J. V. Jones - The Book Of Words 2 - A Man Betrayed

A Man Betrayed

Volume 2 of The Book of Words

By J.V. Jones

ISBN: 0-446-60351-1

Prologue

The girl began to snore gently: a wheezing unpleasant noise that seemed almost a plea for pity. It was the

smell of her more than the sound that disturbed him. The fetid and cloying smell that accompanied all her

sex. The smell of sweat and urine and discharge. Smells telling, more accurately than any book, the true

nature of woman. The secret inner nature that women with all their powers of concealment and

dissembling strove to keep hidden away from the eyes of men. And of course they succeeded, for men

are easily fooled by outward show; a plump bosom, a flash of teeth, a whiff of scented breath.

But the truth was ever there, for women could never quite rid themselves-despite all the powders and

perfumes--of the smell of their own decay.

Kylock rose from his bed, seeking to distance himself from the telling candor that was the stench of

women. He would have liked to shake the girl awake and bid her go, but that did not suit his plans, and

indeed, after all he had put her through this night, he was not entirely sure that a good shaking would

waken her. Oh, the girl would recover: physical resilience was yet another trait of her sex. They outdid

and then outlived men.

He moved across the room to where a small copper washbasin waited, as it always did, and began to

wash his hands. Scrubbing with a small, but coarse boar's-hair brush, he meticulously cleansed his hands

of the taint of woman. Fingers, that a candle length earlier had so eagerly sought out fleshy openings and

swellings, were now soaked in the lye-laden water. Kylock took extra care on this occasion. It was a

mark of respect for what he would do this night. Not for the person he would do it to, but for the

magnitude of what would be done.

He looked at his hands. Pale and long they were; elegant in finger, delicate in shape. Not his father's

hands.

A half smile stole across his lips, and he turned his face to the mirror. Not his father's face, not his

father's eyes or nose or teeth. With a sudden violent movement he slammed his fist into the mirror. The

glass shattered with a satisfying crack and splinter. The girl on the bed momentarily stirred and then,

perhaps deciding she was safer in oblivion, settled herself again with a minimum of movement.

The blow had not even drawn blood. Kylock was pleased. It seemed fitting that no blood should be

drawn this night. The mirror now presented him with a disjointed array of images. His mother was there

as a ghost in the fragments of his features. There was no doubting he was his mother's son. The plane of

cheek, the tilt of brow, the swell of lip: they all spoke of his mother.

He didn't bother to search for traces of his father: there would be none to find. There never had been.

He was not his father's son. It was as plain as the nose on his face. Indeed, it was the nose that gave

everything away: a grim irony, but a truth nonetheless.

Kylock turned from the mirror and readied himself. There were no special requirements. He donned his

usual black; so out of place in daylight, so very. appropriate at night. The color of secrets and stealth.

The color of death. He needed no mirror to tell how very well it became him, how flattering and suitable

the hue. Black would suit his mother, too. Like mother like son.

He was so close to where he needed to be, a mere corridor away, but he would not set foot in that

hallowed hall, would not feel the cool touch of the bronze doors upon his palms. He must walk a subtler

path.

Kylock left his chambers and made his way to the ladies' quarters. Any man who spied him on his way

would turn a blind but winking eye, thinking to himself that it was only right that the heir to the Four

Kingdoms had the audacity to flaunt the rules by visiting a lady in her chambers after dark.

Kylock had no lady on his mind. He knew an entrance to the passageways was to be found in the ladies'

quarters. It was only natural that there be one: where else in the whole castle might a king want to visit

more, and yet be seen less doing so?

The king's chancellor had shown him the ways of the castle. One Winter's Eve, many years before, he

had been caught setting the royal hounds on a newly born foal. As punishment, his mother had confined

him to his chambers for a week. Thanks to Baralis, he never had to stay there. By opening a wall with a

touch of his disfigured fingers, the man had given him the precious gift of secrecy. Even now he could

remember the thrill of revelation, the sense that he had found what he had always searched for amidst the

stench and the stealth. It had changed his life. So.much had been revealed to him, nothing escaped his

greedy eye. He'd spied noblemen rutting with chamber maids, heard servants plotting against their

masters, and discovered marks from the pox concealed beneath many a great lady's face powder.

