The Baker's Boy (76 page)

"I've told
you all I know. Baralis is not the sort to take hired hands into his
confidence."

"Do not lie
to me. You know more. Need I remind you that Baralis is not a man to take
treachery lightly. Who knows what he would do if he found out one of his men
had been meeting with his enemy." Maybor was pleased to note a change in
Traff's expression. The man obviously had good reason to be scared of Baralis.

"Look, I said
I don't know what he's up to." Traff hesitated. "But I have seen some
things you might be interested in."

"Go on."

"Well, I know
he's been sending letters to Bren, to the duke there. I saw him give one to a
messenger only last week."

"Anything
else?" Maybor wondered what business Baralis could have with the duke of
Bren.

"Well, I
think he's planning a journey." Traff's nose was running unpleasantly and
he wiped it on the corner of his cloak.

"Why d'you
say that?"

"Well, just
before noon this morning, I heard him telling Crope to get things ready for a
little trip."

"Where can he
be going? He has no lands to speak of."

"I can't say,
but it must be somewhere important to make a man travel in this weather."
Traff had a point; no sane man would journey with snow on the ground and more
threatening to come.

"I want to be
told the moment you know anything further." Maybor decided to let the
mercenary go; it was obvious he was going to get no more information out of
him. He was beginning to regret the deal he had struck. The man was not nearly
as useful as he hoped. There was, however, some consolation to be found in the
fact that Traff would not be around to collect on the second half of the
payment.

Maybor waited
until Traff was out of sight and then made his way back to the castle. As he
walked across the grounds he was interested to see activity in the great hall:
servants seemed to be preparing it for some event. As he drew close he noticed
the Royal Guard were in their ceremonial uniforms, musicians were carrying
their instruments into the hall, and a small crowd had gathered. Maybor puzzled
over the occasion. He had not been aware of any official ceremony. He caught
the arm of a servant girl. "What is going on here?"

"I'm not
sure, sir. The queen ordered us to make it ready. She has some kind of
announcement to make."

"When will
this happen?" Maybor considered the girl for a moment. She was not
unattractive, though her teeth were a little crooked. She was pleasingly
awestruck at being addressed by him.

"Soon, I
think, sir. The steward told us to make haste." The girl seemed torn
between dashing off and wanting to stay.

"What is your
name, girl?" She would be worth a bedding, nothing more.

"Bonnie,
sir."

"Well,
Bonnie, why don't you come to my chambers after dark tonight? I am a lonely man
in need of company." The girl was suitably flattered. She nodded
coquettishly and then ran off to do her duties.

Maybor strolled
toward the hall. He would ensure himself a good place to hear whatever the
queen had to announce.

He watched as the
hall was prepared for ceremony: banners were unfurled and hung, carpet was
rolled out, candles were lit, and wood was polished to a fine gloss. Before
long other courtiers started to arrive; they were dressed in their finest
clothes, the rustle of silk competing with the murmur of voices. They split off
into small groups and spoke in hushed tones about the queen's intent. He
spotted Baralis entering the hall. Something flashed at his throat and Maybor
realized the man was wearing his chain of office. What mischief is this? he
wondered.

Finally the horns
sounded and the herald proclaimed the entrance of the queen. The crowd hushed
and watched as the queen made her way through the hall. She was dressed finely
in crimson silk, a golden diadem upon her head. Maybor caught her eye and she
sent him a look he did not understand. Prince Kylock followed his mother. The
boy was dark and handsome, dressed in raven black.

The horns quieted
and the queen turned to face the gathered nobles. She stood and waited, letting
the tension of the crowd grow. The room was silent. The voice of the queen rang
out. "I have brought you here today to share my good news." She
paused for dramatic effect. "King Lesketh and I have made plans to arrange
the betrothal of our son, Prince Kylock." The crowd murmured with
anticipation. Maybor could hardly believe what he was hearing. Betrothal so
soon after his daughter had been rejected?

The queen
continued: "We have arranged a historic match for our son, one that will
serve to increase the prestige of our beloved country. Prince Kylock will wed
Catherine of Bren." The crowd erupted in excitement, preventing the queen
from speaking any further.

