A Man Betrayed (74 page)

"Tawl."
The duke interrupted his thoughts. "Are you all right? You look like a man
whose thoughts are far from his body."

Very far. Hundreds
of leagues to the south, across a stretch of treacherous ocean, on the cursed
island of Larn. The place of his undoing. Were the powers that be still working
against him? Were they not content with all that they had done? Tawl pulled
himself back. "I'm a little tired, Your Grace. Nothing more."

"You have
been spending too much time guarding my lady," said the duke.

"Do you wish
to speak with me?"

"Yes.
Briefly." The duke motioned toward the far door. "Is Melliandra in
her bedchamber?" When Tawl nodded, he lowered his voice. "In two
nights time, on the Feast of First Sowing, I will make my wedding announcement.
I'm counting on you to monitor the events at the table. I will have my hands
full fending off verbal attacks. I need you to keep an eye on people. Note
their reactions-especially Lord Baralis'--and be ready to pull Melliandra out
of there if anything should happen."

"I will be
there," said Tawl.

The duke nodded.
"Good. Do you want to sit at the table next to Melliandra, or would you
prefer a more discreet vantage point?"

"I would
rather be concealed."

"As you wish.
Arrange whatever is necessary." The duke looked grim. "That's all for
now. I mustn't keep my bride-to-be waiting." He walked over to the
connecting door. "Remember, Tawl, I'm counting on you to tell me who my
enemies are."

Darkness had
fallen and it was time to look for shelter. The land he was walking across was
plowed and ready for sowing, so that meant that there was probably a farm
nearby.

Farms boasted
outbuildings and chicken coops and barns: places where a man could rest
undisturbed for the night. Provided, of course, he was prepared to leave before
dawn. Farmers woke earlier than priests.

Jack scanned the
horizon. Which way to turn? Since leaving Rovas' cottage, his instincts had
pointed him to the east. Why should he change his course now? Tired, hungry,
cold and alone, he carried on walking straight ahead.

The last time he
had eaten was two days back. Almost crazy with hunger, he had risked nearing a
farmhouse in daylight. The chicken coop was farthest away from the main
building, so he headed there. He managed to crack open and eat half a dozen
eggs before the dogs were set on him. With yolk dripping down his chin and a
few more eggs stuffed down his tunic, he made a run for it. He had escaped
unharmed, though sadly he couldn't say the same for the eggs. Not only had the
shells cracked open, but the yolk had somehow gotten down his britches. A few
hours later, the smell was enough to put him off eggs for life.

In the end he'd
finally thrown himself, fully clothed, into a stream. Having lived through the
rains of a week ago, he was not only accustomed to being soaked to the skin,
but he'd also built up a certain immunity to it. It would take more than a
quick dip in the stream to kill him-even if it
did
take his clothes a
full day to dry.

Sometimes Jack
just wanted to laugh. Here he was: onetime baker's boy and scribe to Baralis,
fleeing across eastern Halcus being pursued by the enemy, nothing to his name
except the clothes on his back and the knife at his waist, and with a body
bearing so many wounds that he had to keep checking to see if any had reopened
and started to bleed. This was definitely not how adventures in books went. He
should be famous by now, rich and accomplished, a band of ardent followers in
tow, and royalty waiting upon his every word. He should have the girl of his
dreams, too.

Sometimes Jack
just wanted to cry. When he thought of Tarissa, of leaving her kneeling in the
rain outside Rovas' cottage, her saying that she was sorry and pleading to come
along with him, he wondered if he'd done the right thing. Those were the worst
times of all. The times when it was hardest to carry on. The times when he had
to physically stop himself from turning around and running back to her door.
Once, just once, he'd given in to the impulse.

It was late at
night-always the worst time for people alone-and he couldn't sleep. No matter
what he tried, he could not get Tarissa off his mind. And then, as the moon
began to dip toward the west, he reached a point where he no longer wanted to.
He wanted to see her, touch her, put his arms around her, and whisper softly
that everything would be all right. He headed back there and then, not
bothering to wait until dawn. Hours he walked, retracing steps he'd already
taken, walking paths he'd already walked. The darkness was his ally and the
shadows were his friends. They led him on through the night, making him feel so
small and insignificant that he questioned his own judgment. Who was he to
condemn another? Who was he to walk away from someone, when he himself was
guilty of so much? In a world made large by the glimmering of distant stars,
Jack began to feel that nothing he said or did was important. To be alone was
frightening, and he needed someone else to make up for all that he was not. He
needed Tarissa.

