Master and Fool (67 page)

Melli knew she
wouldn't get any help from Mistress Greal or Kylock--she hadn't seen either of
those two since the night she had given birth--but the guards outside the door
might be persuaded to cut her a length of wood. She would ask them when they
brought her breakfast in the morning.

Melli stopped
herself in the midst of her planning. Here she was, thinking how to fix her arm
with as little discomfort as possible, while her baby was dead-torn away from
her before it had taken its first breath. She hadn't even seen its face, didn't
know if it was a boy or a girl. Suddenly, every thought she spent on her own
survival seemed like a betrayal.
Her
life was carrying on, and more than
just allowing it to, she was actively protecting it.

A dark shroud fell
over Melli's thoughts. Guilt and shame were its rough-woven fabric. Was it
wrong for her to want to survive? Was she being callous and self-centered by
thinking of herself?

Keys jangled on
the other side of the door. A sliver of light stole across the floor. The door
opened and light flooded in. Kylock stepped into the room bearing an oil lamp
in front of him.

Melli sat up on
the bed. Her right arm fell to her lap with a sharp, streaking pain. Seeing
Kylock's shadowed face in the doorway banished all doubts from her mind. She
had to survive. Give up now and she would be used as a depository for all of
Kylock's sins. He wasn't going to renew himself by coupling with her. He had
done too many things, sanctioned too many deaths, set her brother against her
father, and allowed Baralis to murder her child: he couldn't be allowed to wash
himself clean.

Taking a deep
breath of light-filled air, Melli leant forward and said, "Go away. You
seek me out too soon, my lord."

Surprise flitted
across Kylock's face. He put the lamp down on the table and walked toward the
bed.

Melli brought her
hand up to halt him. "Come no nearer. I am not ready for you yet."

"Oh, but you
are." Kylock's voice was seductive, his movements as careful as a lover's.
His gaze lingered over the damp patches of milk on her bodice. "I've given
you a week, there's no need for more time."

Melli crossed her
hands high on her chest, covering up the stains. Her breasts ached with a dull,
sickening pain. "I need longer," she said, scouring her thoughts for
a plausible reason. She wanted to shock him, to throw him off guard.

"You can't
come near me yet. I haven't healed inside. You wanted me clean and pure, but
right now I'm filthy with old blood and old scars. You must wait until I am
fully mended, or risk failure and infection if you don't." Melli relished
every word she was saying. For the first time in many months she felt her old
power returning. She was Maybor's daughter. confident and in command.

Kylock recognized
it, too: she could see it in his eyes. He believed her.

"I will give
you another week."

"No. I need
ten days." Melli tilted her chin upward and fixed him with her dark blue
eyes. She had no reason for naming ten days--it was just another way to
reassert her power.

"Very well.
Ten." Kylock didn't seem annoyed; if anything he seemed excited.

Melli was
repulsed. "Please go now. I need to rest." Kylock stood over the bed,
looking at her through black-banded eyes, a trace of a smile upon his lips.
After a moment he turned and left.

As soon as the
door closed behind him, Melli fell back amongst the covers. She was physically
and emotionally drained. Shaking from head to foot, pain snaking down her arm,
she drew the sheets up to her neck and immediately began to fall asleep. Just
as she was about to slide into the blissful darkness, a thought drifted down
from above: she hadn't asked Kylock what had happened to her baby. It had not
occurred to her once.

Grift ushered them
into a small, hot room. A mighty fire blazed high in the hearth and the windows
had been hung with woolen blankets. A low pallet lay in the corner and upon it
rested a man. A soft, rasping sound escaped from his lips and his chest rose
and fell very fast.

"Jack,
Tawl," murmured the man. "Come close so I can see you."

Jack crossed the
room and knelt beside the pallet Blue eyes the same color as Melli's looked up
at him from a face slick with sweat.

"It is
you," he said, shutting his eyes for a moment. "They told me it
was."

Jack searched the
man's face for signs of the old Maybor. His full lips were shrunk to lines, his
red jowls now pale. There was so little of the man left that Jack could hardly
bear to look at him. Grift stepped forward and dabbed Maybor's brow, and as he drew
back with the cloth, he nudged Maybor's hair into place. That small gesture
made Jack look again-not just at Maybor's face, but the whole man.

