Master and Fool (83 page)

So I wrote this
letter. And gave it to Crope with instructions that he pass it on to you only
if Larn was destroyed: an explanation if you ever needed one, a lifetime of
blissful ignorance if you did not.

I ask for your
forgiveness, Jack, for I know the prophecy demands more from you than Larn
alone, and as I lie here now, with my mind and body silently drifting away from
me, I would change it if I could. I will love you always,

Aneska

Jack leant back
against the wooden brace and slowly slid to the floor. Dropping the letter to
his lap, he closed his eyes. The darkness was soft and welcoming, like a
velvetlined glove. There had been so much he hadn't known.

The hunting
lodge-he and Melli had been there. He had picked up the copy of Marod's
Book
of Words,
held it in his hands, and read the note that dropped from its
pages. The letter his mother never received, the farewell she thought had never
been given. Jack shook his head. So much he had simply failed to see.

So much he had
misunderstood. His mother's illness
-he
had thought she refused the
medicines because she didn't want to go on living. Now he knew the truth. And
even as the old pain was taken away, it was replaced by something new. She had
died because she thought the prophecy was hounding her into it. Afraid, in
pain, and with no one to confide in, she had spurned the help of the physicians
and surrendered to her fate.

A hard lump rose
in Jack's throat. So much he had misjudged.

From as early as
he could remember he thought his father had abandoned him Unwanted and
unwelcome, he thought his birth had driven his father away. Yet now he had been
told that his father never knew he existed--hadn't even known his mother was
pregnant. Everything had been den from the start.

Jack brought up
his knees and rested his head against them How could he blame a man for not
knowing he had a son? He had read the note from his father to his mother.
Lesketh did not seem the sort of man who would have shunned a woman he cared
for.
She
had shunned him.

A lifetime's worth
of anger began to dissipate. Hate, which Jack had held so close for so long he
was hardly aware of it, drained from him with every breath. He remembered
Falk's words about his own father.
"He was just
a
man--not evil,
not
cunning,
not deserving of punishment. "
Jack had wanted to
believe them at the time, now finally he could.

His father wasn't
a callous monster who had deserted them He was simply a man who had never
known.

Jack stood up. As
the anger left him, a rigid sense of purpose rose up to fill the void. He felt
strong and clearheaded. He knew everything now: where he came from, who his
parents were, what he had to do and why. It didn't matter that he was a bastard
son of a king--that was nothing. The only thing that mattered was that he had
finally learnt the truth.

Looking up, he
went to thank Crope one more time, but the giant servant was nowhere to be
seen. Jack wasn't really surprised: Crope's first loyalty would always be to
Baralis.

Jack reached down
into his boot and felt for his second knife. It was still there, strapped
against the lining, pressing against his shin. Pulling it out, he unwrapped the
linen-clad blade. Against all odds it had managed to keep its edge. Jack
smiled. It was time to put Marod's prophecy to rest.

Darkness was the
only thing left to him now. The world of light had passed beyond his reach.

He sat in the
center of a halo of shadow, his hands scrubbed raw and dripping blood. There
was no cleaning them now. The taint was no longer on the skin, it was in it. In
the skin, in the tissue. In the blood. Melliandra had fled, and with her had
gone his one chance of redemption. Only the filthy nightmare world remained.

He had taken
neither food nor drink since she had escaped. Even his little white parcels of
ivysh lay disregarded by the side of his bed. He couldn't bring himself to take
anything that might have been touched by a hand without a glove.

Strange, but he
felt a certain sense of expectancy now that his head was clear. It was almost
as if he were waiting for someone, or something, to come and try him like a
god.
Let them come,
he thought negligently. He had nothing to fear from
any man. Women were the blade sent to kill.