Nothing was as it seemed. Corruption and greed lay close to the bone. Flesh masked a world of sins,

and by allowing him access to the hidden passages of Castle Harvell, Baralis had shown him the whole

tawdry inventory of them.

Kylock located the wall. He imagined he could hear the click of the mechanism as he drew fingers over

the stone. An alluring cavity presented itself. Kylock entered and chose his path.

The sudden chill and smell of rot brought visions of his mother. Surely in all eternity there had never been

born a greater whore! Queen Arinalda, the beautiful, the aloof; always pretending to be so correct, so

impeccable. How far from the truth appearances so often are. The smell was there, though; unmistakable,

stronger than in any other woman. She reeked like a whore. Sometimes the smell was so overpowering

that he couldn't bear to be in her presence. How many men had his mother slept with? How many lies

had she told? How much treachery had she practiced?

That she had slept with men other than the king was obvious. He, Kylock, was proof of that. There was

no Harvell blood in him. No fair hair on his head, no short and stocky limbs attached to his body.

His mother had found her pleasures with other men, and he was a result of her lack of control. Women

were the weaker sex, and the source of that weakness was their allconsuming lust. They were disgusting:

a thin layer of skin stretched over a foul inner self that boasted the same cravings as a beast. He expected

the tavern wenches and street girls to give in to these desires, but a queen? His mother, who should have

been above every woman in the realm, was a cheap whore. And he was the son of a whore. He could

never look in the mirror without the truth staring back at him.

Almost too soon he was there. The nucleus of the castle, the source from which all else flowed, or

should have flowed if things were not as they were. The king's chamber.

Kylock released the mechanism and stepped in. The smell of the sick room assailed his senses. The

smell of a man slowly losing his body to death. Too slowly.

Quietly, for he knew that the Master of the Bath would be in the adjoining chamber, he stole across the

room. His heart was pounding wildly, excitement and fear mixing on every beat. He approached the bed.

The crimson silk monstrosity had been home for the king for the last five years. Kylock drew back the

curtains and looked upon the face of the man who was not his father.

As he gazed at the king he felt pity. Thanks to the physicians, the man had neither hair nor teeth. He was

a pathetic figure with hollowed out cheeks and a constant drool.

Kylock saw where the spittle had wetted and stained the pillows, and pity gave way to disgust. This was

no king. His mother was king. His whore of a mother had been rewarded for her sins by being made

sovereign in all but name. He wouldn't have put it past her to have caused the king's illness in the first

place. Woman's middle name was treachery.

Well, tonight all things would change. He would not only be ridding the country of a useless king, but

also of a fallacious queen. Tomorrow his mother would find herself devoid of her power. There would be

a new king, and she would be a fool to try and rule the kingdoms through the reign of this one, too.

Kylock picked up one of the many pillows. His fastidiousness insisted that it be one untouched by the

king's drool. There he was, the man who was not his father. Would Ido this if he were my father?

Kylock molded the silken pillow in his hands, smoothing the shape to what he needed.Yes, I would do it

anyway.

He leaned over the bed. As the shadow of the pillow crossed the king's face, his eyes opened. Kylock

took a step back in fright as the light blue eyes of the king looked upon him. A fresh gob of drool rolled

down his chin as he tried to speak. Kylock couldn't move. The pillow burned hot in his hands. Eyes of

man and boy met. The king's jaw worked slowly, and the drool fell on his chest.

"Kylock, my son." The words were barely intelligible; a mixture of rasp and spittle.

Kylock looked upon the face of the king. The light blue eyes were more lucid than any words: they

spoke of love and loyalty and forgiveness. The boy shook his head sadly.

"No, sire. No son of yours." Kylock felt control coming back to his limbs; the pillow was cool once

more.

Kylock's beautiful hands pressed the pillow into the toothless, hairless face of King Lesketh. His fingers

spread out against the scarlet silk, as he held the pillow firm against the feeble struggling of the king.

Lesketh's good arm flayed like a gentle bird. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and then rose no more.

Kylock took his first breath as the king was denied his last. He was trembling. His knees felt such

weakness, and his stomach fluttered and threatened to turn. He willed himself to be strong: now was not

the time for weakness.He was king now and he doubted if there would ever be time for weakness again.

