heart to do it. Big Tom's beady little eyes reminded him of his mother's. He limped good, too. So, for the past few months, Big Tom had been living with him; he couldn't risk his master finding out he had disobeyed an order. Crope shook his head vigorously. He wouldn't want that to happen.

As Crope made his way to the herb stall, trying hard to remember his master's exact directions, his hand stole into his tunic, feeling for the reassuring weight of his second comfort: his painted box. Just to touch it made him feel better. It was his oldest and most precious possession, given to him by a beautiful lady many years before. The lady had been his friend. They had shared a love of animals, especially birds.

Painted on the box were her favorites: seagulls. She said they reminded her of home.

Crope was disturbed from his memories by someone rudely pushing past him. "Out of my way, you lumbering simpleton," cried a small, bad-smelling man who was carrying bolts of cloth in one hand and clutching pins and scissors in the other. Obviously a tailor. Before Crope had time to say he was sorry, the tailor was gone. Crope watched him dive in and out of the crowds and found some satisfaction in the fact that he was not the only one who the tailor pushed aside. Women, old men, and stallholders were all shoved out of the way. Then, as Crope looked on, the tailor made the mistake of picking on the wrong person. He elbowed a tall, dark man, and instead of moving out of the way, the man turned around and punched him in the face. Bolts of cloth and pins went flying. The tailor fell to the ground. The man kicked him once while he was down, spat on him, and then carried on walking, oblivious to the hostile glare of the crowds. Crope's heart was racing. He recognized the man: it was Traff, his master's mercenary. As he watched, Traff slipped into the crowds. After a moment Crope followed him. Feeling rather excited, Crope stroked Big Tom. "Master will be pleased," he whispered to the rat, as he started trailing Traff across the city.

"I am very pleased, Crope," said Baralis. "You have done well."

Crope beamed. "I spotted him with my own eyes, master."

"Where did he end up?"

"A right nice place, master. There were ladies leaning out from the windows."

"Hmm, a brothel. Was it in Brotheling Street?" Seeing Crope's blank expression, Baralis tried again.

"Were there lots of other places nearby with ladies leaning from windows?"

Crope nodded vigorously. "Yes, master. Beautiful ladies-a whole street of them."

"And did Traff spot you following him?"

"No, master, but he might have heard the lady shoo me away."

"What lady?"

"The lady with no front teeth. She spotted me outside the house and told me to . . ." Crope searched for the exact words ". . . bugger off back to the cave that I'd come from."

Baralis waved his hands. "Enough. Go now." He waited until his servant had lurched out of the room and then took a deep breath. Crope had just found someone who could turn out to be very useful. Very useful, indeed.

The painkilling drug, which he had been about to take when Crope returned, lay ready on his desk.

Baralis picked up the vial and threw it on the fire. It burned with a pure white light. He wouldn't have need for it now.

A soft knock came at his door. He knew who it was before the last rap sounded. Flinging back the door, he said, "Catherine, I warned you not to come here." His voice was not gentle. He checked to either side of the passageway before letting her inside his chamber.

She noticed his precautions. "I am not a fool, Lord Baralis," she said. "Do you think I would come here without checking to see if I was followed first?" The color of her cheeks was high. She had been drinking.

Closing the door, Baralis crossed over to his desk and poured her a glass of wine. It suited him to have her drink a little more. He handed her the glass. As he did so, he traced the line of her wrist with his fingers. Making his voice as rich and seductive as the wine he had just poured, he said, "Forgive me for speaking so sharply, my sweet Catherine. I was worried for you, nothing more."

He could see her deciding how to react to his words. Her pink lips trembled, then softened. "Would that my father showed me similar consideration."

Baralis' smile was tender. She was nothing but a child playing a grown-up game. Catching hold of her hand, he led her to the bed and bid her sit. As she settled herself down, he reached out and touched her golden hair. A calculated gesture, nothing more. "Drink up, my sweet Catherine," he said softly. "And then tell me why you have come."

The wine was still wet upon her tongue as she said, "Father is marrying that woman in secret. Two days from now."

"He told you this?" Baralis did not allow himself as much as a flicker of surprise.

"Yes. He wants me to stand by his bride's side at the ceremony. He hopes that we can become friends."

Catherine's voice became shrill. "Friends! How dare he? After taking the very birthright from under me, he expects me to be friends with the woman who is responsible for it."

Baralis barely heard what Catherine said. His mind was racing ahead. The deed would have to be done sooner than he thought. As soon as possible. The duke had to be murdered. Kylock must have Bren.

For decades he had planned, and nothing, not now, not ever, would be allowed to stand in his way. The north would be his.

Crossing the room, Baralis went and stood by the fire. Once he had warmed himself enough, he spun around to face Catherine. "What is the best way to get to your father?"

Catherine hesitated for a second. "There is a secret passageway leading up to his chambers from the servants' chapel. There is only one guard set to watch it. Father uses it to smuggle low-born women into his bedroom. The entrance is behind the middle panel at the back of the altar."

Baralis missed neither the hesitation, nor its meaning: Catherine was not as reckless about this as she was pretending to be. There was still a part of her that owed loyalty to her father. Baralis realized he would have to change his approach. He could not run the risk of Catherine doing something irrational-like running to the duke. She was dangerously unstable-last night had proven that: as the guards were leading her from the table, she had actually attempted a drawing. There, in the great hall, with all of Bren's court looking on, Catherine had tried to use sorcery against Melliandra. He had blocked her, of course. The foolish girl had no idea of self-restraint. If she had been caught using sorcery, her father would have had no choice but to disinherit her on the spot. Sorcery was not tolerated in the north.

Yes, thought Baralis, he would have to be careful what he said to Catherine. The girl could not be relied upon.

"It is not your father who I am interested in, it is his wife. Once they are wed, Melliandra will not leave his side. The duke's weak points will become hers."

"I want that woman dead." There was no hesitation in Catherine's voice now. "Her and her precious protector, the duke's champion."

Baralis came and sat beside her. He took her hand in his. "Have no fear, my sweet Catherine, I will take care of both of them for you."

"And my father?"

"I have no quarrel with him," lied Baralis. "He will be left well alone."

Relief flashed across Catherine's face. She worked quickly to conceal it. "Once that woman is out of the way, Father will come to his senses."

She was wrong, very wrong. If only Melliandra were murdered, the duke could go on and wed another woman, have another child, and Catherine's inheritance would be threatened once more. Baralis could not allow that to happen.

What was Catherine's would soon be Kylock's. And what was Kylock's was his.

"Go now, my sweet Catherine. I will arrange everything." He pulled her up off the bed. "You need not concern yourself with the details."

"Will you do the deed yourself?" she asked as he guided her toward the door.

"No. I have someone in mind who will do it for me." Baralis rested his hand on the door latch. A certain mercenary named Traff would do the deed.

"And will you use the secret passage?"

Baralis brought his finger to his lips. Catherine was asking too many questions. Opening the door, he checked that no one was in sight. Just before he let her go, he placed a kiss upon her lips. Catherine leaned forward to meet him. He pulled away before the kiss had a chance to become anything further.

"Trust me," he whispered, just before he closed the door.

Thirty-four

Jack was dreaming about Melli again. Somehow she had stolen into his old recurring dream about the city with high battlements. She was trapped behind the walls, unable to escape. In the distance he heard a noise: a shouting, angry mob. Only when the noise grew louder did he realize it was not part of his dream.

He opened his eyes. He was in a small storeroom that had been hastily adapted for sleep. There were no windows, so it was dark. Panicking slightly, Jack stood up. His head brushed against something-drying herbs from the smell of them. Back bent to avoid them, he made his way toward the door.

Stillfox was leaning out of a window. As soon as he heard Jack enter the room, he drew back the shutters. "Gave me quite a shock there, lad," he said, patting the area of his chest where his heart lay.

"I'm sorry. I came to find out what the noise was."

"Helch has just surrendered to Kylock. He gave them little choice. He burned the entire city. Only the castle remains intact. All of Annis is up in arms about it. People have taken to the streets in protest . . ."

Stillfox carried on, but Jack was no longer listening. He stood very still as the world went black around him. This time he didn't fight it. Kylock had taken Helch. The war had just begun.