Shifting his
position upon the fanned-out cloak of silk, Kylock brought a skinless fingertip
to his lips. It smelled and tasted of his mother. Long dead, but still present
in the slow corruption of his flesh. Everything led back to her. Right from the
first moment his life had been flawed: cradled in a womb that stank like a
brothel, then sent to a nursemaid for suckling because the whore's milk would
not run. He didn't have a chance. Character flowed from mother to son, and he
was what she had been, and all her sins were his.

People would have
to pay---as people always did-for if he wasn't a king by birthright, then he
would make himself one by blood.

The empire was
young yet; it needed to be crafted by an iron will and stretched wide to span a
continent. Already the darkness was closing in with its gifts. Kylock saw
strategies before him like paintings in black and white: cities, towns, rivers,
roadways, battlements, and men. Patterns emerged from the lines and
curves-patterns of power and control. Just today word had come that Camlee had
fallen. Now he saw that heading back toward Ness was a mistake: the city of
Falport was ripe for the taking. Everyone was expecting his forces to turn
north--surprise would be his greatest ally. The conquest of Falport would not
only give him a fleet, it would position him to take the south.

Suddenly Kylock
felt the skin of his face flare into a blush. A warm ripple passed over him and
a sense of imminent danger wetted his tongue. He was neither displeased nor
afraid.

Sitting in the
dark, a soft smile playing at his lips, Kylock began to plan his next campaign:
battalions to be readied, mercenaries to be recruited, alliances to be made and
broken. He plotted a line of towns and villages to be destroyed in order to spread
fear and prompt swift surrender, and made a mental note to have all women of
childbearing age slaughtered on sight. No opposing army would be bred in his
lifetime.

Gradually, as the
hour passed, Kylock became resigned to his fate. Now that salvation was no
longer possible, glorious damnation was all he had left.

Try as he might,
Jack could not remember the route he had previously taken through the tunnels.
He found the entrance quickly enough, and even thought to light a torch on the
furnace flame, but once he was inside the confined, stagnant passageways, he
lost all sense of direction. Every wall looked the same and every turning
promised to be the one to take him upward.

Time was against
him. Crope had almost certainly gone to tell his master that he still lived,
and as soon as Baralis realized that Jack was no longer in the dungeon, he
would head straight for Kylock's chamber. Jack's mind flashed back to the
incident by the stairs: he didn't want Baralis lying in wait for him ever
again.

Finally, after taking
yet another turning that ended in a brick wall, Jack forced himself to stop and
think. How could he find his way to Kylock's chamber? He had no choice but to
use the tunnels; walking through the palace in daylight was as good as suicide,
especially now with all the guards on alert. Taking a few long breaths to calm
himself, Jack tried to replay his footsteps in his head. Nothing. His mind had
been so full of Kylock at the time, so overwhelmed with the nearness of his
presence ...

That was it. He
had to concentrate on Kylock--on the thread that lay between them. He had to
reel himself in.

It wasn't easy to
concentrate with time ticking away in his head. Everything was a distraction:
the confined space, the thick black smoke of the torch, the flickering shadows
that all looked like Baralis. Seconds gave way to minutes, and worry gave way
to desperation. Casting the torch to the floor, Jack stamped out the light.

The darkness was a
relief. No more shadows, or endless passageways, or wrong turns on show. With
nothing for his eyes to see, Jack's other senses were forced into service.
Sounds, smells, tastes, and textures began to take on the importance of visual
cues. When he had first sensed Kylock's presence last time, it had been in the
dark. It was the same this time, too. The first thing Jack felt was a warm
flush across his left temple. The warmth spread over his cheek and down the
left side of his neck. Turning to face the warmth, Jack became aware of a
rushing noise in his ears. The sound pulsed as he took a step forward,
gradually increasing in intensity as he made his way along the corridor.

Before long, Jack
forgot he was in the dark. He saw things with his skin. Blood bloomed to the
surface, pointing the way like a needle in a compass. He never saw turnings
approach, he just took them blindly, trusting in the shifting warmth of his
face.