He lifted the pillow. Death had finally put a stop to Lesketh's drooling. The man who was not his father

looked better, more dignified, more noble. More like a king in death than he ever had in life.

Kylock patted the pillow back into shape and placed it, drool stain up, beneath Lesketh's chin. The

bedclothes were in disarray; twisted and untidy. He straightened the sheets, drawing them up so they

graciously adorned the dead king.

Satisfied that all looked as it should, Kylock took his leave. Down he went, his feet finding the path that

his eyes did not see. His sight was full of other images; images of a glorious coronation, of comforting his

distraught mother, of winning the war with the Halcus. His reign had started well. He had already

performed a great service to his country, ridding it of a weak and sickly king. It was a shame that one of

his greatest acts was destined to go unlauded by history. Never mind, he thought, he would give the

historians plenty of other things to write about in their dull and spineless books.

He found himself back in his chamber. The girl was there, exactly as he'd left her on the bed. He went

straight over to the washbasin and once again cleaned his hands. The smell of death was easier to wash

off than the smell of woman.

Drying his hands on a soft cloth, he moved over to his desk. A quick look back served to assure him

that the girl was still sound asleep. From under the foot of the desk he took a key. Delicately filigreed in

gold, it caught and played with the candlelight. A jeweled box opened upon its turning. With hands long

and agile he took the tiny portrait from the box. There she was: beautiful and innocent, far above any

other of her sex. Her purity of soul clearly marked on each perfect feature: Catherine of Bren. Not for

her a woman's lusts. She was pure and unsullied, the most perfect of women: and she was his.

Just the sight of her likeness threw the girl on the bed into tawdry relief. Catherine would not smell like a

whore. She would not be forever damned in hell like other women. Like his mother.

Kylock tenderly replaced the portrait, careful not to scratch its unblemished surface. He was king now.

Catherine would be his queen.

Off came his tunic and his fine silk undershirt. His image beckoned him from the shattered mirror, but he

paid it no heed. A black desire came upon him, and if he had but looked in the glass he would have seen

his eyes glaze over and grow dim. He would not have known himself. There was a hunger within and he

had no choice but to feed it, lest it feed itself upon his soul instead. He drew near the bed. The girl

moaned and turned away. He stood above her and, with hands that had killed a king, he ripped the linen

shift from her back.

Spiraling downward to a place where fear and desire met, Kylock lost himself to his need. The sgound

of his mother's voice was in his ear and the face of Catherine of Bren in his eye.

One

"All this riding is playing havoc with my rhoids, Grift."

"I know what you mean, Bodger. But it's good for one thing, though."

"What's that, Grift?"

"Regularity, Bodger. There's nothing like a good gallop to have you running for the nearest bush."

"You're a wise man, Grift." Bodger nodded his head in agreement while trying to keep his mule on track.

"Of course, I'm not so sure that you were right about us volunteering for this journey to Bren. I had no

idea we'd be assigned the worst duty in the whole crew."

"Aye, cleaning up after the horses leaves a lot to be desired, Bodger. It was bound to fall to us, though.

You and me being the lowest in rank. I still say that we were lucky to be allowed to come on this mission

in the first place. They wouldn't let any old soldiers go along with the royal guard. It's a distinct honor."

"So you keep reminding me, Grift." Bodger looked decidedly skeptical. "I just hope the women in Bren

are as willing and comely as you keep saying."

"They most certainly are, Bodger. Have I ever been wrong about women in the past?"

"I've got to give you that, Grift. There's not much you don't know about women."

The two men were bringing up the rear of a large column. They were over eight score in number; five

score of royal guard, a score of Maybor's own, together with various camp attendants and packhorses.

"I think I know what makes the Halcus so mean, Grift. This weather is terrible. A blizzard every day and

wind so cold it could freeze the juice from a tallow maker's molding."

"Aye, Bodger. Three weeks of this is more than enough for any man. In normal weather we would have

been in Bren by now. As it is, we're barely out of Halcus territory. Of course, the chilliest thing around

here ain't the weather."

"What d'you mean, Grift?"

"Lord Maybor and Baralis, that's what I mean, Bodger. Those two make the north wind seem like a

cool breeze."

