Master and Fool (69 page)

Gathering his wits
and his perceptions about him, Baralis
pulled in
the air to the north.
He was searching for a physical trail now. The vestiges of sorcery would be too
weak to track. Slowly, Baralis began to make his way northward again. This time
he used all his senses, spotting signs of campfires well dampened, sighting
paths most likely to be taken, catching whiffs of old horse dung on the breeze.

Just as he
approached the cool depths of Lake Ormon, Baralis felt a glimmer of Skaythe
again. A tiny speck long stale. Swooping down to the mineral-green surface of
the lake, he tried to hone in on the scent. It was as if the power was
dissolved into the water itself. Puzzled, Baralis spread himself out and
skirted along the waterline.

He could feel
himself weakening. He had been out too long and his body was calling him back.
Ignoring the wamings, he carried on, plunging in and out of the water, tearing
through dried reed beds and leafless shrubs, racing along the shore. The trail
went no farther than the lake, so the answers had to be here for the finding.

Finally he came to
a grassy bank. The scent was a fraction stronger and Baralis tracked it down.
At the water's edge, under the shade of an old mountain ash, half in, half out
of the water, lay the partially frozen body of Skaythe. Dead. An arrow in his
heart.

It seemed Skaythe
had drawn his power at the moment of death, and with neither the time nor
strength to send it further, the icy water of Lake Ormon had claimed it for its
own. Death drawings had a way of lingering long after the corpse was cold,
working their quiet intent until their potency was lost to time. This one was
weaker, but no different, than most.

A sharp spasm
racked through Baralis' thoughts. He didn't have much time now. His flesh was
cold and soulless and it couldn't survive much longer without a mind to give it
meaning.

Just as he turned
to go, Baralis took a quick glance at the arrow in Skaythe's heart. A dark
thrill passed over him. It wasn't just any arrow: the yellow-and-black
fletchings were an emblem of Valdis. The knights sent to capture Jack and Tawl
had shot down Skaythe.

It could be a
random shooting of an intruder, but why then was the body in the lake and not
on a hillside near a camp? Baralis gave in to the pull of his blood and began
the journey back to Bren. He had no eyes for the moon or the clouds or the stars,
no thoughts to spare on the firmament. He saw only the yellow-and-black
fletchings of an arrow loosed by Valdis. What possible reason could the
knighthood have for coming to the defense of Jack and Tawl?

Tavalisk was
studying. It was making him hungry, irritable, and sore. He had craned his neck
over so many books now that it clicked whenever he moved. Sounded like a damn
cricket in his collar!

Slamming his
current book closed, Tavalisk pulled on the bell rope. It was time for a stiff
but sweet drink, a large dinner, and his daily dose of Gamil. Studying was for
lesser mortals, and as archbishop it was his moral obligation to free up his
mind for higher pursuits. Which meant he might just ask Gamil to do his
research for him.

After a
commendably short period of time, his aide appeared at the door. Not only had
he been speedy, but he had also been resourceful. He came bearing a platter of
hot food.

"Aah, Gamil.
Come in, come in. Just the man I was hoping for. Bring that tray straight over
here." Tavalisk patted the desktop. "Any wine on you, by the
way?"

"Alas no,
Your Eminence. I only have one pair of hands."

"Hmm, you
really should look into that." Tavalisk took a duck egg from the platter.
"Any news of Kylock's army?"

"They reached
Camlee four days ago, Your Eminence. I received a message on the leg of a bird
that stated the army attacked the moment it arrived."

"Camlee won't
be able to hold up to a full-scale army for very long. I'll give them six weeks
at the most."

"Less,
perhaps, if Valdis sends troops from the south." The duck egg turned to
sawdust in the archbishop's mouth. Of course Tyren would send troops from
Valdis. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? He spat out the egg into a cloth.
`"This is ill news."

"There's
more, Your Eminence," said Gamil with a touch of relish. "All the
towns and villages between Bren and Camlee have been ravished. Kylock's forces
seized all their livestock and grain for army supplies. The reports I've
received tell of people being killed by the thousands, of villages being burnt
to the ground, and women raped and defiled. It sounds as if Kylock is allowing
Kedrac free rein to do whatever he pleases."