By the time he
came to the second flight of stairs, he was as good as sleepwalking. Up and up
he went, not caring about the dangers of misstepping, not interested in keeping
track of his route. Not long now. Not long before the trail of blood warmth,
blood pressure, and gut instinct led him straight to Kylock's door.

"What was his
physical state?" Baralis pulled on his robe. Already the drug was working,
strengthening the body, clearing the mind, its artificial brilliance shaping a
world full of edges.

"He looked
fair pale, master. But his wits were about him and I never saw him limp."

Crope was the
picture of poorly concealed guilt. Baralis guessed that his servant had not
told him the whole story of Jack's miraculous return to life. No matter, there
would be time for questioning later. Right now he had more immediate matters to
attend to. "Is he armed?"

"No master. I
took his sword and his knife from his belt just like you told me." Crope
rolled his big thumbs round in circles. "He's still wearing mail, though.
I was going to take it off him, only I forgot."

All thoughts
deserted Baralis as the drug sank its barbs into his mind. His heartbeat raced
and his vision blurred, and he was forced to reach for Crope's bulk to keep
himself standing. Seconds later the turn had passed. A thimble's dose of the
drug was all he had taken, but its potency was enough to make even such small
amounts dangerous. In return for the physical risks, it bestowed temporary
strength upon its taker. Enough for one tolerable drawing, no more. Normally
Baralis would never take such a crude and potentially harmful potion, but the
moment he learnt that Jack was not dead, he knew he had no other choice. The
drawing of two nights back had left him physically and mentally weak, and right
now he needed something,
anything,
that could give him a short burst of
power. Subtle healings took Lime, and with Jack roaming the depths of the
palace, time was the one thing he didn't have.

It was the one
thing Jack had, though. The one amazing thing. Not once, but twice it had
turned in his favor. First the loaves and now himself. The baker's boy had been
deador as close enough as counted-yet now he lived; his body free of scars and
wounds. A drawing must have been poised upon his tongue at the moment of his
death and had leaked from his lips with his last breath and spittle.

Baralis cursed his
own frailty. If he had been stronger, he would have been able to detect the subtle
festering of time. He had been looking for the wrong thing: the mighty blast,
the terrible sundering, the drawing that would shake a wall. Jack's magic had
been a delicate embroidery, unraveling its power over two nights and a day. It
had passed Baralis by like a shadow at dusk.

Pulling himself up
to his full height, Baralis tested the work of the drug. He wasn't weak now; he
could perceive the lines of force, feel the unnatural curvature of time. All
his senses were heightened, and his thoughts were as sharp, clear, and deadly
as a jagged spike of glass.

He turned to
Crope. "Are you sure you came straight here from the cellar? You didn't
dawdle around the courtyard to look at the birds?" He needed to know how
long Jack had been left on his own.

"No, master.
I gave Jack the letter, and--"

"The
letter?"

Already looking
guilty, Crope now looked condemned.

"The letter
his mother asked to me to give him if Lam was ever destroyed."

"What?"

"Lucy, the
ashmaid. She asked me to keep a letter for Jack until-"

"What was in
this letter?"

"Don't know,
master. Never looked."

Baralis' eyes
narrowed. It was pointless speculating on the contents of the letter, but
perhaps some use could be made of its existence. "What did this letter
look like?"

"Like every
other letter, master."

"Was it
sealed? Was it rolled, folded, or tied with string."

"Folded, with
a dark red seal."

Baralis went over
to his desk. He picked a faded parchment at random, folded it and, tipping the
edge of his sealing block to the flame, dripped bloodred wax onto the crease.
Holding it up toward Crope, he asked, "Is this what it looked like?"

Crope nodded
enthusiastically. "Yes, master. Yes."

"Good. Come
with me."

Jack had reached
the end of the tunnels. A glimmer of light sliced through the cracks in the
stone, marking the presence of torches on the other side. Jack had no way of
knowing if he had taken the same route laid out by Nabber, so he sent a quick
prayer to Borc as he placed his hands on the wall:
No guards. Please.