"You're right there, Grift. They've been flinging each other looks as dark and deadly as an executioner's

hood since the day we started out." Bodger had to pull hard on his reins, as his mule had its own idea of

where it wanted to go, and it wasn't along with the pack.

"There's no love lost there, for sure. Have you noticed the way they won't even pitch their tents within a

tourney's length of each other?"

"That I have, Grift. Not to mention the fact that Maybor rides at the fore all day, fancying himself a king,

while Baralis brings up the rear like a wounded soldier."

"So you think me a wounded soldier, do you?" The two men turned around, startled, as Baralis rode up

between them. His face was deathly pale and his eyes glittered harshly with the reflected luster of the

snow.

Neither guard spoke: Bodger because he had been almost frightened from his saddle and was trying to

right himself, and Grift because he was clever enough to know when it was best not to speak.

The king's chancellor continued, a smile threatening but not quite forming, around his thin lips. "Come,

come now, gentlemen. Why so tongue-tied all of a sudden?" His beautiful voice belied the coldness of his

eyes. "You appeared so talkative only a moment ago. Am I to take it that the north wind has suddenly

frozen your tongues? Or is it that you are beginning to regret your glib words?"

Grift could see that Bodger was about to reply, and although his every instinct willed him to remain silent,

he knew that if he didn't speak up now, Bodger would get himself into even worse trouble. "My friend

here is young, Lord Baralis, and he partook of a little too much ale at breakfast. He meant nothing by his

remark. A jest, no more."

The king's chancellor reflected a moment before replying. A gloved hand rubbed idly at his chin. "Youth

is a poor excuse for stupidity; ale is an even poorer one." Grift opened his mouth to speak, but Baralis

forestalled him with a sudden gesture of the gloved hand. "Nay, man, protest no more. Let the matter rest

here, with you in my debt." He met the eyes of both guards, allowing his meaning time to be fully

comprehended. Satisfied, he rode forward, his black cloak spread out over the dock of his mare.

So even the camp attendants were gossiping about him! Still, there was solace to be gained in the fact

that both of the sniveling dolts were now beholden to him. Baralis had long since learned the value of

having people around who were indebted to him. It was a more valuable coinage than gold in a locked

chest. One could never tell when one might need to call upon the services of men such as those. After all,

guards usually guardedsomething of value.

Oh, but it was cold. Baralis felt chilled to his very soul. He longed for the warmth of his chambers and

the comfort of his own fire. It was his hands that suffered the worst. Even now, clad in fur-lined gloves,

the wind still cut through to the bone. His weak, deformed hands, so beautiful in youth; were now ruined

by his own ambition. The scarred and scant flesh was no match for the wind.

Snow two hands deep covered their path. It shifted with crafty precision with every bluster of air. As a

result, the way was treacherous. The foreguard had already lost one horse to lameness. The unfortunate

creature had misstepped by only an arm's length, but it was enough for it to find itself in a deep gully

masquerading as a benign stretch of snow. They had slaughtered the gelding where it fell.

They were now only a week away from Bren. Yesterday they had crossed the River Emm. There was

not a man in the party who hadn't sighed in relief upon traversing the mighty river. Not only was it a great

danger in itself, but more importantly, it marked the end of Halcus territory. The company had thought

themselves lucky to have successfully traveled through the lands of the enemy for ten days yet remain

undetected and unchallenged. Baralis knew differently.

The idea of using his contacts with the Halcus to sabotage the party and slaughter Maybor had been

tempting. There was nothing Baralis wanted more than the death of the vain and swaggering lord. It was

just too risky, though. A raid on their party could easily get out of hand. He, himself, might be

endangered. No, it was better not to chance his own safety. There were other less hazardous ways to rid

himself of Maybor.

The lord of the Eastlands had to be eliminated: it was a fact beyond questioning. Baralis would not

tolerate any interference with his plans in Bren. The betrothal negotiations would take subtlety and

cunning-two qualities that Maybor was sadly lacking in. More than that, the man was a threat: not just a

physical threat-though Baralis did not doubt that his own assassination was never far from the great lord's

thoughts but also a threat to the whole betrothal. Maybor had wanted his daughter to marry Prince

Kylock. His failure to secure such a union had embittered him against the new choice for bride.