Baralis glided through the streets of Bren, his feet barely touching the filth. It was early morning, and the rising sun cast his shadow long before him. As he approached Brotheling Street, he slowed his pace. He spied an old man rummaging amidst the refuse in an open drain. He would do. "You," he said, approaching the man. "Which of these brothels is kept by a woman with no front teeth?" To ensure his question was answered promptly, Baralis drew the slightest of compulsions around his words. Time was of the essence today.

The old man opened a mouth ringed with sores. "Madame Thornypurse has a sister with no front teeth.

Her place is the red-shuttered building to the left." The man looked confused, as if he barely comprehended what he was saying, or why.

Baralis inclined his head to the man. He contemplated throwing him a coin in payment, then thought better of it. Why waste money paying for something that had already been freely given? He turned on his heel and headed toward the building which the old man had described.

He knocked loudly upon the door. A few moments later a woman answered. Seeing him, the ridiculous creature made a great show of primping her hair and smoothing down her dress. "Yes, handsome sir, can I help you?"

She had all her teeth, though crooked and yellow as they were, they did her no favors. "Who am I speaking to?" he demanded.

The woman curtsied like a blushing maiden. "Madame Thornypurse, proprietor of this fine establishment."

"Have you a man named Traff staying here?" Baralis caught the unmistakable odor of dead rats in his nostrils.

The woman's hand fluttered to her chest. She was just about to speak when a second woman pushed her aside.

"We never divulge the names of our customers," she said. It was the woman with no front teeth.

Baralis, recognizing an opening for bribery, pulled a gold coin from his cloak. "I have important business to discuss with Traff," he said, pressing the cool coin into the waiting palm of the woman with no front teeth.

"Come inside, noble sir," she said. "I will bring Traff to you."

He was led into a large, untidy room where several young girls lay sleeping on the floor. "Do you have anywhere less public where we can talk?"

"Of course," said the woman who smelled of dead rats. "Though it will cost you extra," added the woman with no front teeth.

Another gold coin changed hands and Baralis was ushered into a small, dimly lit room near the back of the building. There was one window in the room and the shutter was firmly closed.

The door opened and in walked Traff. The mercenary made a point of chewing on his snatch for a moment before spitting it out and speaking. "What do you want, Baralis?"

He pulled his hand knife from his belt and began to clean the dirt from under his nails with the blade.

Baralis regarded the mercenary coolly. Traff did not look in a good way. His hair was greasy, his clothes were dirty, and he now boasted a short beard. Flakes of snatch nestled within the bristles. The dirt he cleaned from his fingertips was the color of dried blood. "Been in a fight?" Traff looked up. "None that I've lost."

The mercenary was as insolent as ever. Baralis decided to get straight to the point. "Have you heard that the duke is to marry Maybor's daughter?"

Traff flung his knife across the room. It flew past Baralis and landed embedded in the wall. "No one will marry Melli, " he said.

Baralis had a defensive drawing ready upon his lips, but on hearing Traff's words he breathed it back into his lungs. He didn't know what caused the mercenary's anger, but he could use it. "My thoughts exactly, my friend," murmured Baralis. "I don't want Melliandra wed, either."

"Why?" Traff was suddenly more interested.

"Because I want Bren to remain Catherine's. If Melliandra weds the duke and then gives birth to a male child, Catherine will no longer inherit her father's title." The truth suited Baralis for the moment.

"What are you planning to do?"

"I plan to murder the duke." Baralis took a guess at Traff's motives. "As for Melliandra, you can do what you want with her."

Traff licked his lips. "How do you plan to do this?" Baralis permitted himself a tiny smile of self-congratulation. It seemed as if he'd guessed right: Traff was enamored of Maybor's daughter. It had probably happened when the mercenary had been sent out to capture her. Baralis began to feel more confident. Fate was once again on his side.

He took a short breath and looked Traff straight in the eye. "I want you to help me. The wedding will take place in private tomorrow. When the couple returns to their chambers after the ceremony, I want you and your knife to pay them a visit. I know of a secret passageway leading from the servants' chapel to the duke's quarters. You will use that to gain entry." Baralis paused briefly as he reshaped his plans to meet with Traff's needs. The mercenary wanted Melliandra for his own. So, if Traff was going to run away with her, then the newly wed couple must not-under any circumstances-be allowed to consummate the marriage. Baralis could not risk Melliandra popping up a few months later, claiming to be carrying the duke's child. "You must be waiting for them the moment they return from the chapel."

Traff gave Baralis a long, hard look. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can't. The only thing you can be certain of is that I will be waiting by the entrance to the passageway to make sure you have done the job. From the kitchens, it will be easy for you and Melliandra to make your escape. I will make all the necessary arrangements." Baralis stepped forward and rested his hand on Traff's arm. "I won't ask what you want with the girl. That's not my concern."

Traff drew back from the touch. "Will there be any guards in the duke's chamber?"

"Just one. I will make sure he receives a little something in his ale to slow him down." Poisoning guards was easy: no one tasted their food.

"I want five hundred golds in my possession by the end of the day."

"Done." Baralis moved toward the door. "Crope will see to it. Be waiting on the east side of the palace, close to the servants' entrance tomorrow at sundown. I will come for you." Just as he was about to leave, Traff surprised him by asking:

"Is Melli in love with the duke?"

Baralis recognized the glint of obsession in the mercenary's eye. He was not displeased. "No. Her father is forcing her into it."

As he had hoped, Traff was pleased with the answer. The mercenary smiled thinly. "I guessed as much. I will be there tomorrow."

"Good. Do not be late." Baralis turned and left the room. The woman who smelled of dead rats rushed to greet him, but he shook her off. He found his own way out.

Baralis was in a good mood as he traveled back to the palace. The meeting with Traff had gone better than he could possibly have imagined. The fact that the mercenary was infatuated with Maybor's daughter made everything easy. Traff had jumped at the chance to murder the duke. Events were moving in his favor once more. Picking up his pace, Baralis rushed across the city. He had much to do today; there was gold to be procured, poison to be made, and guards to be reminded of their obligations.

Mistress Greal was shin-deep in sewage. She barely smelled it. She was busy extracting a large splinter from her cheek. With her good hand, she gripped at the wooden tip and then pulled as hard as she could.

The pain was excruciating. The splinter had gone deep, and as it came out, it brought blood welling to the surface. Mistress Greal counted herself quite fortunate: a finger's breadth higher and it could have been her eye. She made no attempt to stop the bleeding. What was a little blood compared to what she had just heard? Pressing her ear against a certain wood shutter had been the cause of her injury. Curiosity was what brought her outside in the first place.

As soon as the dark nobleman came to the door, she knew he was from the Four Kingdoms. When he asked to see the mercenary, her interest was piqued. While her sister went off to fetch Traff, Mistress Greal made her way outside. She waded through the filth at the side of the building to the back wall.

Once there she positioned herself close to the window and listened to the conversation between man and mercenary. Her surprise at finding out that the mysterious nobleman was none other than Lord Baralis, king's chancellor, was quickly overwhelmed by the greater surprise of hearing what he planned to do.

Mistress Greal had been listening at doors, windows, walls, floorboards, and screens all her life. It was amazing . what a poor spinster woman could pick up if she had sharp ears and a good nose for intrigue.

Mistress Greal had both. As a matter of habit, she routinely eavesdropped on her girls, her customers, her rivals, and most recently her sister, Madame Thornypurse. She'd heard casual gossip, lots of petty arguments, more than a few useful business tips, and many unpleasant remarks about herself. But never once in all the years she'd spent pointing her batlike ears where they had not been invited had she come across anything to match the scale of what she'd just heard.

A plot to assassinate the duke of Bren! It was a blackmailer's dream. Mistress Greal stood amidst the warm and stinking sewage and contemplated what to do next. Should she act now and prevent the murder from going ahead? Or should she bide her time until the deed was done and only then make her move? Raising her hand to her face, Mistress Greal rubbed a finger across her lips. She felt the all too familiar concavity that marked the absence of teeth. Teeth that had been knocked out by Lord Maybor.

The very man who was father of the bride.