Bren, thought
Maybor. The second time that day he'd heard its name. There was not
coincidence; Baralis was behind this. With the noise of the crowd sounding in
his ears, Maybor realized the extent of Baralis' cunning. It had all been for
this-the attempted poisonings, abducting Melliandra-all so Kylock would marry
his choice for bride. Baralis had wasted little time moving in on the queen.
What seductive words had he used to persuade her to agree to this ... or had he
blackmailed her?

The queen was
speaking again, but Maybor was not listening. What a fool he had been; he'd let
Baralis steal the jewel of kingship from under his very nose. It should have
been his daughter who was proclaimed this day as bride, he who stood poised to
take his place as father to king and country. He had lost everything.

He thought the
queen owed him more than this. It was a slap in his face for her to accede to
Baralis' choice. She had not even kept her promise to inform him first-he was
hearing it along with the court and the servants.

Why Bren? he
wondered. Surely it was madness to join with a power as mighty as Bren. The
Four Kingdoms would undoubtedly come off worse in any alliance with that
dukedom, or did Baralis think himself clever enough to manipulate their
politics as well?

Maybor shifted his
concentration back to the queen: "And finally I would like to announce
that Prince Kylock's envoy to the court of Bren will be King's Chancellor, Lord
Baralis." Maybor flinched at her words. Was there no escape from the man?

The queen and
Prince Kylock withdrew to great cheering from the crowd. Maybor doubted how
genuine the acclaim was. As the queen passed by, she put her arm out to him.
"Tomorrow in my chambers," she whispered softly, and then was gone.

Tawl awoke
refreshed-sunlight shone down upon his face. The shutters were ajar; he could
not remember opening them. The room was freezing and he jumped out of bed to
shut them. He stole a quick look outside. It was a day of rare beauty: the sun
shone from a bright blue sky and dazzled the resting snow.

He felt strangely
at peace. It had been the right thing to do-visit Bevlin. He felt as if a great
burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The days which had stretched out
bleakly before him now seemed to offer hope and promise. Tawl felt full of
confidence, all things seemed possible-he would find the boy.

He remembered, a
little guiltily, his lie to the wiseman. Today he would tell the truth about
where he was heading and why. Larn seemed to have lost the power to intimidate
him. It would be good to tell Bevlin about his trip there, and maybe together
they could come up with a way to stop the atrocities that occurred on the
island.

Tawl lathered up
his soap stone and shaved. There was no mirror so he trusted to the feel of his
hands. Once finished he splashed his face with water and laughed at the shock
of its coldness. He went to his pack and picked out his new tunic to wear. He would
honor his host by wearing his best. It was still quite early. If he were lucky
he could sneak quietly into the kitchen and make breakfast before Bevlin and
the boy were awake-he had a vivid memory of the wiseman's cooking and decided
it was best if he prepared the food the remaining time they were there.
Besides, he fancied something a little more appetizing than greased duck.

Tawl opened the
door and winced at the loud creak it made-so much for his plan of a surprise
breakfast. He walked into the kitchen. Bevlin was not up. With disappointment,
he realized the fire was out and would have to be lit anew before any cooking
could take place. There was a stack of firewood in the comer of the room. As he
made his way over to it he saw something out of the comer of his eye. He turned
and looked.

Blood: dark and
congealed. Tawl grew very still. Bevlin lay on the wooden bench, his robes
stained with blood. Tawl forced himself forward, dread surging within him. He
laid his hands on the wiseman: he was cold and stiff. Long dead. No, mouthed
Tawl. No.

The scent of blood
was heavy in the air. He gathered the dead man in his arms and drew him to his
chest, desperately trying to warm the cold flesh. Bevlin was so light, so
frail. Tawl hugged the wiseman's body close like a baby and rocked him back and
forth. Tears coursed down his cheeks and onto the wiseman's back. No, No, No,
he murmured his body racked with sobs. Tawl knew only one thing: he had done
this. It was a certainty that suffered no questioning. His demons dragged him
down into oblivion, the weight of his guilt speeding the descent.

