A Man Betrayed (70 page)

All the time he
was speaking, Tawl was acutely aware of Melli's nearness. She smelled fresh and
clean. Her dark hair shone brilliantly and her skin was so smooth it was like
touching sun-warmed marble. She had been in the duke's palace for four days
now, and her appearance changed everytime he saw her. She was growing stronger
and plumper, the dark circles around her eyes had disappeared, and there was
color in her cheeks. Gone was the thin, pale girl he had first set eyes on. In
her place was a woman, strong and vibrant, with a mind and will of her own.

He was beginning
to realize what the duke saw in her. The precautions for the ride had proven
unnecessary. Tawl was almost certain that the falconer had spoken to no one
before he was confined, and therefore tales of the proposal had no chance to
spread. The only danger during the journey had been the incessant rain. The
ground quickly became slippery and waterlogged, and the horses had to be
prodded into making every step. Fearing for Melli's health, he had stripped off
his outer cloak and wrapped it around her. Looking back sometime later, he had
caught a glimpse of her face. She looked ill: skin gray and shiny, lips drawn
together in pain. Lifting her from her own horse, he had put her on the back of
his. The ride had taken nine hours, where normally it took six, and Melli spent
most of it resting against his back, hands clinging around his waist, silent
all the way.

The duke had come
down to the stables to greet them when they arrived. By this time they had both
dismounted, and Melli never mentioned the fact that she had ridden most of the
way at Tawl's back. Neither did he. Tawl saw the way that the duke looked at
his bride-to-be, and although the man had encouraged him to become friends with
Melli, he doubted if he would be pleased to learn that for nearly half a day
they had sat so close to each other that even the rain couldn't come between
them.

For Tawl the
journey had been a time to think. Brought up in the marshlands, he loved the
rain. He grew up to the sound of it falling. The taste, smell, and touch of it
brought back memories older than the woman he rode with. His earliest
recollection was lying in his cradle, listening to the slow drip of water as it
leaked through the thatch. His mother never bothered having the roof repaired,
she` said there was never enough money to pay the thatcher, but Tawl suspected
she liked to watch the raindrops as much as he. After the rain had stopped was
the best of all. His mother would gather all the water from the waiting pots
and pans, put it into her best copper pot, add various herbs and spices, and
then warm it over a gentle flame. Nothing in his life had ever tasted better
than his mother's rainwater holk.

Tawl's thoughts
drifted from childhood to knighthood, from his quest to his oath, from his past
to his present. There was much he left untouched. Some things were still too
painful to think about. Some things would always be too painful to think about.

He had found a
certain peace within himself on the journey in the rain. He had a purpose here
in Bren, and a sworn oath to bind him to it. Loyalty was in his blood: he
needed someone or something to give his life to. It had always been that way.
Ever since his mother had made him swear to look after his sisters, he had
existed to serve others. It was what he was born for.

Now that his ties
to the knighthood had been broken, fealty to the duke had taken its place. The
quest was in the past-he had accepted that now. It was far better to put the
failure behind him than to relive it every night in the pits.

The one thing that
dragged him back was the letter. It plagued his dreams and shadowed his days.
He would never know what Bevlin wanted to say to him. The wiseman's words were
gone forever, the paper rotting in a roadside along with the slops and the
dirt. With all his heart, he wished he could have taken it from Moth and Clem.
If only they had found him earlier, before he'd sworn himself to the duke,
things would have been different.

Loyalty had its
price, and it always closed more doors than it opened. The wiseman's quest was
one of those closed doors. It had to be. Tawl knew himself too well: if he had
taken that letter from Moth and Clem and read it there, down the darkened
alleyway with the stench of the abattoir filling his lungs and the scurry of
rats as accompaniment to the text, he would never have returned to the palace.
No matter what the letter said, what promises it held, what explanations it
gave, or what favors it asked, he would have been bound by them. Once he knew
the contents, the city of Bren would not have been able to hold him.