Mistress Greal's small eyes narrowed to slits. She would let the murder go ahead. Lord Maybor would suffer more that way; he would lose both his daughter, and his chance to be related by marriage to the duke. Yes, she would keep her little secret until the harm had been done. Not only was there more satisfaction to be gained that way, but also more money: everyone knew it was more profitable to be a blackmailer than an informant. Feeling rather pleased with herself, Mistress Greal headed back toward the brothel, wading slowly through the filth.

"There, boy," said Stillfox, handing him a peculiar wooden cup. "Drink some of the lacus; it will help to bring you round."

Jack's world gradually began to expand outward once more. His field of vision, which upon hearing that Helch had surrendered to Kylock had narrowed to a darkened pinpoint, now enlarged enough for him to see the cup and the hand that held it. The drink's strong but fragrant odor seemed to act like a charm, dispelling the reek of slowly decaying corpses from his nostrils and his thoughts.

He had been there! To the Halcus capital. He had stood amidst the carnage that Kylock had created.

There, and so many other places, whether in the future or the past, he did not know. He had seen the truth of war. It was not the sum of glorious fights and flashing blades and men bound by honor. It was bloody, dirty, and disorganized. Flies, fever, infection, mud, tainted water, and starvation. Victory came to the most ruthless, not the bravest. Jack had seen the bodies of young children, their mothers raped and mutilated by their sides; he had seen young men bleeding to death from the groin, their manhood and testicles hacked off; he had seen old women wandering aimlessly through a city whose streets were red with blood. Jack had seen enough to know that Kylock was the most ruthless of all.

Yet what difference did it make to him? He had no part in anything.

Feeling weary and confused, Jack brought the cup to his lips. The silvery fluid reached out to meet his tongue. It tasted sharp and pungent, strange and yet familiar in one. He felt its progress as it slipped down his throat and nudged itself into his belly. Once there it grew heavy like a manycourse feast.

"Don't fight it, Jack," said Stillfox. "It wants to make you sleep."

"Why?"

"The lacus likes to work on a slumbering body and a still mind." Stillfox ran his hand over his cleanly shaven chin. His expression was serious. "Drink up lad, you are very weak."

Jack drained the cup dry. There was something about the liquid that caused it to tingle against his gums.

It left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth. "Is there sorcery within the drink?" he asked.

Stillfox nodded, a faint smile gracing his pale lips. "Not my doing, though. We have the nomads of the Great Plains to thank for that." He stood up and began to busy himself about the cottage, hanging herbs and putting pots on to boil.

Jack yawned. He could still hear the sound of shouting from outside. "How long was I . . . "

"Entranced?" Stillfox looked up; he was pulverizing bark with a pestle. "For the best part of an hour, I would say. You completely withdrew into yourself. Your eyes were open, but they were not seeing what was before them. Your skin became cold and the color left your cheeks. You were no longer in my home." The man who was almost, but not quite, old gave Jack a questioning look.

Jack wondered how much to tell him. Who was he? Could he trust him? Since arriving in the herbalist's cottage the day before, Stillfox had said very little. He had been too busy to talk: tending wounds, making medicines, cooking food, and seeing to his herbs. Jack appreciated the silence. Stillfox had asked no questions, and he was grateful for that. Normally Jack would have trusted the man completely, judging his intentions by the kindness of his actions. Things were different now. His time at Rovas' cottage had taught him that appearances could be deceptive, and that even a smiling face could be a treacherous one.

"What did you mean when you said you recognized one of your own?" As Jack spoke, he realized how tired he was feeling. The lacus nestled in his belly, slowing his blood and thickening his thoughts. He fought against it, in defiance of Stillfox's advice.

"I am a sorcerer like you," said Stillfox.

Jack had quickly learned that the herbalist had two voices: a lilting country voice which he spoke with most of the time, and a strong plain-speaking voice which he only used when the conversation took a serious turn. It was the second voice he spoke with now.

"I am a modest practitioner. Occasionally I enhance the healing properties of my herbs, but not often.

Sometimes I communicate with wisemen far away, and once in a while I am forced to draw in self-defense." Stillfox shrugged. "I am not a powerful man like you."

Jack felt the quick flare of anger. "I'm not powerful, and I'm not a sorcerer." He squeezed the wooden cup between his hands, determined to ruin its perfect smoothness.

"Don't make a liar of yourself, Jack. You know I speak the truth." Stillfox's voice had a matching edge of anger. "The longer you insist on denying what you are, the more damage you will do. Look what happened at the garrison. You were out of control. You didn't have the slightest idea how to stop what you started. Sheer desperation-nothing more-put an end to the destruction." The herbalist was trembling.

"You're dangerous and it's time you learned how to control yourself."

Jack felt the cup break in his hand. "What makes you think you know so much?"

"I felt it. I felt the blind unfocused rage. I felt wave after ceaseless wave of drawing." Stillfox's hand was up and pointing. "Don't flatter yourself, Jack. You might be strong, but you have no skill whatsoever.

What you did at the garrison was unforgivable. You let your emotions form the drawing: the most foolish thing any sorcerer could do. You acted like a spoiled child-making others pay for your pain. Your power is matched only by your ignorance."

"And that's why I brought you here, Jack. Not because I'm in the habit of helping road-weary travelers, but because you're a danger to those around you, and it's about time someone took you in hand."

Jack was aware that Stillfox was looking at him, but he couldn't meet the herbalist's eyes. He looked down at the broken cup instead. He was no longer angry; he was ashamed. Everything Stillfox had said was true.

"I never meant to hurt anyone."

Stillfox was beside him in an instant, his arm coming to rest on Jack's shoulder. "I know, lad. I know."

The herbalist's voice was soft and lilting once more. "I'm sorry I spoke harshly-"

"No, don't be," said Jack. "I deserved it. You're right, I am dangerous." He let the pieces of cup fall to the floor. It was time to place his trust in someone. He took a deep breath. "I need help. I don't know what's happening to me, or why I've got these powers. I feel as if I'm supposed to do something, only I don't know what it is."

Stillfox nodded gently. "What did you see before?"

"I saw Helch as clearly as if I were there. The blood, the flies, the bodies." Jack shuddered, remembering. "It was like a warning."

"And has anything like this happened before?"

"Yes. There have been other times in the past few months." Jack made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. "Whenever the war is mentioned, my stomach knots up, and I get an overwhelming urge to take off and be part of it."

"To go to Helch?"

"No. To Bren." Jack met Stillfox's gaze. "I think I've known all along that Kylock would win the war with the Halcus."

"He hasn't won yet," said Stillfox. "The capital may have fallen, but all of eastern Halcus is free. It could take Kylock weeks, even months, before the entire country surrenders."

"What happens when it does?" Jack thought he already knew the answer, yet he wanted to hear it from Stillfox, from a man who lived in Annis.

"The north will turn into a battlefield. No one will be willing to stand around and watch Kylock build himself an empire. The fact that he's made it to Helch has caught every one by surprise. It's nothing short of miraculous, and Highwall and Annis are both terrified that they could become victims of a similar miracle." Stillfox was back pounding at the bark with his pestle. "Kylock will soon have Bren on one side of the mountains and Halcus on the other. And it won't be long before he turns his gaze on the powers in between."

"How soon will this happen?" asked Jack.

"I can't say. It depends on Kylock. Annis and Highwall are waiting to see what he'll do next."

Jack suddenly felt very tired. The lacus was reasserting itself. He stifled a yawn. It wouldn't be long now before he fell asleep. "What has all this to do with me, though? I'm from the kingdoms. I should be glad that Kylock looks set to forge an empire."

"I think you already know the answer to that, Jack," said Stillfox softly. g"You have a part to play in what is to come."

"But why"

"It doesn't matter why. That's not important. It's how that counts. What happened at the garrison proves that you are somehow involved in the war. Without knowing it you actually aided Kylock's cause."

Stillfox spoke quickly and in earnest. "What you need to do now is gain some measure of control over your powers so that nothing like that happens again. Next time you form a drawing you should know exactly what you're doing, and what the consequences are going to be. I can't tell you what your role will be-that's for you to find out on your own-but I can prevent you from making further mistakes. You need to be taught how to master what you have inside. That much I can do."