Baralis scanned the column of men, searching. Near the front, astride a magnificent stallion, he spied the

object of his thoughts. Extravagantly robed in scarlet and silver was the lord himself. Even the way

Maybor sat his horse told of his over-bloated sense of self-importance. Baralis' lip curled into well-worn

lines of contempt at the very sight of him.

He simply could not allow Maybor to reach Bren alive. As king's envoy, the man was actually superior

to him! The queen had pulled a dirty trick with that particular appointment.He, king's chancellor, the very

person who was instrumental in bringing about the match between Prince Kylock and Catherine, should

have had preeminence in Bren. Instead the queen had appointed him prince's envoy, and in doing so had

made him subservient to Maybor.

He could not and would not endure such an indignity. The duke of Bren and his fair daughter were his

concern. Maybor had no business bringing his pot to this fire. Baralis was aware of the politics of both

appointments, but the queen would find all her cleverness unrewarded when news of Maybor's demise

reached the kingdoms.

There was no doubt about it. Today, this chill and frosty noon, with the north wind blowing like a siren

from the abyss, Maybor would meet his death.

Melli knew better than to open the shuttered window. There was a gale coming, and the scant stretch of

wood was the only thing between them and its ravages. As it was she wasn't sure the latch would hold.

Still, she suspected it might-she had always been lucky that way. The famous Maybor luck had served

her family well through the centuries. Or more accurately, it had served the Maybor men well, as they

seemed to drain all the luck from their women.

Not her, though. She was the first female of her family to be endowed with that most capricious of gifts.

Melli put her eye to the knot hole and peered out onto the northern plains of Halcus. Almost dazzled by

the brilliance of the snow, it took her a moment before she could discern any details of the land. The wind

had picked up since she'd last looked and was carrying the snow in its thrall. There was little to be seen:

white land against white sky. The snowy expanse was probably grazing pasture in the spring, but for now

it was laid out defenseless for winter to take its toll.

The bite of the cold grew too much for her eyes and Melli withdrew her gaze inward. With a scrap of

dirty oilcloth she plugged the knot hole. Turning, she caught Jack looking at her, and for some reason her

face flushed. Almost against her will, her hand smoothed her hair. It was foolish, she thought, that after

being away from the court and its customs for so long she still had the instincts of a court beauty. The

women of Castle Harvell had so many rules to live by: rules of conduct, rules of dress, rules of form.

Now that Melli had distanced herself from the great court, she realized all the rules could be summed up

in one: a woman must at all times strive to please a man.

Even now, after experiencing things that a court beauty could only guess at, Melli found herself falling

into the old habits of femininity, most particularly the habit of wanting to look nice for a man.

She smiled at her own folly. Jack, catching the mood of her smile, grinned in response. His keen and'

handsome face, made all the more appealing by his winter color, caused Melli to feel unaccountably

happy. Suddenly she was laughing: bright and high and merry as a tinker. Then Jack joined in. They

stood at opposite ends of the small but that had once been a chicken coop and laughed with each other.

She didn't know why Jack laughed, didn't even know why she herself laughed, she only knew it felt

good to do so. And for so long now there had been so little that felt good.

The weather had been against them from the start. Once they crossed into Halcus territory it had

become even worse. They had no knowledge of the land and had quickly lost their bearings. That,

together with the necessity of changing their course whenever they spotted another human being, had

caused them to lose their way. Melli had read tales in her childhood of people taking long journeys

guided only by the sun and the stars, but the reality was much different. What the tales failed to tell was

that in winter both the sun and the stars didn't put in an appearance for weeks on end. In the daytime the

sky was pale and filled with cloud, in the nighttime the sky was dark and filled with cloud.

The result was that they had little idea of where they lay in relation to Bren and Annis. The only thing

they knew for sure was that they were still somewhere in Halcus. The fact that they were still in the lands

of the enemy had been proven only two days back.

The weather had been getting progressively worse, and Melli had noticed that Jack was still having

problems with his injured shoulder. Oh, he tried to hide it, men always did things like that, both in tales

and reality. He had developed the habit of always slinging his pack over his left shoulder, thereby

keeping the strain from his right. Knee-deep in snow they walked, the wind robbing them of what little

warmth their clothes could muster. Eventually they came upon a derelict farmhouse. The farmer had long

since left, and for good reason: the place had been burnt to the timbers, leaving only a snow-covered

ruin.