"No. Not free
rein, Gamil. Kylock will be actively encouraging Kedrac to ravish the
northeast. The young king knows the value of fear." Tavalisk was looking
around for a drink. There was nothing on his desk except a jug of water. It
would have to do.

"Fear, Your
Eminence?"

"Yes. Word
will spread that Kylock's forces are brutal and merciless. People will soon
surrender to him rather than risk his wrath. At the end of the day, an occupied
town is better than no town at all." Tavalisk drank his water. It tasted
quite strange without a decent measure of wine. "Of course, the other
thing fear is good for is keeping conquered cities in line. A man's not going
to risk revolt if he thinks his wife and children might be killed."

"Your
Eminence is most wise."

Tavalisk glanced
up at his aide. There was no sign of irony on his face. He made a quick
decision. "Maybe not as wise as I thought, Gamil."

"How so, Your
Eminence?"

"You know
Marod's prophecy, the one that starts with men of honor?"

"Certainly,
Your Eminence. The verse that names you as the chosen one?"

Tavalisk waved an
arm. "Yes. Yes. That's it. Recently I've been wondering about the
authenticity of the verse. Its origin, its wording, and so forth." The
archbishop took a pause. This sort of thing wasn't easy for him. "I'm
beginning to think that I might have been wrong. Only thinking, mind."

"Why, Your
Eminence?"

"This
business with Kylock is getting out of hand. He's becoming too strong, too
powerful. Short of a knife in his heart, I don't think there's any way to stop
him. The other southern cities will never join forces with Rom to defeat
him-they're too busy thinking about their own personal interests. They're not
going to take action until he's right on their doorsteps. And by then it will
be too late." Tavalisk's chubby cheeks were quivering. "Our only hope
is that Kylock will draw the line at Camlee."

"I think he
will for the time being, Your Eminence. After all, he'll have Highwall and
Annis to take care of once spring comes."

"Time being!
Time being! What about time coming? What about all the years ahead? What about
ten, twenty, thirty years of springs? Kylock is young-he has a lifetime ahead
of him. He could take over the entire continent before he finds his
grave."

Gamil was looking
worried. It was unusual for Tavalisk to become so animated. "What can we
do about it, Your Eminence?"

The archbishop let
out a heavy sigh. "We must do whatever is expedient. Rorn must survive
intact, that much is certain, but how such a thing will be managed is anything
but clear. Up until now it was my natural inclination---and my Marod-given
duty--to fight Kylock's forces. However, I'm beginning to suspect that such a
course of action may not be in Rorn's best interest."

"An occupied
town is better than no town at all?"

"Exactly. If
I stick my head up and openly oppose Kylock, who knows what he will do to
Rorn?" Tavalisk was thinking more of himself than Rom at this point, but
he knew it was prudent to link the two. "Now, say I am the chosen one in
Marod's prophecy, then ultimately I can be sure of prevailing. But if I'm not,
then I risk ruining Rom's livelihood in the pursuit of a misdirected
dream."

"Aah,"
said Gamil slowly, "I see Your Eminence's dilemma."

"It is Rorn's
dilemma, too," reprimanded Tavalisk. He would not have his fate separated
from Rorn. They were one and the same. "So, I need to know for sure if I
am the chosen one. And that's where you come in, Gamil. I want you to discover
all you can about Marod and his prophesying, and find out just how accurate he
is. I need to know if I am reading things right."

Gamil bowed.
"I would be honored to do such a task, Your Eminence."

"Good. You
can start today." Tavalisk pushed all the various charts, manuscripts, and
books on his desk over toward Gamil. "Here. These should be enough to be
getting along with."

They rode north
through the day and much of the night. Maybor's death had given them a new
impetus. It made them realize they weren't playing a game. Real people were
dying. The little village in the valley was full of men, women, and children
whose lives would soon be shattered. Kylock's forces would take whatever they
wanted and tear the rest apart. Nothing was safe from them now.

Jack's blood
itched. He felt it coursing through his heart, ribboning along his cheeks. His
desire to get to Kylock was becoming a physical need; he had to see him
face-to-face and, with his own hands, destroy him.