Jack looked into Stillfox's blue eyes. "Why would you do this for me?"

"Perhaps I, too, have a role. Perhaps I am meant to teach you."

"No, Bodger, if you want to get a girl randy, you don't give her oysters."

"Why not, Grift?"

"Because you can never be too sure with oysters, Bodger. They're more likely to give a wench a nasty rash around the vitals than get her feeling randy."

"Really, Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger. That's if she doesn't choke on 'em first."

"What food does get the women going, then, Grift?"

"Bread pudding, Bodger."

"Bread pudding, Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger. The strongest aphrodisiac known to man. There's not a wench alive who won't be willing to lie flat on her back after two servings of good and thick bread pudding. It takes the fight right out of a girl."

"So it doesn't exactly make a wench raudy, then, Grift. It just sort of wears them out."

"Exactly, Bodger. That's the best a man like you can hope for." Grift took a swig of his ale. "Mind they don't eat it with sauce, though."

"Why's that, Grift?"

"Sauce makes wenches uppity, Bodger. Start demanding satisfaction, they do."

"Ah, gentlemen, as talkative as ever, I see."

Bodger and Grift both swung around at the sound of the smooth, mocking voice.

Baralis was standing by the entrance to the chapel. He had managed to open the door and step inside without being heard. "You are alone?" he asked as he closed the door.

Grift nodded. "Aye, sir." By his foot lay an empty jug of ale, and he silently nudged it under the pew. He didn't want Baralis knowing how much they had been drinking.

"Good. Then I will get straight to the point. You do recall that you owe me a debt of gratitude?" Baralis didn't wait for a reply. "I could have had both of you whipped for the insolence of your tongues." A tiny smile graced his lips. "And still could, if I chose."

"We're most sorry about what we said on the journey here, Lord Baralis," said Bodger. "We meant no offense." Grift placed a silencing hand on Bodger's arm. He would deal with this. "What do you want from us, Lord Baralis?" The man was not after apologies. He had come to strike a deal.

Baralis approached the two guards. He lifted his nose up and sniffed at the air. "Ale to wash down the gossip, eh?"

"Just half a jug-"

Grift stopped Bodger in midsentence by a swift kick to the shin. "What's it to you?" he asked, meeting Baralis' eye.

"Nothing at all." Baralis was so close now that Grift had to physically stop himself from moving back.

Bodger had already done so and was now pinned against the back of the pew. "In fact," continued Baralis, "I hope you will be drinking tomorrow evening. I'll even send you the jugs myselfonly the best, of course."

"Why would we want to drink tomorrow?" asked Grift. He was beginning to feel very wary.

"Because when you are drinking on the other side of the chapel doors, you will miss the passage of one man through them."

"Who is this man?"

Baralis' hand came up. "Ask no questions, my friend. Just do as I say." His voice was smooth, tempting.

"Let the man pass and I will consider your debt repaid."

Grift knew he had little choice but to do as Baralis asked. The man could have them thrown out of the guard, whipped, tortured, poisoned, or worse. He cursed the day the king's chancellor had overheard them speaking. To be indebted to Baralis was the same as being indebted to the devil-both would take a man's soul given half a chance.

"You leave us little choice, Lord Baralis," he said.

"I see you're a sensible man. I trust your young companion there will also be sensible." He motioned toward Bodger.

"Bodger will do as I say."

"Good." Baralis brought his hands together. "Remember, not a word of this to anyone." He began to walk down the aisle.

Grift spoke up. "Will this man you speak of be coming through again?"

Baralis wheeled around. "Yes." He stood and considered for a moment. The expression on his face turned from thoughtfulness to pure cunning. "Raise the alarm when he does. I don't want him leaving the palace alive."

Thirty-five

"No, Nessa," snapped Melli. "Not so tight. I won't be able to breathe, let alone walk up the aisle." She knew she was being a little harsh on the girl, but she was nervous. "Hand me the cup of wine." The servant dashed off to do her bidding. A moment later Melli heard footsteps behind her.

"My lady's wine." It was Tawl who held forth the cup, not Nessa.

Melli deliberately hid her pleasure at seeing him. "Where's Nessa?" she said, snatching the cup from him.

"She's slipped out for a moment. I think you wore her down." Tawl's voice was gently mocking. "You will make a beautiful bride, but hardly a serene one."

"I look beautiful?"

"Breathtaking."

Melli had to look away. There was too much truth in Tawl's eyes. "Will you be attending the wedding?"

she asked, raising the cup to her lips.

"Yes. I will be escorting you and your husband back to your chambers."

Husband. Melli flinched at the word; she couldn't stop herself. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. She felt as if she were caught up in something that she was now powerless to stop. It was as if the marriage had become a separate entity; it was a force unto itself, and its momentum was so great that it carried her along with it. Melli had been genuinely shocked when the duke had proposed such a quick marriage. She had been hoping for at least a few weeks warning, but it wasn't to be. The duke had insisted on marrying her today-in secret.

"Open the shutters," she said to Tawl. "Let me see what my wedding day promises."

Tawl, always so quick to do her bidding, was by the window in an instant. He pulled back the shutters to reveal a beautiful blue sky. Melli came and stood by him. The outside air was warm against her face.

The great lake was as smooth as glass. "A perfect day," she murmured. Her hand felt for Tawl's. It was waiting for her.

The door opened and in strode her father. Tawl and Melli quickly pulled apart. Maybor was dressed in full splendor. Wearing the family colors of red and gold, he was bedecked from head to foot in rubies and silk. Even his shoes bore two matching stones. "Melliandra," he said, "you look beautiful. Beautiful."

She, too, wore red. A heavy satin dress of deepest crimson with a fortune's worth of pearls sewn upon the skirt. She had developed an almost superstitious dislike for the color, but she wasn't wearing it for herself. She wore it to honor her father. She stepped forward to meet him. Maybor caught her up in a huge bear hug. His smell was so familiar: expensive fragrances and lobanfern red. She felt like a child again.

Placing Melli down on the floor before him, Maybor said, "I am very proud this day, my daughter."

"Even though I'm not marrying a king?" There was so much more gray in his hair now, thought Melli.

How much of it was she responsible for?

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "You have made your own choice, and I'll tell you now: 'tis a better one than I made for you." It was her father's way of saying he was sorry.

"You should have known I would pick no pauper." She forced herself to smile. It was neither the time nor the place for tears.

"I am glad I am here today," said Maybor gently.

Melli nodded. She was glad, too. Her father's presence was a blessing; she drew strength from his nearness. After Catherine's outburst on the night of the wedding announcement, the only thing that had kept Melli sitting at the table was Maybor. He held her hand all night. She had wanted to run away from the accusations and the hostile stares of the court. Yet she couldn't let her father down. The great dignity he demonstrated that night had moved her deeply, and she had been determined to follow his example.

People might have left that night shaking their heads over Catherine's behavior, but no one could find fault with Maybor and his daughter.

Melli would cherish the memory of her father's welcome to the end of her days. She had gone through her life thinking that Maybor did not love her, that he cared only for his sons, and that she was nothing but a possession to him. The Feast of First Sowing had shown her how wrong she had been. Oh, she was not stupid; of course he was thrilled that she was marrying the most powerful man in the norththings could not have worked out better from his point of view-but wealth and titles hadn't been on his mind when he leapt up to meet her that night. It had been love that was the strength behind those three mighty leaps. She was sure of it.

"Are you ready, my daughter?" Maybor offered her his arm.

Was it time already? Everything was moving so quickly. Since returning from the hunting lodge, she had hardly had time to catch her breath. Melli looked quickly toward Tawl, and then back to her father. If she were to back out now she would be failing both of them. She took Maybor's arm.

Nessa came back into the room and made the final adjustments to her dress. Melli smiled tenderly at her father, who kept patting her arm as if he still couldn't believe she was real. Tawl hadn't moved from the window. She didn't need to look at him to know that he was watching her.

When Nessa backed away, her task complete, Melli began to walk toward the door. Maybor pulled against her arm, halting her. Slipping his hand into his tunic, he pulled out a diamond and ruby necklace.