His hair was shiny
and beautifully brushed, his chin shaven smooth, fine red silk was wrapped
around his shoulders, and the smell of fragrance escaped from beneath the
sheets. Jack smiled softly. There was more of Maybor left than he thought.

"You escaped
from Kylock's forces at Bren?" Tawl came and knelt by Jack's side.

Maybor nodded.
"We stayed in the mountains for a few weeks and then made our way
down." He spoke so softly that Jack and Tawl had to lean forward to hear
him.

"How many men
are here with you?"

"Eighty
survived. I lost more than that number in the mountains." Maybor began to
cough. His whole body jerked with each strained rasp of his throat. A hand came
up from under the sheets; the skin was black and shiny, the fingers curled into
a misshapen fist.

Jack had to look
away. Tawl's eyes met his. They both knew Maybor was dying.

Grift came over
with a cloth for Maybor to spit into. The guard was careful to fold it well
before taking it away. After a moment Maybor's cough subsided. When he spoke,
each phrase was punctuated with a wheezing breath. "There's ten horses as
well. The villages will sell us some. I had one of the men count them-said
there's eighteen horses and double that in ponies."

Jack was beginning
to understand what he had in mind. "What state are the men in?" he
asked.

Maybor made a
small gesture with his ruined hand while he cleared his throat. "They're
young. A few lost forgers and toes, but most of them are fine." He leant a
fraction forward. "Take them with you, Jack. They're good lads who need a
chance to fight. I thought I was doing the right thing by leading them off the
field, but now I know it was wrong. I stopped them from being soldiers and made
them men, instead."

Jack didn't
hesitate. "If they're willing and able they can come with us. We need all
the help we can get."

"They know
some fine songs, Jack," said Maybor, swallowing hard. "And they're
not afraid of long hours on the move."

After Maybor had
finished speaking, his facial muscles relaxed and his eyes started to close.
Tawl touched him lightly on the chest. "What was the last thing you heard
about Melli?"

"She's alive.
I'll swear to it." Maybor's eyes sprung open and his voice rang clear. He
looked first to Tawl and then to Jack. "You've got to save her. Promise me
you'll save her."

Tawl reached
forward and took Maybor's hand. He ran his fingers over flesh that had died on
the bone. "I promise you I'll try." His words were as gentle as a
kiss.

Jack brought his
hand to rest on top of Tawl's. He looked straight into Maybor's shining eyes.
"I promise I will not rest until she's safe."

Maybor nodded
slowly. His body seemed to diminish, growing smaller and less substantial. He
settled back against the pillows and said, in a voice that faded with every
word, "You should have seen her when the guards came to the cellar, Jack.
She was so beautiful, kicking up a holy storm-for me. Just for me."

Grift came forward
and stroked back his hair. The guard's hand shook as he smoothed the lustrous
gray locks. Jack took Maybor's hand and placed it against his side. "Melli
loved you very much."

"Did
she?" Weak though Maybor was, there was an urgency in those two words that
spoke of bright, rekindled hope. "Tell her I loved her more than she knew.
Tell her I'm sorry I failed."

Jack shook his
head. A hard lump was rising in his throat. "You didn't fail."

"I failed all
of my children. All of them." Maybor's voice was a thin line receding into
the distance. "I was too selfish, too ambitious, to see them for. . .
" His last words were stolen by a series of choking coughs.

Grift took Jack's
arm. "Go. I'll be out later."

Jack and Tawl
moved toward the door. The sound of Maybor's coughing followed them out of the
room.

They waited
outside the door in silence until the coughing tapered off. After a few
minutes, Grift emerged. He looked tired and pale. "Lord Maybor's sleeping
now," he said. "Come on, let's find you both a drink."

Grift led them
down into the tavern. Once again the room fell silent, but this time all eyes
were on Grift.

"He's
sleeping," he said to the men, making a calming gesture with his hands.

Hearing this, the
men nodded and whispered and turned back to their business, more than a few of
them calling for more ale.

