Master and Fool (86 page)

The breath was the
final link between them. Jack felt it settling within his lungs, sending
messages to his blood. It was rich with the promise of sorcery, heavy with the
remains of the man. Breathing it in, Jack realized the full wrath of Kylock's
last drawing, shivered at the knowledge of all it could have destroyed. No one
in this palace would have escaped alive. The power was as thick and black as
tar. Yet there were other things besides destruction borne upon the
sorcery-tainted air. Jack felt the force of Kylock's will, the breadth of his
genius, and the dark depths of his madness. He saw the full tragedy of a
brilliant mind ruined by drugs, manipulation, and lies. Baralis' creature
entirely, Kylock had been lured into a delusional state where his emerging
insanity was encouraged and his sadism overlooked.

Jack knew all this
in an instant, and much, much more. There was little triumph here, only the end
of a life that had been doomed from the start.

Tired beyond
measure, Jack exhaled. He didn't want Kylock's breath in him a moment longer.
The truths it had shown him were too disturbing. They left a bad taste in his
mouth.

Baralis had turned
his own son into a monster.

Jack yanked out
the blade and blood gushed from the wound. Kylock's eyes were closed. His
muscles stiffened, then relaxed. The blackened letter dropped into the flames
by his feet. Jack made no attempt to retrieve it.

Kylock fell. The
blaze closed in to take him.

Jack turned. There
was nowhere to go. Shoulder-height flames circled the room. There were no
walls, there was no door. everything was red and white. Thick smoke rolled from
under flames, hot and acrid; Jack didn't want to take it in, but he had no
choice. He had to breathe.

Pain had taken his
sanity, now the smoke took his consciousness. In and out he drifted, the flames
flickering higher and nearer each time he opened his eyes. He felt himself
swaying, ready to fall. The heat was too intense; he couldn't fight it. All he
wanted to do was collapse by Kylock's side. Drifting ... further and further
away. Peace lay ahead. Peace, relief, and truth.

"Jack!"

A dark shadow
broke through the flames. For one brief moment, Jack's heart thrilled: it was
Tawl, come to carry him from the temple. But no, this wasn't Larn. And as the
figure came closer, he realized it couldn't be Tawl. Yellow and black, the
colors of Valdis--Tawl would never dress as a knight.
"Jack!"

The figure hovered
outside the ring of flames. Other figures joined him, all wearing yellow and
black. There was shouting and moving and beating of cloaks.

Jack felt himself
falling. The flames leapt up to meet him; hot little fingers eager to bum.

He never hit the
floor. Hands broke his fall, gentle hands that cupped him like a baby and
carried him through the blaze. With eyes that could barely see, through tears
that wouldn't stop coming, Jack looked up into the face of the person' who held
him. That was when he knew it
was
Tawl. Tawl wearing the knight's
colors, surrounded by other knights, shouting out commands, his voice filled
with urgency, his blue eyes more fierce than Jack had ever seen them. Tawl.
Together they went through the flames, and together they emerged into a world
bright with hope, light, and laughter far on the other side.

"You-"
Jack fought against the blistered dryness that was his throat, "you
weren't supposed to come back for me." Tawl's smile was gentle. "I
warned you about my heart, Jack. I said it might lead me astray."

Fire followed them
from the palace, barreling down corridors, licking at their heels. Stairwells
and passageways were filled with smoke and motes of blackened dust. People were
everywhere-screaming and panicking and running for their lives. No one paid
heed to their passing. No one cared about the dozen fully dressed knights who
raced ahead of the blaze. If they looked at all, it was at the one tall,
goldenhaired knight who carried a lifeless body in his arms. Something about
his face gave hope to those who saw him. Something in his eyes spoke directly to
the soul.

Melli stood in the
knights' camp and watched the palace bum. Bright, fierce, and liberating, it
lit up the northern sky. Strange, but she wasn't worried anymore: there was
something in the air besides the smoke: a sense of anticipation, a feeling that
everything would turn out all right.

"They're
coming back, miss," said Borlin. "I can spot them now, just north of
the plain."