A storm was threatening. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon and the wind wolfed at their heels. Weary

and bonecold, their spirits soared when behind a clump of bushes they discovered the chicken coop.

Located some distance from the farmhouse, the coop had stayed clear of any inflammatory sparks.

Melli knew there would be trouble when the door failed to give and the strain of a latch could clearly be

heard within. No door latched itself. Someone else had taken refuge in the coop. Jack's eyes met hers.

She could tell he was sizing up just how much she needed shelter. Without cover, the coming storm might

be their last. She shook her head slightly: better to walk away. The latched door meant people, and

people meant danger. Jack looked at her a second longer, registering her warning, and then turned his

gaze to the horizon. The storm lay poised to strike like a predator.

With a sudden, violent gesture, he kicked down the door. The latch gave way. The door collapsed

backward, its top hinge failing. In the coop were two men, knives drawn.

The first thing Melli felt was Jack's arm slamming into her chest, pushing her back out of harm's way.

She looked up from the snow in time to marvel at how quickly he drew his blade. A pig farmer's blade.

Melli could detect the sharp, loamy smell of ale. The two men had been drinking. They moved apart

warily, seeking to flank Jack. Jack stepped back from the threshold. Even to Melli's untutored eye it

seemed like a smart move. When the men attacked now, they would be forced to come through the

doorway one at a time.

The first man came forward. Knife before him, he slashed wildly at the air. Jack fell upon him. It was the

only way to describe it. Melli felt she was seeing him for the first time: he was wild with fury. What he

lacked in skill, he made up for in rage. It seemed to Melli that Jack was fighting much more than the man

beneath him. In the struggle--which the stranger was destined to lose-Jack was fighting against fate and

circumstance and even perhaps himself. Every vicious blow was a strike against something less

substantial, yet more threatening than his opponent.

The second man moved forward. Melli screamed a warning. "Jack! Look out! He's behind you." He

swung around and the man, probably scared at what he saw in Jack's face, fled. He ran awkwardly

through the thick snow, leaving deep pits where his feet had stepped.

The first man was dead: a pig-knife to the gut. Jack stood up. He would not look at her. He'd stumbled

into the but and she'd followed, carefully skirting the body and the blood.

Neither had mentioned it since. Melli's thoughts were another matter. Jack was growing more

withdrawn. He was as considerate as ever, yet there was something within him that could quickly turn

and show an edge. The Halcus soldier had seen the sharpness of it. In a way, Melli was grateful the man

had been killed by a knife; the alternative was worse. Jack had a greater potential for destruction within

him than an armory of blades.

Melli was secretly intrigued by the thought of sorcery. Oh, she'd been taught as a child that it was evil,

and that it was only practiced by those close with the devil. Her father flatly refused to believe in it, saying

it was a thing out of legend like dragons and fairies, but she'd heard tales here and there. Tales that told

of how at one time, sorcery was common in the Known Lands, and that people who used it were neither

good nor bad. Surely Jack was proof of this?

If anything, since she'd witnessed his power the day they'd escaped from the mercenaries, she found

herself more attracted to him. Before he had been almost a boy: unsure of himself and awkward, with

long legs and long hair. The power he'd drawn seemed to fill him out, like fluid poured into a waterskin.

His presence was more compelling, his body more his own. He was maturing fast, and sorcery, with all

its accompanying hearsay and heresy, endowed him with an aura that Melli found hard to resist.

Jack had his weaknesses, though. Melli worried in case the bitterness she had glimpsed in his attack

upon the Halcus soldier might settle and form part of the man.

Suddenly Melli didn't feel like laughing anymore. She resisted the urge to unplug the knot hole and check

the horizon one more time. They had paid dearly for this chicken coop, and there might yet be an even

higher price to pay.

As if reading her thoughts, Jack spoke to comfort her. "Don't worry. No one will come," he said. "The

soldier can't have gone far, and even if he made it to a village, no one is about to go chasing the enemy in

this weather."