The sunrise
changed everything.

Pale and majestic,
the morning sun rose above the hilltops. Its gentle rays searched out
uncertainties just as surely as shadows and made them both disappear with a
speed unique to light. As the rays from the sun strengthened, so did Jack's
willpower. As the sun rose higher, Jack's steps became slower. The world had
boundaries again: hills and streams, forests and mountains. It was smaller,
less intimidating: a place where one man could make a difference. Resolution
returned to him. Tarissa had betrayed him. He didn't need her; better to be
alone than with someone he couldn't trust.

Stopping by a
stream, he brought water to his lips. He could feel the sun on his back,
warming, encouraging, beckoning him to turn around. He had already said his
farewells and come so far, it was pure foolishness to return. Standing up, Jack
spun around and began once more to walk east, toward the sun.

As the day went on
the sun slowly arced across the sky. Eventually, when it reached the point
where it was shining from behind him, the very nature of its rays changed: no
longer did they beckon, they pushed.

In the distance,
Jack spotted a pinpoint of light. A farmhouse. His heart thrilled at the sight
of it. If he was lucky he'd have shelter tonight. Making his way toward it, he
took stock of his body. The gash Rovas had given him on his forearm was healing
nicely. Running his fingers down the scab, he could detect no wetness or
swelling. Good. His kidneys had pained him on and off for the past few days-the
table corner had delivered quite a punch but for now there was just a bearable
dull ache. Bringing his hand up he felt his lip: it was still as big as a
barmcake. Magra had wielded the copper pot like a prizefighter, catching both
his jaw and his lip in one well-placed blow. Jack dreaded to think what his
face looked like: bruises, swelling cuts, and a week's worth of beard on his
chin. He had taken to tactically avoiding still water in order to postpone the
shock of seeing himself. He always drank from moving streams.

All the old
injuries to his arms and legs--the dog bites and other wounds he'd received
from various exchanges at the garrison-were in the process of changing from
scabs to scars, and so they no longer bothered him. However, the one thing that
did cause him trouble was his upper chest on his right side, where the Halcus
arrow had hit. Mrs. Wadwell had tended the wound, and it would probably have
been all right by now if only Rovas hadn't landed a punch squarely in its
center. Jack found he had to be careful with it. He could never put too much
pressure on his right arm, nor bear any weight on his right shoulder. All he
had to do was slip his hand in his tunic to know that the wound was infected.

Bloated, sometimes
weeping after a long day's walk, it looked about as bad as it smelled. Purple
veins ran close to the surface, and it was now ringed, courtesy of Rovas, by a
yellowy green bruise.

It throbbed as he
approached the farmhouse. Later, before he slept, he would have to slice it
open to let out the pus. He tried to keep it clean and always bathed it once a
day, but he needed wine, not water, to do the job properly. That or a cauterizing
iron.

Jack stooped down
in the bushes. There was now only a small meadow between him and the farmhouse.
This was a dairy farm. He listened for the sound of dogs or geese. He heard
nothing but the gentle lowing of cattle and their young. He risked moving
forward. The cattle picked up his scent, but after a few warning sounds they
settled down. He was not a fox, and they knew it. Quickly he cut across the
meadow. Stepping in cow pats wasn't pleasant, but it was useful; it made him
smell familiar if there happened to be any geese or poultry around. He made his
way around to the back of the building. There was a large pigpen, which he
stayed well clear of, a bam and a dairyshed. He made for the dairyshed. If he
was lucky, there would be cheese, cream, and buttermilk.

His stomach
grumbled loudly at the thought of food. Jack whispered gently to it, as if it
were a small animal. "Not long now," he said.

The door to the
dairyshed was held closed by a rusty latch. It lifted easily. In he went,
plunging from moonlight into darkness. For a few minutes he stood still,
waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His nose, however, needed
no such luxury. It told him food was around, most precisely cheese.