Melli didn't ask
if Tawl was amongst them, she didn't have to. She just knew. "Have some
brandy and blankets ready," she said to Grift, who was hovering near to
the fire. "Aye, miss."

Walking to the
front of the camp, Melli heard the first strains of a song. A rich and mellow
voice shaped words that pulled at the heart. Melli changed her course, drawn to
the beauty of the voice. As she walked nearer, other voices joined in the song,
and when she rounded the command tent, she saw a sight that made her smile with
joy.

Twenty or so
knights were gathered around a makeshift crib, singing little Herbert to sleep.

Andris, who had
ridden out to Fair Oaks to fetch her earlier that day, caught sight of Melli
and beckoned her over. She was drawn into the circle next to her baby, and the
knights sang for her as well. Melli felt her heart would break. Anyone who
heard them sing could not doubt that the knighthood was good. Looking at their
fine faces, hearing the tenderness in their voices, Melli suddenly knew why
Tawl had risked everything to save them. Some things were worth more than one
life alone.

And, as the song
came to an end and Tawl rode into the camp, Melli made up her mind that she
would not stand in his way. She would release Tawl from his oath and give him
the freedom to become leader of the knighthood. After all he had done for her
she owed him that.

"Get the
surgeon. Quick!" shouted Tawl from his horse. Melli saw someone riding at
his back. She caught her breath. No. It couldn't be ...

But it was. It was
Jack, nothing on his back except grimy, warped chain mail, no part of his skin
that wasn't black with smoke or burns. Melli rushed forward, her eyes filling
with quick tears, her throat closing in around her breath. The world suddenly
seemed a place where miracles could happen. And the golden-haired knight who
rode toward her seemed worthy, at long last, of all God's gifts. She loved him
completely.

That night, as the
fire blazed a league to the north, the surgeon worked on Jack. Melli held his
hand through the long hours of torment, forcing water through his blistered
lips, rubbing salve into his wounds. His forehead and hands were burnt the
worst, but there were many lesser burns running the entire length of his body.
One or two knights came over offering help and advice, and Borlin brought a
drug to make him sleep. Only when Jack's breathing was easy and regular did
Melli fall asleep herself.

Tawl woke her at
dawn. "Come, Melli. We've got to go to the city."

"But---"
Melli looked down at her lap. Jack's bandaged hand rested against the fabric of
her dress.

"Jack needs
to sleep. You've done what you can. Nabber can look after him while we're
gone." Tawl's voice was gentle but firm. "You and the baby must come
with me."

She didn't argue.
She had many different responsibilities now.

Melli took great
care with her appearance before she rode into the city. She brushed her hair
until it shone, and disguised her burns with powder and paste. The innkeeper's
eldest daughter had parted with her best winter dress, and Melli put it on in
Tyren's tent. She struggled to pull it over her broken arm, far too proud to
ask for help. When she finally emerged into the camp, Tawl was waiting with a
beautiful bay gelding. He had just helped her onto the horse when, to her great
displeasure, Nanny Greal rode over to join them.

"What's she
doing coming with us?" hissed Melli under her breath.

"She's the only
person in Bren who knows Baralis was the one who ordered the duke's
murder."

Melli could think
of no suitable objection to that, so she settled for an indignant snort
instead. "She's not riding with the baby. I'm taking him."

Tawl actually
laughed. Melli was struck by how young and happy he looked: almost like a
child. "Well, if that's what you want, little Herbert will have to be
slung over your back."

"Fine."
Melli tried to sound firm, but Tawl's smile was infectious and she found
herself giving in. "All right, all right, Nanny Greal can take him."

Nanny Greal beamed
at Tawl. Tawl beamed at Nanny Greal.

Melli glared at
both of them. And then smiled when their backs were turned. She felt madly,
recklessly, happy. The ride into the city took less than an hour. Melli rode at
the head of a cohort of two hundred and fifty knights and seventy Highwall
troops. Word was out that Baralis and Kylock were dead, and with no one to give
orders, the city was in chaos. A company of blackhelms challenged them at the gate,
but Valdis' marksmen picked off a few of their numbers and their enthusiasm
quickly waned.

