Master and Fool (12 page)

Catherine watched
the pair go. There was something strange about the two of them ... they were
matched in height and coloring. Even their very movements seemed the same. No
footfalls sounded as they walked. Catherine shook her head slowly, unwilling to
carry her thoughts further.

Kylock and Baralis
were from the same country, the same court; it was hardly unusual that they
bore the same facade. Overcome with a sudden desire to rest, Catherine
dismissed her court with a wave of her hand. She was tired, drained, sharply
aware of her vulnerability. Kylock was so much more than she had expected, and
his presence had unnerved her. In eight days she would be his wife. Turning,
she made her way to her chambers. Never in her life had she felt more alive
than when King Kylock held her hand.

"The trout is
coming along nicely, Grift. A few more minutes and it will be as fine as fish
can be."

"I've never
cared for fish myself, Bodger. But it is good for a man's plums."

"His plums,
Grift?"

"Aye, Bodger,
his plums. A man will never have a problem with his hernies as long as he eats
lots of fish. "

"Why's that,
Grift?"

"Fish increases
a man's power of suspension, if you get my drift, Bodger Two trout a day and
your plums will be so supple they'll be bouncing off the floor."

Bodger looked
doubtful. "I'm not so sure that sounds like a benefit, Grift."

"It's not for
me to decide what's best, Bodger. I'm merely here to give you all the
facts." Grift nodded wisely and Bodger nodded back.

"Here, d'you
think I should take a trout to Tawl, Grift?"

"No, Bodger.
Best stay clear of him today, it being the Feast of Borc's First Miracle and all.
It's the most holy of days for knights, and bringing Tawl a fish will only
serve to salten the wound."

"Aye, Grift.
I think you're right. I saw him earlier and he looked right through me. Lady
Melliandra tried to comfort him, but he just sent her away."

"You can
hardly blame the man, Bodger. Every knight who was ever knighted lets his blood
for Borc today. Tawl will be feeling the loss of his circles keenly."

"How does the
story go again, Grift?"

"Well, Borc,
as you know, was a shepherd in the foothills of the Great Divide. One day he's
protecting his flock and along comes a pack of hunger-crazed wolves. They chase
Borc and his flock right up to the Faldara Falls. Well, Borc has nowhere to go
and so he pleads to God for guidance, and before the words have left his mouth
the falls turn to ice. Every spit of water, every fish on the fin: all frozen
in an instant. So Borc and his sheep cross the falls, and as soon as the wolves
step onto the ice, everything melts and the predators go plunging to their
death."

Bodger sighed
impatiently. "Everyone knows that story, Bodger. It's how Valdis fits in
that I'm not clear on."

"Right. Why
didn't you say so in the first place, then?" Grift downed a mouthful of
ale and settled himself back on his chair. "Well, as you know Valdis was
the first man to become a disciple of Borc's. And when Borc traveled to the Far
South in search of truth, Valdis stayed in the north to spread the word.
Anyway, ten years to the day after the miracle at Faldara Falls, Valdis is
preaching along its bank to an angry and disbelieving mob. They begin to shout
at him, saying there was no miracle and that anyone who tried to cross the
falls would surely die."

"Well, being
flesh and blood like he was, Valdis knows there's no way he can perform a miracle,
so he does something else instead: the First Act of Faith. He jumps into the
river and lets the current take him over the falls."

"Naturally
everyone thinks he's a goner, he'd likely be crushed by the rocks the minute he
hits the falls. So the mob walks home to their wives and children and promptly
forget all about him. But somehow Valdis survived-how, no one knows for sure,
though most say it was God's reward for his faith---and he makes his way back
to the village. The villagers are so overcome by the sight of him that they
fall to their knees and pledge themselves to Borc. Valdis kisses each and every
one of them on the forehead, and then leaves, telling them it is their duty to
go forth and spread the word." Grift drained his cup, indicating the end of
the story.

"Valdis was a
very brave man, Grift," said Bodger softly.

"Aye, Bodger,
and the knighthood he started was supposed to carry on his ideals."