Hunger did strange
things to a man. Jack didn't feel in the slightest bit guilty about eating
whatever he could find. If he had money, he would have left it. But he didn't,
so he would take what he wanted anyway. He needed to survive, and if he had to
steal to do so, then so be it. The one thing that he'd learned since leaving
Castle Harvell was that the world wasn't a fair place. The farmer who woke in
the morning to discover half a cheese missing should count himself lucky. A lot
worse could happen to a man.

Too many things
had happened to Jack over the past months for him to remain naive. When he'd
left the kingdoms, he was little more than a boy. Trusting and innocent, he had
taken everyone at their word. Not anymore, though. It would be a long time
before anyone fooled him again. Still, in some ways he'd been lucky. Even
amidst all the fire and chaos at the garrison he had been treated with
kindness. Dilhurt and Mrs. Wadwell had saved him in more ways than one that
night. They had shown him what goodness people were capable of. With generous
hearts they had taken him in and cared for him. They asked no questions, nor
for anything in return. Jack would remember that always.

No, the world
wasn't a fair place, but it wasn't a bad one, either.

Once his eyes
could make out variations in the darkness, Jack set to work looking for
whatever food he could find. The cheeses were on a shelf and he brought one of
them down. With steady hands he unwrapped the linen cloth. He resisted the urge
to bite straight into it and cut himself a fairsized wedge, instead. His wound
would have to wait until tomorrow now; he couldn't risk slicing it with a dirty
knife.

The cheese was
well worth the sacrifice. It was delicious: sharp, crumbly, and dry. Further
investigation uncovered a large jug of buttermilk. He sat down on the
rush-covered floor and ate and drank himself sick. Cheese and buttermilk, while
fine on their own, did not make the best combination. Too rich and creamy by
far.

With a stomach now
grumbling from overindulgence, Jack curled up in a ball and covered himself
with rushes. Closing his eyes, he settled down and listened for rats. He could
never sleep without first being sure that there were none of the evil
glassy-eyed rodents around. He hated rats. He was almost disappointed when there
was nothing to hear but the creak of the woodwork and the sound of the breeze
whistling through the cracks. An absence of scurrying noises meant that he was
free to sleep. Nowadays he was almost more afraid of sleep than he was of rats.
His dreams gave him no peace. Tarissa was always in them, crying and pleading
one minute, laughing slyly the next. The garrison burned anew each night, and
sometimes she burned along with it. Rats might make his flesh crawl, but they
never left him feeling guilty and confused.

Before he knew it,
his eyelids had grown heavy, and sleep gently eased her way in. Perhaps it was
the unique combination of cheese and buttermilk, perhaps not, but for the first
time in many weeks he didn't dream of Tarissa. He dreamed of Melli. Her pale
and beautiful face kept him company through the night.

Smoke rose from a
forest of candles. A field of wildflowers rested in silver bowls. A mine's
worth of silver graced the finest linen and a mountain's worth of crystal
caught the light. A rainbow of colors decked the walls, whilst a meadow of
fragrant grasses graced the floor. It was the Feast of First Sowing in Bren,
and the duke's palace was dressed in its springtime best.

Long tables
spanned the length of the great hall. Swans swam across the tabletops, their
brilliant white feathers masking cooked birds beneath. Boar's heads stuffed
with songbirds rested upon exquisite tapestries of blue and gold, and newly
birthed calves were impaled upon spits.

The lords and
ladies who sat around the tables were the most influential people in Bren.
Their clothes were made from the finest materials, but the colors were
strangely subdued: dark grays, deep greens, and black. The women made up for
the plainness of their dresses by wearing their grandest jewels. Diamonds and
rubies flashed in the candlelight, and precious metals tinkled with each raised
cup.

The duke surveyed
the hall. The court was apprehensive tonight. Men and women alike were drinking
heavily, yet eating barely anything at all. Lord Cravin caught his eye. He was
an ambitious and powerful man who had long been opposed to the match of
Catherine and Kylock. The duke inclined his head toward him. Cravin would be
pleasantly surprised this evening. Lord Maybor, who was sitting nearby, spotted
the exchange. The duke raised his cup to him. Maybor, red of face and dressed
more magnificently than anyone else around the table, mirrored his gesture. The
duke actually had to stop himself from laughing. The man had no inkling that
this night would change his life.