Which would have
meant two oaths broken, not one. Good work could be done here. His presence was
of value. The Known Lands were dissolving into a whirlpool in front of his very
eyes. Forces were coming together, and as they vied with each other for
mastery, they formed a current so strong that they sucked others in with it. At
best the whirlpool promised the redistribution of power in the north, at worst
war and destruction. One thing was certain: Bren was at its center.

And Melli, proud
and beautiful and with secrets to hide, was about to become the eye of the
storm. The danger to her life was real, especially once the engagement was
officially announced. There would be those who wanted her dead. Catherine, the
duke's daughter, was one of them; Kylock's chancellor, Baralis, was another.
Not to mention a court full of nobles; bound together by generations of petty
rivalries, they would not look kindly on their duke marrying an outsider
instead of one of their own.

Another factor was
the lady herself. Melli was not who she said she was. Her accent placed her
from the kingdoms, and her bearing placed her in the nobility. Tawl could not
believe she was an illegitimate daughter of a minor lord. She was too
nonchalant about being in a palace, too comfortable with luxury and command to
be a naive member of the country gentry.

Well, if she was
lying it wasn't his concern.
Protecting
her was. Melli was his
responsibility, and guarding her had become the most important thing in his
life. For over a week now, he had watched her day and night, afraid to leave
her door for even an instant in case he returned to find her gone.
She
would
not end up dead in his absence like his sisters. He would never make that same
mistake again, and protecting Melli was his one chance to prove that to
himself. Keeping her safe would never make up for his sisters' deaths, but
perhaps, just perhaps, it might prevent them from being in vain. The past could
not be changed, but it could be learned from. And that, Tawl had realized long
ago, was the best he could ever hope for.

The door opened
and in walked the duke. Tawl had his hand on Melli's hand and his arm around
her waist.

Melli pulled away.
"I've had enough of your self-defense lessons for one day, Tawl," she
said, her voice conveying boredom and irritability in equal amounts. Turning to
the duke, she added, "A woman can only take so much thrust and parry
before she gets battle weary and needs to eat." Tawl could not help
admiring her quick wittedness. She had turned a potentially embarrassing
situation into something perfectly innocent. Both of them had been enjoying the
lesson in knifeplay, and they had, without realizing it, moved closer together,
so that their bodies now stood only a finger's length apart. Tawl chided
himself for his stupidity. He should have known better than to draw Melli into
a position that could have compromised her honor. As a knight he had been
trained to protect a lady's reputation at all cost.

Hearing her words
and tone, however, the duke seemed satisfied; his expression visibly relaxed.
He walked over to Melli and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "So,
Melliandra, you have been learning the art of self-defense?"

"Tawl
insisted upon it. He says it's no use me having a blade if I cannot handle it
properly."

The duke nodded
and looked at Tawl. "You are right, my friend. I am glad you thought to
teach her." There was genuine gratitude in his voice. "If anything
happened, and you or I weren't around, I would feel better knowing that Melliandra
could at least put up a fight."

Tawl wanted to say
that he would always be by Melli's side, but he judged it prudent to hold his
tongue. Instead, he bowed and said, "Your future wife will make a fine
swordswoman. Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you alone." The duke
put out a restraining arm. "I would like you to stay a few minutes, Tawl.
I have just received something you might be interested in seeing." From
his tunic, he pulled out a roll of paper. It was damp and watermarked; the ink
had run and it was badly creased. He handed it to Tawl. "Take a look, see
what you think."

Tawl took the
letter. Still wet around the edges, it threatened to fall apart in his hands.
Addressed to Tyren, it was a point by point account of a proposed treaty between
Valdis and the Four Kingdoms. In return for the knighthood agreeing to fight
with the kingdoms against the Halcus, they would be given exclusive rights to
trade routes in the northwest and a cut in the spoils of war. Tawl handed the
letter back. "How do you know it's genuine?"

"I
don't." The duke gave the letter to Melli. "It came this morning on
the leg of an eagle. It's my guess that the archbishop of Rorn sent it. He has
men throughout the Known Lands-mostly clergy-who act as his spies and
informants. He makes it his business to know what's happening before anyone
else does."