Grift led Jack and
Tawl to a table near the door. Crayne and the other knights were sitting close
by; they all had bowls filled with hot food in front of them and mugs full of beer
in their hands.

Seeing them
settling down, Nabber left the knights' table and came to sit at Tawl's side.
GrIft seemed surprised to see the young pocket and rubbed the boy's hair
affectionately. "Well, I would never have thought I'd find you in the mountains,
Nabber," he said.

"Never
thought I'd find you here, either, Grift. Especially after you telling me that
mountain girls were sour tempered and prone to the ghones."

Jack didn't expect
Grift to laugh, but he did. A warm, hearty laugh that brought back memories so
sharp that Jack wanted to cry. All those winter nights spent in the servants'
hall listening to Grift holding court while marveling at how he held his ale.
Everything had changed so much from those innocent days: Grift had changed,
Tawl had changed, Maybor lay dying, and Melli was imprisoned in Bren. Anger
pushed Jack's memories back, squeezing them into a long gone past. Baralis had
a lot to answer for.

"Lord Maybor
saved my life," said Grift. He leant over the table, resting his chin in
his cupped palm. "He dragged me out of Bren when I was so sick I could
hardly walk. He could have left me in the wine cellar and gone under the wall
on his own, but he didn't."

Jack put an arm
around Grift's shoulders. Why was everyone who once looked so strong now so
frail? "What happened to Bodger?"

"I don't
know. They took him with the Lady Melliandra." Grift shook his head.
"He's just a young one, really. Wouldn't know what to do without me around
to tell--"

"People find
all sorts of strength inside themselves when they need to," Jack said.

"Aye, lad,
you're right there. Take Lord Maybor. The man's been running a high fever these
past couple of days, yet nothing was going to stop him from bringing us down
that mountain. Determination alone kept him sitting on that horse. All the men
resented him at first, but once they saw for themselves what he was made of,
everything changed They'd do anything for him now."

"Maybor wants
us to take them to Bren," said Tawl. "He feels he wronged them by
withdrawing to the mountains. He wants to give them a chance to fight."

"What
happened at the battle?" asked Jack. Someone had brought a flagon of ale
and he began to pour it into four mugs.

"Highwall was
flanked then slaughtered. Besik led twothirds of the men to the east; Maybor
led a third to the south. It was chaos. Men being slaughtered, arrows flying,
blood everywhere-I'll never forget it till the end of my days." Grift
downed his ale. "The bloodshed wasn't the worst thing, though."

"Why? What
else happened?"

"Kedrac sent
men to slay his own father. He was commanding the kingdoms' army, and as soon
as he spotted Maybor on the field, he ordered the Royal Guard to go after
him."

Baralis again.
Setting father against son. There were so many tragedies, not just of cities
and armies, but more intimate ones as well: ideals shattered, loves lost,
families torn apart. Jack couldn't begin to imagine how Maybor must have felt
knowing his son wanted him dead. How had he survived the long weeks since the
battle with such a betrayal lying heavy on his heart? Jack's memory of Maybor
was of a brash and vital man who always wanted the best for his children--even
if they didn't want it themselves. A father who showed his love through pride.
How did such a man cope with the treachery of his firstborn son?

No one spoke for a
while after that. Tawl, Grift, Nabber, and Jack downed the last of their ale in
silence. Words seemed far too slender to span all the tragedies of life.

Later, much later,
when Jack was asleep in the tavern kitchen, his body pressed close to the
stove, he was awakened by a strange noise. At first he thought it was the
wolves howling, and then perhaps the wind. But as his senses came around, he
realized that it was the sound of men singing. Low, throaty notes were followed
by long pauses and hoarse cries. Someone was keeping a primitive beat, and
above it all, one voice soared high and clear.

Jack felt a wave
of cold air roll over his body. It was a death song. The Highwall troops were
singing for Maybor. He opened his eyes, and in the dimming light of a longlit
fire, he locked gazes with Tawl. The knight's expression was solemn, his eyes
midnight dark.

"Jack,"
he murmured, "you and I have a lot of fighting to do."

Jack nodded. He
knew how Tawl was feeling, and felt exactly the same way, too: Baralis had
finally taken one of their own.