Melli recognized it straightaway. It was her mother's: a wedding gift from Maybor to his new bride. The rubies were the size of cherries, and diamonds surrounded them like petals round a bud. "I brought it as a gift for Catherine," said Maybor. "But when it came time to give it to her, I found I could not do it. The necklace was always meant for you." With large, red hands that wouldn't stop shaking, Maybor fastened the necklace about Melli's neck.

"Let us go now, daughter," he said, smoothing her hair back in place. Melli nodded, unable to speak.

Father and daughter walked toward the door. Somehow Tawl was in front of them now, opening the door, then placing a plain woolen cloak over Melli's shoulders. She caught his eye as she left the room.

Perhaps Tawl would not have been disappointed if she had backed out of the wedding, after all.

"Tell me about your family, Jack," Stillfox requested. Jack felt a quick flare of anger at the casual inquiry.

He hated people asking about his family. And he hated himself for feeling ashamed. "Why do you need to know anything about my family?" he said. "I would never ask about yours." Stillfox's eyebrows went up.

"I didn't ask for curiosity's sake, Jack. I asked because I want to find out more about your powers: where they came from, if you inherited them from your father or mother."

They were sitting in Stillfox's cottage, close to the fire. It was a small place and boasted only two rooms: the kitchen and the storeroom. Every shelf in the kitchen was crowded with jars and baskets containing herbs and spices. Sprigs of thyme and mistletoe hung from the rafters, drying slowly in the heat from the fire. Bowls of mushrooms and toadstools rested on the mantel, their pungent odors telling of various stages of decay. There was rosemary pickled in vinegar and sage pickled in brine. There were so many different plants and spices on show that Jack couldn't even begin to guess at the names of most of them.

He might have been brought up in a kitchen, but he had never seen a selection as great as this.

"Do you get your powers from the herbs?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.

Stillfox shook his head. "No, lad. Certain herbs can enhance a man's powers, but they can't give him what he was not born with."

"So sorcery is passed down in the blood?" As Jack spoke he thought of his mother. It had been so long since she was last on his mind.

"Sorcery can come from three sources, Jack. Most commonly it is passed from parent to child, from generation to generation. Mostly, as time goes on, the amount of power lessens over time, so a mother with ability will usually give birth to a child with less power than herself. Of course there are exceptions, and if two people with sorcery in their blood join together and have a child, then that child might have greater ability than both of its parents." Stillfox made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "But nothing is certain."

"The second way a person can receive sorcery's gifts is at the exact moment of conception. On certain rare nights the air becomes heavy with fate and prophesy, and sorcery itself speeds the sending of the seed." The herbalist made a soft clicking sound in the back of his throat. "A child begot at such a time may be powerful indeed."

Without meeting Jack's eyes, he turned to the fire and basted the joint. It was a side of lamb that had been rubbed with mint and pepper. Fragrant cooking smells rose from the hearth like smoke.

Jack barely noticed the smell of the meat. He was trying to recall if his mother had ever done anything in his presence that might have been magical. All his memories brought him was guilt. He had been so careless, never listening, never watching, always taking her for granted. Except toward the end, when it had been too late. No, she had done nothing magical, but could he honestly say he would have noticed if she did?

"What is the third way a man can acquire sorcery?" he asked.

Stillfox was turning the spit. The joint was still browning and drops of fat fell sizzling to the flames. "There are some places where sorcery is in the earth itself. I don't claim to know much about such things-their time has long since passed-but there is one place I know of that still exists. An island where the rock, the soil, and even the sea that surrounds it is held in sorcery's thrall. It's the isle of Larn, where the seers are made."

"I don't know how the land became the way it is. Perhaps it was enchanted by a great sorcerer thousands of years ago, perhaps it has always been that way. I do not know. Its power continues on, though, that I know for sure." Stillfox's gaze shifted from Jack to the flames. The fat sizzled and flared, sending black smoke up the chimney with the gray.

When Stillfox spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper. The country lilt was heavy on his tongue. "I heard a tale about a girl who came from Lam once. Her mother was a servant to the priests. The powers that be on the island have ever been wary of feminine temptations and so only allow women who are disfigured at birth to serve them. Not only do they pay a cheap price for such girls, but they also eliminate the chance of one of their priests going astray. These girls are so horribly misshapen that no man would ever look at them."

"Still one man did. For the girl in the tale was born on the island. Her mother had either been raped or seduced by a priest. The baby girl she gave birth to grew up on Lam. Her developing body acted like a sponge, soaking up the magic of the isle, concentrating it in her blood and her tissue and her bone.

Sorcery became part of her very soul."

"The magic of the island is what gives the seers their sight. The great hall of seering is alive with sorcery; it runs through the rock like seams of crystal. It is said to be so powerful that the cavern actually glows with the force of it." Stillfox shook his head slowly. "'Tis a sight I would love to see."

Jack shuddered. He never wanted to see such a place. "What happened to the girl?"

"She made the mistake of feeling pity for the seers. Each man is bound to a stone until the end of his days. They are tied for two reasons. First, to focus their minds, the seers are roped so tightly that they cannot move. All they can do is think and foretell. To escape their physical torment, they retreat to a world of delusion and insanity, and it is from there they catch glimpses of the future."

"Secondly, the very stone they are bound to gives them their power. It becomes theirs and theirs alone.

A slice of the island bound to their backs. The sorcery is skin close; it creates the seers, drives them to madness, and then ultimately destroys them. The stone is their womb, their cradle, and their grave."

Hiss. More fat on the fire.

"No wonder the girl felt pity for them." Even though he was chilled to the bone, Jack drew his chair away from the hearth. The smell of cooking meat was making him feel sick.

"The girl would steal into the cavern and tend to the seers. She became friendly with one boy. Newly bound he was, barely old enough to be counted a man. She watched him slowly deteriorate, saw the rope bite against his flesh, saw the bleeding, the sores, the unbearable cramping of muscle. She watched it all with the eyes of a girl in love for the first time. She couldn't bear it. One day she went down to him and saw that the rope was no longer cutting through his flesh: it was part of it. Nestling underneath the skin, blood vessels had started to form around the rope as if it were bone. The sight of it drove the girl wild. She had just reached womanhood and her powers were flourishing with her body. She lost control.

Her anger was focused against the stones, the cavern, the priests. The great hall of seering shook with her power."

"Then the priests came for her. She fought against them, kicking and screaming. Toward the end of the struggle, when she was close to being overpowered, she swore a terrible oath that one day she would destroy Larn."

"The priests carried her, bound and bleeding, from the hall, a wad of wet cloth thrust down her throat to stop the sorcerous flow. Barely able to breathe, she passed out. When she came to she found herself in a small, darkened room. The smell of incense in the air told her she was marked for death. It was her mother-a woman so badly deformed that she could use no muscles on the right side of her face, nor lift her right arm-who saved her. With her help the girl was cast adrift on a small boat in the treacherous waters that surround the island."

Jack was sitting very still. He had not moved or blinked the whole time Stillfox was speaking. "What happened to the girl?" he asked.

Stillfox shrugged. "She must have reached dry land, else I would not be here telling her tale. I don't know what became of her, though. It was many, many years ago now. The girl is probably long dead, her oath long forgotten. Larn still exists; as powerful and as deadly as ever."

Abruptly Jack stood up. The herbalist's cottage seemed small and confining. The smell of the lamb was unbearable. "Where are you going?" Stillfox was one step behind him.

"Outside. I need some fresh air."

"No. You might be spotted."

Jack shook his head. He would not be hindered. His need to be alone was so great that nothing else mattered. "I will be careful," he said as he stepped through the door.

The herbalist's cottage was on the outskirts of a small village, the last house on the street before the rye fields. Jack headed over the plowed fields, down toward a distant copse of trees. The air was warm and the sky was blue and the soil beneath his feet was dry. He walked for over an hour, deliberately not thinking, just looking straight ahead.

Eventually Jack reached his destination. Sweating and out of breath, he slipped under the cool shade of the trees. Flies buzzed past his face and birds called softly, warning each other of his presence. He found the perfect tree: an oak old beyond telling, its branches low and heavy, its trunk as wide as three men.