"Poor Tawl.
It must distress him to see the way the knighthood has fallen."

"If you ask
me, Bodger, he's lucky to be out of it."

"If you could
have seen his face this morning, Grift, you'd know that's the last of his
thoughts. He just sat in his windowseat and looked out toward the south."

"The city of
Valdis lies to the south, Bodger."

"Aye. And
Tawl's heart lies with it this day."

Baralis closed the
door behind himself. He thought for a moment and then drew the bolt. Kylock was
in the palace now, and somehow his presence changed everything.

The boy had grown
in many ways since Baralis had last seen him. Indeed, he was no longer a boy at
all. A man. A king. A ruler of men. Oh, how his presence dominated the great
hall! How everyone strained to hear his every word, and how they all breathed a
sigh of relief as he left. There was no doubt about it: Kylock was born to be
an emperor. He was
begot
for it. But he was so young, so inexperienced,
so bright with all the ruthlessness of youth. He had to be molded, his
decisions gently guided, his policies shaped to curves of greater subtlety.

Seeing Kylock this
morning had been like seeing a different person. He would be no willingly
manipulated halfman. He was whole, vibrant, and ready to take control.

Baralis permitted
himself the smallest of smiles. Well, not quite whole. The sparkling drug named
ivysh had already seen to that.
Ivysh
stopped sorcery from flowing
through the body, and while Kylock continued to be addicted to it he would be
unable to draw upon the source. The fact that the new king was still taking it
was no longer in doubt. He reeked of it: his hair, his clothes, his breath. The
side effects he covered up well, though.

Ivysh
promoted
madness in some, paranoia in others, and destructive delusions in all. Men in
Hanatta took it to bring themselves closer to God. Women in Hanatta took it to
forget about the cruelty of their men, and children in Hanatta were given
ivysh-coated
rags to suck on when they cried too much. Baralis had tasted it only once,
in the mouth of his teacher's young niece. He never tried it again:
self-control was not something he relinquished lightly.

The fact that
Kylock managed to take the drug and still retain the semblance of sanity was
nothing short of remarkable. Five years he had taken it. Baralis could not
begin to guess at the long-term effects of its use. Yet despite everything
Kylock appeared to be faring well. A remarkable young man, indeed.

Baralis felt a
trace of paternal pride. He worked quickly to suppress it: now was not the time
for self-congratulation. There were things he must do, tasks he had been
putting off for several days now, while he gave his body a chance to recover
from the incident with Maybor at the tavern. Baralis sat by his fire and Crope
came to pour him some holk. "Ready my potions, Crope. I have a long
journey to make." The drawings he had performed at the Brimming Bucket had
left him badly weakened, and only now did he have the strength to forsake
himself. Baralis drank his holk slowly, putting off the final moment for as
long as possible. He hated leaving his body. When mind was separated from
flesh, when the soul pulled away from the body that fed it, and when the heart
pumped blood around an empty shell, time was of the essence-and dangers as
terrible as insentience and madness lurked in dark spaces waiting to strike.
Taking a deep breath, Baralis began his preparations: the powder, the leaf, the
blood. He inhaled the mixture deeply and then fell back into the waiting arms
of Crope. The terrible lightness never failed to shock. Baralis kept his
thoughts weighty, lest his mind rise high above the firmament never to return.
His body screamed in protest, but already he was too far away to acknowledge
the loss. Up and up he went, through layers of clouds and thinning bands of air
pressure, the rotation of the world bending his ascent. Strange how he felt the
cold. Heat, wind, and water left him unaffected, but the cold had a power all
its own.

Before he knew it
he was there. The temple at Larn lay below him: a stone rectangle on an island
that was shaped like a pear. Down through slate and rock and wood he traveled,
into the chamber they had prepared for his mooring. Four men, a table, four
candles, and a bowl.

"Welcome
Baralis," said the first of the four.

Baralis took a
moment to still himself. If he'd had breath he would be breathless. This time
he did not make the mistake of shaping himself a form-he would not waste his
energy on a trifle to please the priests. "I have come in search of
answers."