Jack rode at the
head of the party-he couldn't bear to be at the back. Maybor had died and that
meant Melli could die, too. They weren't immortals anymore. None of them. They
had to get to Bren before it was too late.

Their route
brought them down from the foothills and onto the plains. They rode through
frost-tipped fields and white-green meadows, along frozen mud roads and cattle
paths thick with dung. The land was quiet, deserted, the smell of burning
lingered in the air. Occasionally they would catch glimpses of farms and
villages, their charred timbers black against the icy landscape. They were
traveling in Kedrac's wake.

Eventually they
fell upon the army's path. Thousands upon thousands of footprints stamped in
the light snow. Debris lay on both sides of the path: pots, pans, fragments of
tunics, sandals, boxes, jewelry-scraps of people's lives, plundered then
discarded.

Two hours after
finding the path, they came upon a camp. The smell warned them away. Tawl
wanted to ride around it, but Crayne insisted they stop and investigate. There
was the usual wreckage--burnt ground, hacked trees, decaying food, and human
waste-but at the back, in a shallow ditch hidden by a cluster of bushes, lay
the bodies of thirty women. Their naked limbs were smeared with blood, ice, and
mud. Their hair had been shorn from their heads, their breasts sliced open, and
their sexual organs were black with clotted blood.

Every man in the
party crossed themselves. Borlin took his shield from his horse and, using it
as a spade, began to dig up the frozen earth. Crayne joined in, then Andris and
the rest.

Their journey was
halted for an hour whilst they covered the bodies with soil. None of the
knights spoke, but their faces gave it all away. At the shore of Lake Ormon
they had taken Tawl into their hearts, and now, today, they finally rejected
Tyren. No one dared say it, yet all of them knew: there were knights in the
party that had camped here.

They rode faster
after that. They wanted the campsite well behind them.

The moon was a
fitful splinter that peeked out from behind heavy clouds. A fair breeze was
blowing and there was an occasional speckling of snow. After the freezing,
windy conditions in the foothills, the plains seemed almost mild. The horses
were put under less strain so they could ride longer between rests. Jack set a
hard pace, but the knights were always just one step behind.

North and west
they rode, changing course as the land permitted. The mountains of the Divide
were shrouded in gray mist, and as the night wore on the mist stole across the
foothills and down onto the plains, making the horses nervous and dampening
everyone's gear and cloaks. Jack slowed his horse down to a trot and looked for
a place to make camp.

In the dark band
between mist and cloud, time and distance were difficult to judge. Jack had no
idea how long or far they traveled before finding a place to stop. Grass for
the horses wasn't a problem as they had picked up grain in the village, but
tree cover was important and fresh water a must. Finally they came upon a knot
of gnarled oaks; not quite a wood, larger than a grove, Borlin called it a
bosk.

A narrow stream
threaded its way through the trees, and Jack led his horse to drink. By the
time he'd unbuckled the saddle, the knights were already building a fire. Jack
liked to watch the knights make camp: they could strip branches with lightning
speed and cook up something hot within minutes. After everyone had eaten their
fill, they sat around the fire, pulling their blankets close to keep out the
mist and taking swigs of brandy from a flask.

"How far are
we from Bren?" asked Jack, passing the flask on
to
Nabber.

"Eight days
of hard riding. Seven, if we flog the horses." Crayne poked the fire with
a stick. He was a well-built man, with a streak of gray in his dark brown hair
and a glint of green in his eyes. Next to Borlin, he was the oldest in the
company. "Me approach to the city will slow us down. We'll have to keep an
eye out for scouts. If anyone stops us, we'll have
to
maintain we're on
Tyren's business."

"And what if
we're stopped by knights?"

Crayne looked to
Borlin, then Tawl, before he answered. "We'll have to kill them. We can't
risk Tyren's men stopping us before we enter the city. Once word gets out that
you and Tawl haven't been captured, then Tyren will come after us, Baralis will
move the Lady Melliandra to someplace where we'll never find her, and Kylock
will ring the city with whatever's left of his forces. Secrecy is the most
important consideration if we're going to gain access to the palace."