Jack sat beneath it, his feet resting upon its huge raised roots, the small of his back upon the bark. He bent forward, bringing his head down toward his knees, and took a deep breath. When he let it out, his emotions came with it.

Tarissa, Melli, the garrison, his mother, and strangely enough, the story of the girl from Larn-it was all too much. He sobbed quietly, thinking of Tarissa kneeling on the ground at his feet, begging him to take her along. As the tears ran down his face, his thoughts turned to the guard who had fallen from the battlements at the garrison, and he remembered how hard the man had struggled to touch him. Then there was his mother, sick and close to death, yet refusing the help of the physicians. He would never understand why.

Crying was a relief. He had been carrying so much inside for so long, trying to be brave. Only he wasn't brave, he was scared--frightened of what the future held. Jack wiped his eyes dry. That the future did hold something for him was a fact he no longer doubted.

He and Kylock were connected in some way. Even the mention of the new king's name was enough to send him reeling. Jack looked toward the deepest part of the wood.

Kylock was evil. Had the vision that had shown him that been designed to shape his fate? Was his purpose to oppose Kylock?

Abruptly Jack stood up. He felt restless, overwhelmed with the desire to be doing something, to take action. Striking a path for the fields, he headed back toward the herbalist's cottage. The sun broke out from behind the clouds the moment he cleared the trees. Its warmth was an unmistakable blessing. Jack walked quickly; he was eager to get started. Stillfox had offered to teach him and it was time to learn all he could.

"And in God's holy presence, with the blessing of our savior, his beloved servant Borc, I hereby command those brought here to witness to step forth with their misgivings."

The archbishop of Bren, a tall man with a high nasal voice, swept the room with his glance. No one moved.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tawl saw Catherine's expression. Hate in its purest, most vivid form was clearly written on her face. The other people gathered for the ceremony did not look especially pleased-except, of course, for Maybor, who was beaming ear to ear like a fisherman with a big catch-yet none of them dared show anything except politely frozen smiles.

Melli and the duke stood side by side at the altar, both facing the archbishop. A gaggle of clergy formed a half-circle around the group of three, prayer books and holy water in their hands. On one side of the church no less than four scribes were scribing, busy scratching away at their parchments, recording every detail of the ceremony. Later, when it was finished, all the witnesses-about twenty in numberwould be asked to sign and date each account. The duke was taking no chances. Neither was Tawl: outside the chapel an entire company of troops was patrolling both entrances. There would be no uninvited guests at this wedding.

In her dress of crimson, with matching rubies sparkling at her throat, Melli looked impossibly regal.

Every eye was upon her. Soon she would be a duchess. Later, if the duke had his way, she would be a queen. Tawl found he couldn't listen to the ceremony; the vows and prayers sounded false to his ears. He chose not to explore why, fearing that his thoughts might lead him into disloyalty.

Instead he concentrated on the security arrangements. The greatest danger today was the journey from the chapel to the duke's chamber. Once there the newlyweds should be safe. The duke's chamber was patrolled day and night by two guards. Tawl had increased the number to eight. There was only one entrance, and the fact that it was on a lower level than the actual living quarters made the whole place more secure. He personally had seen to all the food and drink preparation. Even as he sat here, two food tasters were sampling every dish from the wedding feast. At his suggestion, the duke and Melli would eat alone in their chambers, where they would be safe from the hostile intent of Lord Baralis and the court.

Tawl couldn't foresee any problems tonight, but tomorrow, when the whole of the city learned of the marriage, and when the duke and his new bride began to perform official duties in public together, the real problems would start. Protecting Melli would be a nightmare then.

Turning his attention back to the ceremony, Tawl was just in time to hear the archbishop pronounce the couple man and wife. As the duke embraced Melli, a cold chill ran down Tawl's spine. He stood up. He had no desire to look upon the happy couple. While everyone else was busy with congratulations, he made his way to the rear of the chapel. He settled back against a wooden beam and waited until the time came to escort the newlyweds to their chambers.

"From here you go alone," hissed Baralis.

Traff was not pleased. "You said you would show me to the passageway." He did not trust him.

"Take the turn at the end of the corridor. At the bottom you will find a pair of double doors. Two guards will be at either side of it. They will let you pass unchallenged." Baralis drew his hood over his eyes. He was dressed in a cloak that matched the color of his shadow. "I must be off now."

"I thought you would wait for my return." Traff could see that Baralis was nervous; the great man did not want to be seen here with him.

"I will be back later." Baralis' voice was sharp. He kept looking from side to side. "I told you I will be waiting for you. You have my word on it. Now go."

Traff did not move. He was not about to be ordered around like a common servant. Besides, Baralis was lying; he would not wait for him.

"Stand there waiting any longer, my friend," said Baralis, becoming angry, "and the good duke will have broken in his new bride. Then dearest sweet Melliandra will be nothing more than used goods." Baralis drew closer. "Or is that the best a man like you can hope for?"

Traff went to strike him. His arm was stopped in midswing. He looked at Baralis; the man was smiling softly and shaking his head. "Come, come now, Traff," he said. "You should know better than to try and hurt me."

Struggling against the compulsion, Traff tried to move his arm. His muscles would not respond. The faint but unmistakable smell of hot metal filled the air. Then suddenly it was gone. His arm dropped down to his side; it felt heavy and sore.

Baralis turned the full force of his gaze upon him. "You know what to do. Now do it."

This time Traff moved. He turned and began to walk down the corridor. He did not look back. The muscle in his lower arm was cramping slightly, but he ignored it. He was used to pain. It was sorcery he couldn't deal with.

The passage curved around and a few seconds later he saw the double doors and the two guards. Both men were busy drinking. As soon as they spotted him, they got even busier, burying their faces in their cups, whilst turning away from the light. Traff fancied they looked familiar. He ignored them and opened one of the doors.

The mercenary found himself in a chapel. After sorcery, the thing Traff hated most was religion; he hated the scented candles, the long ceremonies, the self-satisfied priests. He reached in his tunic and brought out his snatch pouch. Pulling himself a fair portion, he slipped it between his lips. Even before it was soft, he spat a portion out. He felt a lot better after that; half the pleasure of snatch was the spitting. A man could say a lot with a spit. After a brief pause to grind the snatch into the chapel floor, Traff made his way behind the altar.

The middle panel, Baralis had said. He spoke the truth, for the panel swung to the side when Traff pressed on the left side of it. Looking inside the passageway, he hissed a curse.

Like a fool, he hadn't realized it would be so dark. Grabbing one of the altar candles, Traff stepped into the passageway. Before he moved up the stairs, he pushed the panel back into place. As he did so, he tilted the candle and hot, fragrant wax fell on his forearm. This time he named Baralis in his curse: the wax had landed directly on the burn the man had given him many months ago in Castle Harvell. The skin was still tender and the memory still sharp. Traff shook his head grimly; he hated Baralis about as much as it was possible to hate a man. That wasn't important now; claiming Melli for his own was what counted.

She was his, after all-her father had promised her to him. Only now it seemed that Lord Maybor had gone back on his word. Traff began to climb the stairs. Maybor, like Baralis, would have to be dealt with later.

The stairs spiraled upward toward the heart of the palace. With each step, Traff felt his excitement growing. Soon Melli would be his.

"I could have swom that man was Traff, Bodger. What d'you think?"

"I think you're right, Grift. Looked a lot rougher than when I saw him last, though."

Grift shook his head. "This is trouble, Bodger. Real trouble. Traff is the sort who'd murder his own mother for a hundred golds."

"Best not ask any questions, Grift. Best not even talk about it."

Bodger was scared, thought Grift. He should have come here tonight on his own; there was no need for both of them to be outside the chapel. "Go down to the kitchens, Bodger. Grab yourself a bite of supper."

"No. I'm staying here with you, Grift. You don't know what will happen when Traff comes back."

"You're a good friend, Bodger." Grift looked at his companion for a moment. Bodger was too young to be involved in something like this, something that was going to end in disgrace either way. "You know what?"

"What, Grift?"

"We're gonna be in trouble no matter what happens. If we stay here until Traff has done whatever he's supposed to, then raise the alarm, we'll be thrown out of the guard anyway. Everyone will say we were drunk on duty, and we'll have no choice but to go along with it."