"You have
come to the right place, but what will you give us in return?"

"Not my soul,
if that is what you think."

"You have no
soul, Baralis. You survive on ambition alone."

Baralis flexed his
will and all four candles went out. "I will listen to no condemnation from
Larn."

The eldest of the
four spoke quickly. "Say what you want, Baralis."

They already knew
why he'd come, he was sure of it. They just liked to play their games.
"The duke's newly bereaved wife is with child. I need to know if it is a
boy or a girl."

The four were
silent for a moment, exchanging whatever secret messages they needed to
exchange. After a moment the youngest priest spoke up. "III tidings for
you, I'd say, Baralis."

"A boy,
then." It was as direct an answer as he was ever likely to get from Larn.
He moved quickly along: it was never wise to give the priests too long to
think. "When will Annis and Highwall move against Bren?"

The youngest
tut-tutted. "Now, now, Baralis. A favor for a favor first."

Baralis was
prepared for this. If there was one thing Larn was famous for, it was always
extracting its price. He spoke slowly, relishing every word. "I know the
identity of the one whom you fear."

No one breathed
for the longest moment. Then the eldest whispered, "Go on."

"A baker's
boy from Castle Harvell is the one who can destroy you. Jack is his name, and
he used to be my scribe."

"Where is he
now?" hissed the youngest.

Baralis was
beginning to enjoy himself. He wished he had shoulders to shrug.
"Somewhere west of Bren-Helch, Annis, who knows?"

"What makes
you so sure of what you say?"

"Aah, my
friend, do I ask you how the seers spin their tales?" Baralis wasn't about
to tell them of Marod's prophecy--let them figure that one out on their own.
Marod spoke of many things that were no concern of Larn's.

"And what of
the knight who seeks the boy called Jack?"

"I believe he
is still in Bren. 'Twould be near impossible for him to smuggle a pregnant
woman and her aging father out of the city." Baralis couldn't resist a
jibe. "But surely you know that already?"

"We cannot
force our seers to see."

"You would if
you could." Baralis changed the timbre of his thoughts. He was tired of
trading jibes, and time was running out. "Tell me what you know of
Highwall's plans."

"Their plans
are no longer their own. Their troops will not leave their city until the
marriage has taken place."

"Why will
they wait until then?"

"Because the
one who pays the piper picks the tune."
Tavalisk Rorn's
scheming
archbishop was financing the buildup to war. Yet what benefit would he gain by
waiting? Baralis felt himself wavering. The blood-pull of his body called him
back.

"Going so
soon, Baralis?" taunted the youngest.

"A
proposition before you do," said the eldest. "Track down and destroy
the knight and the boy, and we will direct your hand in the war."

The words I agree
sounded over half a continent as Baralis succumbed to the cravings of his
flesh.

Jack felt the
hairs on the back of his neck bristle like a dog's. It was damp and cool with a
light breeze blowing, but nothing could explain the sensation he'd just felt.
It was as if a dark shadow had passed over him.

Jack pulled his
new cloak close. The sky was growing dimmer by the minute. It was dusk, and
from where he stood, at the side of the road leading up to the mountains, Jack
could see all of Annis below him. He had decided not to return to Stillfox.
There was too much risk: the city would be crawling with people looking for
him. The road leading to the herbalist's village was too busy--a hundred people
might recognize him. In fact, walking to the city in the first place had been
nothing short of foolish. According to Stillfox, his likeness was posted all
over Annis.

No. It was for the
best that he didn't go back. He would only be placing Stillfox in danger. And
even though the man may have hidden the truth about Melli from him, he hardly
deserved to be branded a traitor. Jack didn't know what the penalty for
harboring a notorious war criminal would be, but he could guess it would
involve torture, then death.

Jack began to walk
up the narrow mountain path. Even though he knew he was doing the right thing
by not returning to say farewell to Stillfox, he couldn't help but feel bad.
The herbalist would assume that he had taken off in a fit of anger vowing never
to return. Well, that was what life was all about, wasn't it? A series of
misunderstandings, halftruths, and regrets?