It was a beautiful
day in the marshlands. The rushes were green and in season and butterflies
danced in the air. Tawl was glad to be coming home. Three years he'd been gone.
Three years and two circles. His arm still throbbed from the branding. He knew
it was foolish not to bandage the wound, but pride wouldn't allow it. He wanted
everyone to know he was a knight of Valdis, newly honored with the second
circle.

Soon he would go
to the far south in search of treasures. If he were lucky, he'd find gold. If
he were blessed, he'd find merit in the eyes of God. The future was his and he
was eager to be started.

His horse topped a
rise and he saw his old village ahead of him. Excitement not anticipated
stirred within his blood: he was coming home. Nothing had changed: old Hawker's
barn was still threatening to collapse, the village green was unkempt as ever.
Boys continued to hang around the edge of the village, looking for a fight or a
girl.

Tawl spurred his
horse forward, women turned to look at him-not many people had horses in the
marshes. He acknowledged their glances with a gracious incline of his head just
like he'd been taught at Valdis. His fine cloak drew glances and the villagers could
see their reflections in the shine of his boots. No one seemed particularly
friendly. Perhaps they didn't recognize him.

Picking a careful
path through the bog, he made his way home. His heart was light with joy. He
had such presents for his sisters: a dress of silk for Sarah and a bracelet of
beads for Anna. For the youngest there was a toy boat that actually sailed. He
could imagine their faces. There would be surprise then delight. A hundred
sweet kisses would be his. Tawl smiled, suddenly feeling a tightness in his
throat-he'd been away too long.

Strange, the lay
of the land seemed different. The cottage should be in view by now. Tawl
galloped forward, mud splashing on his boots. Something black caught his eye.
He pulled at the reins. The ground was burnt. There were the charred remains of
rafters and walls. A stone fireplace was all that was left standing.

Tawl felt his
stomach churn with horror. It was his cottage. The remains looked long burnt.
He turned the horse and raced back into the village. He stopped the first woman
he saw. "What happened to the cottage by the bog?"

The woman patted
her lips, a sign of warding in the marshlands. "Burned to the ground it
did. The blaze took three of them. Poor mites, all alone."

Tawl's world
shifted out of focus. He wrapped the reins around his fist. "Who
died?"

The woman looked
at his hands-the strain of the leather had drawn blood. "You all right,
young man?"

"Who
died?"

"Two sisters,
and a young'un," said the woman. "Beautiful girls they were. The
eldest brother deserted them, left them to fend for themselves." She gave
Tawl a hard look. "You're him, ain't you? Same golden hair." She
shook her head sadly.

Tawl's throat was
so tight he could barely speak. "I left them with their father," he
said quietly, more to himself than the woman.

"Oh, that
good-for-nothing scoundrel. He hung around town for a couple of weeks after you
left. Then he was off, back to Lanholt. Never seen him since." The woman
held a hand out to Tawl. "Nay, lad, don't take on. I'm sorry I spoke
sharply."

"How did it
happen?"

"Nobody's
quite sure, but the magistrate thought it was caused by one of the girls,
probably the youngest, putting a skin filled with goose fat on the fire. Seems
they had no money for fuel and had taken to burning whatever they could find
for heat. Course the thing flared up on them." The woman motioned to
Tawl's hands. The blood now dripped over the horse. "Put the reins down,
lad."

"When did it
happen?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Nearly three years back
now, only a month or two after you left. I remember now, you ran off to be a
knight." Nearly three years back! All the time he'd been at Valdis,
imagining his sisters were safe in the marshes, they'd been dead. The pain was
unbearable: Sara and Anna dead. And for what? Two circles, one newly branded.

He looked at his
circles. Only hours before they were everything to him. Now, before his eyes,
they turned into marks of shame. Their price was the lives of his sisters.

Tawl unsheathed
his sword. The woman made a second warding gesture and quickly moved away.
Handling the sword in his left hand, he raised it high above his shoulders.
Tears stung at his eyes. With one swift gesture he brought the blade down upon
his arm-it sliced through both circles. The pain felt right. It was his and he
would bear it. Throwing the sword as far as he could, he took up the reins and
rode like a demon into the night.