"But what about Baralis, Grift? He's not a man you want to cross."

"What's Baralis up to, though, Bodger? Where does that tunnel lead?" Grift's voice was a whisper now.

"What if it leads to the duke's chamber? We might as well slit our own throats here and now." Grift took a quick couragegiving swig of ale. "I say we take action, Bodger. We ain't got much to lose."

"What action, Grift?"

Grift thought for a long moment. "I say we run down to the kitchens, find young Nabber, tell him what's happened, and then let him fetch that tall blond warrior to deal with Traff."

"You mean the duke's champion, Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger, that's the one. Are you with me?"

"I'm with you, Grift."

Tawl was sitting in his room at the back of the kitchens. The wedding had gone according to plan. He had just escorted Melli and the duke safely back to their chambers. His intention had been to stand watch by the door all night, but with eight guards stationed there, it hardly seemed necessary. Besides, he didn't have the heart for it. Not tonight. He couldn't stand by the door to the duke's chambers and not think of what was going on inside; the wedding night, the wedding bed. No. Best to stay here and have a few quiet drinks on his own. And then perhaps a few more as the hours went by. There would be no sleep for him this night.

Just as he brought his ale to his lips, Nabber burst into the room.

"Tawl! Tawl," he cried. "Quickly. Follow me." The young pocket stood in the doorway, breath coming fast and furious. He had been running.

Tawl was on his feet in an instant. His hand slipped to his waist, checking for the reassuring presence of his blade. "What's happened?"

Nabber was so excited he could hardly get his words out. He stamped his feet impatiently. "Baralis has sent someone to murder the duke."

Tawl sprang across the room, pushing the pocket out of his way.

"No, Tawl. Don't head for the nobles' quarters. Follow me."

"Where?"

"There's a passage leading from the servants' chapel to the duke's chamber. The man went that way."

Tawl changed his course. He sprinted through the kitchens and the bakery. Dimly, he was aware that Nabber was following him. He made it to the chapel doors in less than a minute. Two guards were stationed outside. He wasted no words on them. Barging into the chapel, he looked around wildly.

"Where is the entrance?"

Nabber came padding up behind him. "Middle panel behind the altar."

Tawl was there before the words left Nabber's lips. He tore the panel from the wall. Complete darkness met his eyes. He went forward anyway-a candle would only slow him down. There was a single staircase leading upward. Tawl took the steps four at a time. Minutes later, the staircase came to an abrupt end.

Unable to see anything, Tawl felt the obstruction: wood. Probably some sort of door. Backing away for an instant, he slammed his shoulder into the panel. It cracked, sending splinters stabbing into his flesh. He hardly felt them. Again he brought his weight down. There was something heavy on the other side. He started kicking at the wood. Light began to steal in through the breaks in the door. Tawl made out the shape of a large desk. Someone had dragged it in front of the entrance.

His ear picked up the sound of a woman screaming. Melli! Gathering all the strength in his body, Tawl crashed into the door. The desk shifted back a hand's length. It was enough. He broke through the door and slipped into the space between the entrance and the desk. There was no screaming now. Grabbing hold of the desktop, he pushed it back, sending it thudding to the floor. Behind him he heard Nabber scrambling through the remains of the door.

"Stay where you are," he warned. The noise stopped instantly.

Tawl was in a small room. A body lay in a pool of blood beside the desk. A guard: his throat had been slit. Tawl had no time for the dead. He looked around. He wasn't familiar with the duke's chambers, but he'd seen enough to know that they were large, with many rooms. Taking a deep breath, he drew his blade, then made his way toward the door. He passed into a room he was familiar with: the duke's study.

The large doors at the opposite side of the room marked the only entrance to the chambers. Or what he'd thought was the only entrance. The duke had been a fool not to tell him about the secret passageway.

Spinning around, Tawl turned to face the second door. It had to lead to the bedchamber. It was closed.

He stepped lightly toward it. The screaming had stopped, which meant Melli was either injured, dead, or silenced by the assassin. Tawl guessed that the assassin knew he was in the chamber; the break-in had made a lot of noise. He proceeded cautiously.

He reached the door and pushed gently against it with his foot. As it swung back he stepped back against the wall, out of sight.

"Stay where you are," came a voice from inside. "Or I'll cut her open."

Her open? That meant the duke might already be dead. Tawl heard the sound of footsteps and the rustle of silk. "Back away," said the voice. "I'm coming through and I've got the girl."

Slowly Tawl shifted away from the door. As he moved back, he knocked against a bureau. Reaching.

out a hand to prevent it falling over, Tawl's fingers brushed over a candlestick. Instinctively he grabbed hold of it, keeping it hidden behind his back.

Melli emerged first through the door. Tawl took a sharp intake of breath. Her face, neck, and chest were sprayed with blood. Her hair was tangled; there were dark stains on her dress. She stepped forward just enough for Tawl to see the knife at her back.

"Throw down your blade," said the one holding the knife. "Now!"

Tawl bent low. He sent the blade skittering forward. It landed at Melli's feet. She looked at him for one brief moment. Her eyes were bright with tears. She was shaking, terrified. Tawl nodded at her. She stepped forward and with her came the assassin. Turning his head, he spotted Tawl. "Get back," he screamed.

Behind his back, Tawl altered his grip on the candlestick. Just as he began to step away, out shot his arm. He flung the candlestick straight at the man's face. Tawl leapt after it. Landing right at Melli's side, he pushed her out of the way, sending her careening forward. "Go!" he cried. Even as the syllable left his lips, he felt the knife in his side. Pain exploded in his body. Anger flared with it. He swung around and punched the assassin in the jaw. The blade was up again, but his fist was faster. Elbow followed fist and the assassin was forced back against the door frame. Tawl felt hot blood running down his thigh. He grabbed hold of the man's wrist. His left arm pitted against the man's right. It was deadlock. The assassin's grip held firm.

An idea flashed through Tawl's mind. A second later he eased up his grip on the knife. The assassin smiled, thinking he'd got the better of him. The smile was Tawl's cue. Drawing back his head, he whipped it forward, butting the assassin squarely in the nose with his forehead. Bone cracked. Blood flared. The man screamed. Tawl slammed the assassin's wrist into the door frame, forcing him to drop the knife. .

Ignoring the reeling in his head, Tawl punched the man's face again-right on the broken nose, sending splinters of bone flying back toward his brain. The assassin swayed, losing his footing. Tawl let him fall, using the time to snatch the knife from the floor.

By the time the assassin reached the ground he was dead, his own blade in his heart.

Tawl slumped against the door frame. Melli came rushing forward. "I told you to go," he said between ragged breaths.

She pushed past him, stepped over the assassin's body, and rushed through to the bedchamber. Turning around, Tawl saw her kneel by the body of the duke. He pressed his fist into the knife wound in his side and came to kneel beside her. Like the guard, the duke's throat had been cut.

"He's dead," he whispered, putting his arm around Melli's shoulder. "It was a clean blow."

Giant tears ran down Melli's cheeks. She didn't turn to look at him. She didn't say a word.

"Come with me," he said softly. "You can't stay here." Already his mind was racing ahead. Melli was in great danger. They would have to leave the palace tonight, before the body was discovered. He did not want to risk her being implicated in the murder; better by far for her to be safely away.

"He was waiting in the bedchamber for us." Her voice was devoid of emotion. "He just jumped out and..."

"Ssh." Tawl took hold of her hand. "Come with me. You're not safe here." He pulled, but she would not move. Her other hand was clasped around the duke's. She brought it to her lips and kissed each finger one by one. Gently she took them into her mouth and sucked upon the tips.

Tawl looked up to see Nabber standing in the doorway. "Get Lord Maybor," he mouthed to the boy.

Melli was in shock; she needed someone familiar to help her round. Nabber scurried off. Tawl stood up and went over to the bed. Lilies and rose petals were strewn over the covers. The marriage had not been consummated-so legally it wasn't even a marriage. Melli would have no rights, everything would go to Catherine. Kylock would have Bren after all.