Melli felt nervous
entering the city. She rode through street after street where people stood and
stared at her, many openly hostile, some cursing as she passed. Gone was the
mad euphoria of earlier. Instead she was sobered by the sheer brevity of
events: the future of a great and ancient city lay in the balance-its fate
dependent upon her and her son.

Melli's
nervousness showed itself as pride. Her chin tilted upward and her eyes flashed
at those who cursed her. She had been married to their duke and had given birth
to Bren's true heir-she had every right to be here.

As the cohort
turned into a large public square, Melli got her first sight of the smoking
skeleton that had once been the duke's palace. It had been reduced to a stone
shell. The walls were intact, but the middle was now a gaping hollow: all the
wood-all the roof beams and floorboards and furnishings and doorframes-had
perished. All gone, and she couldn't say she was sorry to see it.

Mesmerized by the
sight for some time, Melli looked around to see a large crowd gathering in the
square. She glanced at Tawl.

"It's all
right," he said. "The more the better."

Melli looked at
the hundreds of people who were blocking the streets and pathways, swarming
around the fountains, and rapidly filling every available cobbled space. She
was afraid now, but determined not to show it.

The
knights-resplendent in full dress armor, lances at their sides, their horses
proud and gleaming formed a defensive semicircle around Melli, Tawl, and Nanny
Greal. A flash of yellow-and-black high up on a roof caught Melli's eye:
Valdis' marksmen were leaving nothing to chance. When the square was full of
people, Tawl urged his horse up the few steps to the raised dais at the head of
the square. The crowd, recognizing the man who had once been the duke's
champion, began to hiss.

Tawl raised his
hands. "Silence," he commanded. "Hear me first before you
condemn me." His voice carried to all four corners of the square and the
noise of the crowd died down. "Baralis and Kylock are dead. They were both
killed last night in the fine. Your city and your armies are no longer
commanded by a foreign king-"

"Why should
we listen to you?" snapped a man near the front of the crowd. "You
murdered our duke."

"Aye,"
murmured a hundred others.

Tawl's face
darkened. He pressed his lips together as if he were forcibly containing a
reply. With a quick gesture he beckoned Nanny Greal forth. Melli took the baby
from her before she guided her horse up the steps.

Nanny Greal
brought her horse to rest next to Tawl's, and arranging her bony body high in
the saddle, she told her story to the crowd. First she told how she had
overheard Baralis plotting to kill the duke, about the payment that changed
hands, and the true name of the assassin.

Then, with the
crowd still reeling in disbelief, she told them how Kylock had murdered dozens
of noblemen and had their mutilated bodies thrown into the lake. When someone
called her a liar, she took out a little pigskin book and recited their names
one by one. When she came to the name, "Lord Bathroy," a voice cried
out from the crowd:

"The lady is
right." The voice belonged to an old man who made his way to the front.
Painfully thin, covered only by rags, the man was missing his left hand. Slowly
he climbed the steps of the dais. "Bathroy is dead."

Tawl glanced at
Melli.

Someone in the
crowd jeered, "How would you know?" Turning to face the mob, the old
man held up the scarred stump that had once been his left wrist. "I know
because I was one of Kylock's victims." His gaze darted around the crowd,
challenging anyone to contradict him. No one could meet his eye. "I shared
a cell with Bathroy. I was there when he was taken away, and I stayed awake as
he screamed through the night" The man's voice was thin and piercing.
"And let me tell you, he wasn't the only one. Night after night I heard
men scream, and night after night I gave thanks to God that Kylock hadn't come
for me."

The crowd was
silent now. They shifted uneasily where they stood.

"Only one
night he did come," said the man. "One night our king, our duke, our
warlord came and asked for me." Hearing the old man speak, Melli felt the
hairs on her arms prickle. Her throat and lips were dry.

"Bound and
gagged, I was led into a room lit up like a surgeon's tent. In the middle of
the floor was a butcher's block. After the guards left, Kylock laid my arm
against the wood and hacked off my hand with a cleaver."

A shocked murmur
rippled through the crowd.

Tawl grasped
Melli's hand tightly. She felt as if she would faint.