It was her fault. If she hadn't spoken up in warning, the man would never have known where they came

from. Yet she had, and the sound of the lilting accent of the Four Kingdoms had been clearly heard. If

she had only kept silent, the man might have mistaken them for his own. He would, of course, have been

no less pleased about having his shelter and his companion taken from him. But such incidents were all

too common in both countries, and it might have gone overlooked. Until she spoke.

Now the man who had escaped across the snowy field knew they were from the kingdoms. If he were

to make it to a village, he could bring whatever forces were at hand down upon them with just two

words: "The enemy."

The Halcus hated the Four Kingdoms with the deep hate that only comes with closeness. Neighbors

they had been for centuries, but everyone knows it's one's neighbors one despises the most. The war had

raged bitterly for five years now; the same war over the same river that had been fought countless times

before. More blood than water flowed along the River Nestor's bitterly disputed banks. The kingdoms

had the advantage at the moment: a fact that served to make the Halcus hate them all the more.

"He might not have recognized your accent. You only said a few words." Jack took three strides across

the coop and was beside her.

Melli shook her head gently and offered her hand. He took it and they stood side by side, and listened to

the sound of the advancing storm. They were trapped here; fleeing under these conditions would surely

bring a more certain death than staying put and hoping no one would come. As long as the storm raged,

they would be safe. Only fools and the love-sick dared to venture out in a blizzard.

Her hand rested in his. There was no pressure in his touch, but part of her wished that there was.

Inexplicably, her thoughts turned toward the king's chancellor, Lord Baralis.

And then, as she realized the common thread between the past and the present, she withdrew her hand

from Jack's. It was the touch; a touch remembered-many weeks back now -a touch that thrilled and

repulsed in one. The memory of Baralis' hand upon her spine. Curious how the mind weaves its

associations, sometimes weaving with unlooked-for irony. Two men, both with more than muscle to lend

them strength.

Melli wondered if she had offended Jack by withdrawing her hand. She couldn't tell. He was so difficult

to read, and the time they'd spent together had only made him more so. She couldn't begin to guess what

he thought of her. That he cared for her safety was the only thing she knew for certain. The force with

which he had pushed her away from the two men was proof of that.

Still, what did he think of her? A court lady, daughter of Lord Maybor. A noblewoman standing next to

a baker's apprentice.

Sometimes Jack was tormented in his sleep. With eyes closed and face slick with sweat, he would toss

restlessly on his bedroll, calling words she seldom caught the meaning of.

Just over two weeks back, within the shelter of an evergreen wood, he'd had his worst night of all.

Melli had awoken, she knew not why. It was one of those rare nights when the wind had ceased and the

cold stopped biting. Instinctively she looked over to Jack. She could tell right away he was having a

nightmare. His cheeks were hollow and the tendons on his neck were raised and taut. He became

agitated, pushing his cloak and blanket from his body. "No!" he murmured. "No."

Melli sat up, deciding she would go over and wake him. Before she could stand, a chilling sound broke

the silence of the wood.

"Stop!" cried Jack.

With that cry, the nature of the night and the universe seemed to change. It became more vivid, more

intimate, and then more terrible. The torment and the sense of urgency conveyed in that one word made

Melli's blood run cold. Jack was silent once more and drifted into a more restful sleep. No such sleep for

her that night. The moonlight had withdrawn upon Jack's call and now came the darkness. Melli lay

awake through the artificial stillness of the night, afraid that if she fell asleep and then woke in the morning,

the world might have changed whilst she slept.

She shuddered and wrapped her cloak closer. Jack was back in his corner, slicing the wet bark from the

logs. The but was too small to have a fire, and with the shutters closed there would be no ventilation, but

he prepared one anyway. He didn't like to be idle.

Melli unplugged the knot hole for the tenth time that day. She told herself it was to check on the progress

of the storm. But the storm was coming from the east, and Melli's gaze was to the west. Almost blinded

by the whiteness, Melli searched for movement from the direction where the second man had headed.

Tavalisk lifted the cloth from the cheese and inhaled deeply. Perfect. Amateurs might first check the look

of the cheese, seeing if the blue veining was substantial but still delicate. He knew better. It was the smell

J. V. Jones - The Book Of Words 2 - A Man Betrayed

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