Grabbing hold of the top cover, he pulled it from the bed. Petals went flying into the air. Tawl crossed back to Melli and placed the blanket over her shoulders. She was sucking on the duke's thumb and didn't even acknowledge the gesture. Tawl brushed the hair from her face; it was sticky with blood. The bodice of her dress was wet with tears. There was nothing he could do to help her.

Feeling useless, Tawl left the room. He was impatient. He didn't know how much time they had. He doubted if any of the fighting or screaming had been overheard by the guards; they were one floor down, on the other side of two separate sets of doors. But the one who sent the assassin might raise the alarm.

It was probably Baralis, acting with Catherine's help. In all likelihood the duke's daughter would have known about the secret passage. Tawl tore a strip from his tunic and bound it tightly around his side, stopping the flow of blood. If Catherine was somehow involved with the murder, then Melli was in even worse danger. Catherine hated her with a vengeance. She would have Melli imprisoned or executed. She was duchess of Bren now, she could do what she liked.

"Where is she?" It was Maybor, striding into the room with Nabber at his tail. "Where is Melliandra?"

"She is in the bedchamber with the duke," said Tawl, putting a restraining arm upon the lord. "Be gentle with her." Maybor nodded. "I will."

Tawl and Nabber watched as Maybor stepped into the bedchamber. Tawl put his arm out and rubbed the pocket's hair. "You did well, Nabber. I'm proud of you."

Nabber looked grave. "No, Tawl. It was you who did the good stuff. I was just the messenger."

Tawl shook his head slowly. "I failed, Nabber. I failed again."

Maybor appeared in the doorway. Melli was at his side, leaning heavily against him. Her eyes were focused upon some distant point.

"Come on," said Tawl. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" asked Maybor.

"We need to get Melli--"g Tawl corrected himself "Melliandra out of the palace. Her life is in danger if she stays here. Catherine will come after her once the news is out."

"You're right," said Maybor heavily. He pulled a piece of paper from his tunic. "I know of a place we can go." He handed it to Tawl.

Written upon it was an address. "Whose house is this?" Tawl asked.

"Lord Cravin's. It's on the south side of the city. He said I could use it if I ever had need."

"We'll head there, then." Tawl turned to Nabber. "Do you know any way we can get out of here without being spotted?" He wasn't at all surprised when the pocket nodded.

"Yes. By the entrance to the passage, on the opposite side of the stairs, there's a hole we can squeeze through. Once we're on the other side, I can have us out of this place in no time. The whole place is riddled with tunnels. Course some of them are a bit smelly, and old Lord Maybor here is going to have a hard time fitting through the gap." Nabber gave Maybor an appraising glance. "Reckon we'll have to make it bigger for him."

"Enough, Nabber." Tawl's voice was hard. "We'll manage. Now come on." He led the small party through the duke's chamber and then down the staircase. As Nabber predicted, the gap was too small for Maybor. Tawl took the hilt of his knife and chipped away at the stone piece by piece. Once through the ventilation hole, Nabber guided them out of the palace and into the darkness of the city.

It was a cold and moonless night in Bren. There were neither stars nor people to bear witness to their passing. The wind howled from the surface of the Great Lake, and as the four sped through the streets to safety, it seemed to push them on their way.

Thirty-six

Baralis sat at his new desk in his new apartments and smiled. Two weeks the old duke had been dead now. Two exquisitely perfect weeks.

Everything had worked out beautifully, better than he could have ever hoped. The duke was cold in his grave; Traff was dead, and so could tell no tales, or name no names; Melliandra had fled the palace-the marriage obviously not consummated, so not only was there no possibility of an heir, but she had no legal claim on the duke's estate either; and lastly, Maybor had gone with her. After all these months he'd finally succeeded in ridding himself of the vain and meddlesome lord. Fate was surely his partner for the dance.

As he thought, Baralis cut the string surrounding a bundle of books. Just this morning the courier had arrived from Bevlin's cottage, and resting on the desk before him lay the first of many deliveries. If he was lucky he might discover why the wiseman had sent the knight on a quest. If he was unlucky he simply received a few more books to add to his library. Baralis slipped off the leather wrapping and glanced at what lay beneath: some interesting books, indeed.

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: Òne 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 him 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.

As soon as the man left, Kylock picked up the cup he had drunk from. He held it by the base, careful not to touch the rim, and carried it out of the tent. Slipping around the back, he tossed it onto the fire. He would drink from nobody's cup but his own.

Quickly, he returned to his position in the folds of the tent. His lip twisted into a sneer as he watched Vernal greet the Halcus warlords. There was much arm grasping and back patting, and even a little good-natured banter. Kylock clearly heard Vernal inviting the men into the tent. Lord Tymouth shook his head and said something that silenced all present immediately. Kylock felt a measure of foreboding. His eyes slanted across to the far side of the camp, where another waited in the shadows. Kedrac, son of Lord Maybor, and Kylock's most trusted companion, raised his arm in acknowledgment of the glance. It was a small gesture loaded with meaning. Wait, it said, let us see what this latest development brings.

Kylock was well pleased: Maybor's son was keeping his nerve.

Three horsemen approached the camp. Two carried torches, the third, the figure in the middle, was misshapen, one shoulder clearly higher than the other. Kylock sucked in his breath. It was the king.

Hirayus, King of Halcus. Hunchback and tyrant. Feared by his enemies, worshipped by his people.

Forty of his fifty years had been spent on the throne. At the age of ten the physicians pronounced him too weak to survive his eleventh year. The only reason he lived today was to spite them. Hirayus was a legend in the north. His determination, his willpower, and his single-minded devotion to his country had made a giant from a cripple.

The warlords turned to meet him, swords drawn in respect, blades pointing to the earth in subjugation.

Vernal came forward. Words were exchanged. Hirayus dismounted his horse.

On the far side of the camp, Kedrac's hand was up. Kylock returned the motion, arm wavering with apprehension. The king was not supposed to be here. Tymouth had been chosen to handle the peace negotiations. Tymouth and the warlords. Kylock drew deeper into folds. His heart was racing. The silk around his fingers was as warm and wet as the womb. He couldn't bear it. Pulling the gloves off, he threw them onto the ground. As the cool night air dried the sweat from his fingers, Kylock grew calm. So the king was here. Did it really make any difference?

He turned his attention back to the negotiating party. Vernal was escorting Hirayus into the tent. Any minute now they would be expecting him to follow.

Wood smoke stole into his nostrils and Kylock was glad of it. The smell was almost cleansing. The king had come to parley; that meant at least another company on the lee of the hill and double that amount concealed around the camp. Nothing that couldn't be dealt with. Hirayus probably thought he had done a clever thing by turning up here unannounced. Kylock lifted his fingers to his nose: his mother's stench was still upon them. Hirayus had not been clever at all. In fact, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Out came Kylock's hand from the shadows. The pale skin reflected the moonlight like glass. His long elegant fingers were stretched full out, his palm faced outward toward Kedrac. Slowly, very slowly, he tilted his palm downward to face the ground.

Even as shadow took the place of moonlight upon his flesh, Kylock heard the archers stringing their longbows. He heard swords being drawn from leather and the movement of men leaving Kedrac's tent.

The cry went up and the carnage began.

One hundred barbed arrows were loosed upon the tent. They ripped through the fabric as if it were linen. The instant the arrows met their target, the swordsmen went in. Their orders were simple: kill all who remained alive. Kylock heard the screams of men and horses, he heard blade clashing against blade.

In the distance the noise of battle began as the two Halcus companies tried to gain the camp. None would reach here alive. In the distance, on the hillsides and in the woods, his men were closing in, taking out Hirayus' archers one by one.

Kylock stepped out into the moonlight. The action in the negotiating tent was drawing to a close. The fabric flapped no more. Kylock took a torch from its metal stand and walked forward. The last of the swordsmen emerged . from the tent. He met the eyes of his king. "All are dead, sire."

Kylock nodded. Drawing close, he set the torch against the tent. The fabric was ready for the flame, catching light on first contact. It crackled and blazed, spreading upward in sheets. He backed away, better to admire the fire. "Burn brightly, this night, King Hirayus," he murmured. "May the flames of your corpse be a warning to the north. Kylock has not done with you yet."

End