Tawl changed the
subject. He had no love for the archbishop of Rorn. "Do you monitor the
passes?"

"Yes. That's
what I'm worried about. For ten days now I've been hearing reports of knights
on the move."

"West?"

The duke nodded.
"Fully armed, mounted on warhorses, trailing enough mules to supply a
siege."

"Then the
letter is probably genuine." Tawl had a strong desire to have a drink. It
seemed that everytime he managed to make some order out of his life, something
came along to tear away at what he'd built. Oh, he'd heard all the rumors about
Tyren being corrupt, but he could never quite bring himself to believe them.
Until now. The letter was proof that the man was using Valdis to fulfill his
own personal agenda. He had made mercenaries out of the knights.

Tawl felt a deep
sense of loss. For so long the knighthood was all that he had: it was his
family, his religion, his life. Hearing of its decline filled him with bitter
sadness. He had believed in the ideal. He still did. If he had been free to go
back, he would. But it was too late. Valdis was another closed door.

"What do you
know about Tyren?" asked the duke. He walked over to the side table by the
wall and poured three glasses of wine of varying measure. The fullest he gave
to Melliandra, the emptiest he kept for himself.

Tawl took a sip of
the wine. He would have preferred ale. "Tyren was the first person I knew
at Valdis; he recruited me before he was made leader. I always counted him a
friend."

"And
now?"

"He is still
a friend." Old loyalties had a power all of their own. Tawl could not
bring himself to say a word against Tyren.

The duke gave him
a hard, appraising look. Finally, he said, "He is a friend of mine,
also."

"I heard he
sent knights to fight in your southeastern campaigns."

"He did. And
I admit I promised him the right to safeguard Bren's trade, but never once did
I sanction unnecessary bloodshed or pillage. Most towns surrender
peacefully."

The duke brought
the wine to his lips but did not drink. "When the south was busy
persecuting the knights, I offered them safe haven. Bren and Valdis have been
allies for many years now."

"Perhaps
Tyren thinks you still are. After all, he is fighting for the man who will soon
marry your daughter." Tawl sighed heavily. He did not like politics. To
him diplomacy was just an excuse to lie and deceive, and treaties were nothing
more than a catalog of greed and compromises.

"If you're
right," said Melli, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, "why
then didn't he inform the duke of his intentions?"

Tawl knew the
answer to that, and he suspected the duke did, too: Tyren wanted to be on the
winning side, and at this point in time it looked as if Kylock was set to
dominate the north. The leader of the knights was hoping to benefit from
Kylock's success. Why bother consulting with the duke, when the man who would
one day take his place was so much more accommodating and ambitious?

Only now Kylock
might not take the duke's place. The three people in this room and the falconer
knew that a marriage would soon be announced that threatened to take the title
of Bren away from Catherine and her husband. All Melli needed to do was beget a
male child and the balance of power would change in the north. It would shift
eastward, back toward Bren. Tawl was more worried than ever about Melli's
safety. He was now forced to add Tyren and his fellow knights onto the growing
list of her potential assassins.

"May I speak
plainly, Your Grace?" he asked. "Certainly."

"Make the
betrothal announcement soon, and arrange the marriage quickly thereafter."
Tawl was about to say more, giving the reasons behind his advice, but the duke
forestalled him with a warning glance.

"I agree
entirely, my friend. With a lady as beautiful as this," he paused and smiled
at Melli, "it's hard for a man to wait."

Tawl bowed in
acknowledgment of the reprimand. The duke obviously wanted to keep Melli in the
dark about the politics surrounding the wedding. The truth was he needed to
marry her quickly before events on the far side of the mountains got out of
hand.

Suddenly feeling
rather weary, Tawl asked if he could take his leave. He did not want to stay
and witness the duke's deception. Putting his wineglass down, he was surprised
to see that it was almost full. The desire to drink had thankfully passed. He
smiled to himself. If it had been ale, things might have been different.