Master and Fool (68 page)

Maybor was very warm and his bones ached little now. Strange, but he could
still feel the fingers that had been destroyed by the frost. In a way he felt
them the most.

All the things he
had lost he felt the most.

Melli, Kedrac, his
two youngest boys: if he thought very hard he could conjure them up. If he
thought even harder he could imagine their forgiveness.

Sleep tugged him
downward, though, and he knew it was time to go. With one last great effort, he
turned his head so that it lay perfectly straight on the pillow-no one would
catch him drooling like an invalid-and brought his hands to rest at either side
of his body. Stately, he told himself.
Like
a king.

With eyes already
closed and strength drained by his exertions, the natural thing to do was to
follow the darkened curve. A little bit frightened and very much tired, Maybor
let his mind be carried off to sleep.

Jack awoke to a
sinking sensation in his stomach. The events of the night before came back to
him in a vivid rush. He remembered falling asleep to the sound of mourning,
drifting off as the men of Highwall sang for Maybor's soul. They keened until
dawn; Jack knew it because he had heard them in his dreams.

Now he awoke to a
different sound, one that pulled at his senses with all the power of the past.
It was the sound of the kitchen: scraping, chopping, pots rattling, brooms
sweeping, fat sizzling, and chickens clucking. It was like being at Castle
Harvell all over again. Jack opened his eyes. A large white-clad woman hovered
over him.

"About time,
too," she said. "Wake your friends up and get from under my feet.
Sleeping by my oven, indeed! What was Master Tallyrod thinking? Haven't I got
enough to cope with already? There's so many men sleeping in the tavern hall I
swear I haven't seen a floorboard in a week. And I know Gritty hasn't. That
girl's so busy flirting with every man in a maroon coat that she's just plain
forgotten what a floor looks like."

Jack smiled up at
the woman. "I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do to help?"

"Take those
men out from under my feet and I'll be your friend for life. Might even treat
you to a nip of my special brew."

"You've got a
deal." He stood up and shook Tawl, Nabber, and Andris awake. The other
knights were sleeping in the stables.

The white-clad
woman was as good as her word--better, even. By the time everyone had wiped the
sleep from their eyes, buckled their belts, and rolled up their packs, the
kitchen mistress had laid out a breakfast feast: warm bread, cold chicken, damp
cheese, and special brew. Her one stipulation was that the feast be eaten in
the hall. Jack had picked up his platter to follow the others when she put a
hand on his arm.

"Now, if you
can just get rid of those maroons for me." Jack laughed. The kitchen
mistress' kindness filled him with a simple joy. There were so many good people
in the world, and so much more than vengeance worth fighting for. The kitchen
mistress kissed Jack firmly on the cheek. "Hold on a minute while I find a
little extra chicken for your plate." She dashed off to the larder and
came back wielding a pair of matching drumsticks, which she promptly deposited
on Jack's plate. "There. That should keep you going through the day."

Jack put down his
plate and gave the woman a big hug. "I'll be taking those maroons out of
your way."

"Aye, lad. Be
sure to leave me a couple, though. A woman needs someone to cook for."

The main hall was
cold. The men of Highwall had mourned until the embers had died in the hearth,
and no one wanted to be the first to bring a new flame to the fire.

Jack and Tawl ate
in silence. The atmosphere in the room was subdued; the men were gaunt-faced,
pale, tired.

The rest of the
knights came in from the stables, and Crayne came to sit at Jack's side.

"What
happening?" he whispered.

"Maybor's
dead. He asked us to use his troops." Crayne glanced around the room.
"These men are in no fit state to travel today. They're exhausted."

Jack nodded.
"They'll have to follow us. It will take them a full day to get enough
mounts together, and we can't afford to wait that long."

Tawl looked up
from his breakfast. "They can ride behind us to Bren. Once there, they can
lie low on the eastern plains until we need them."

"Tyren's
camped outside the city," said Crayne. "East or south?"

"South, a
full league from the gate." Unblinking, Crayne looked straight into Tawl's
eyes.

The two regarded
each other for a long moment, and then Tawl's hand came up to rest on Crayne's
shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was oddly strained. "How many men has
he got with him?"

Crayne shook his
head. "I can't be sure. Could be three hundred, could be more."

Suddenly Jack
realized what had passed between them: by giving Tawl privileged information
about Tyren's camp, Crayne had denounced Tyren as his leader. His acceptance of
Tawl was now complete.

The two men
carried on talking as if nothing had happened. When Jack glanced at Tawl next,
the knight was looking at the Highwall troops with renewed interest Jack got
the distinct feeling he was doing a head count.

Crayne and Tawl
were now fighting men once more, discussing strategies, weaponry, and numbers.
Deciding the best way to take Tyren's camp.

"Our priority
is to get inside the palace," Jack reminded them. Tawl had long had his
own agenda with the knighthood, but since he'd taken the leap over the falls it
had turned into a burning cause. Whatever it was, Jack couldn't allow it to
interfere with saving Melli and eliminating Kylock.

Tawl gave Jack a
pointed glance. "Don't worry," he said. "I know what my
priorities are."

Crayne and Andris
exchanged looks.

Nabber, whom no
one had noticed wandering off, came bounding back to the table. "Grift's
upstairs, Tawl. He wants to talk to you and Jack."

Jack stood up, and
after a moment Tawl followed him. Together they climbed the stairs. As they
reached the top step, Tawl pulled Jack aside. "Look," he said,
"I know what we've got to do. I know what
you've
got to do, I know
what
I've
got to do. Marod's prophecy and my oath to the duke come
first-don't doubt that-but I just want you to know that I will try to rid the
knighthood of Tyren. I haven't got a choice. As long as there's blood in my
body I'll do it."

"What
happened at Lake Ormon, Tawl?" Jack spoke softly. He respected Tawl's
determination, but he needed to know the reason behind it.

Tawl stared at the
floor. His chest rose and fell many times before he spoke. "I found what
I've spent the last six years searching for: a chance to make up for the past.
I caused the death of my family, Jack. Two sisters, two beautiful golden-haired
sisters and a chubby little baby who always looked up at the sound of my
name." Tawl's voice began to break. "I abandoned them-just left them,
just took off and left them."

He ran his hand
over his face. A minute passed in silence as he tried to control his emotions,
and when he finally spoke again his voice was altogether different from before.
"They were helpless without me, Jack. Helpless. I should have known
better. I was old enough to know better. I knew the hands I left them in
weren't safe."

A tight coil of
self-accusation lay just below the knight's words and Jack knew that he was out
of his depth. Tawl's pain was something he could neither begin to understand
nor measure. Touching Tawl's arm lightly, he said, "I won't stop you from
doing what you have to."

Tawl's eyes were
bright. A muscle in his cheek was pumping hard. "That's all I'll ever ask
from you, Jack."

Jack smiled. He
wished very much he had more to give. "Come on," he said, laying a hand
on Tawl's back. " Let's go and see Maybor one last time."

Grift was waiting
for them outside the door. Seeing him in the harsh morning light, Jack was once
again shocked at how much he had changed. The once portly guard was as lean as
a pick. It was a day for touching and being touched, and Jack came forward and
wrapped his arms around Grift's shoulders.

"He died
without pain, you know. Just slipped away in his sleep." A huge tear slid
down Grift's cheek. "He was a brave man. Some will try and tell you he was
vain, others will say he was a devil, but don't ever listen to them. You go to
the Lady Melliandra and tell her her father was a hero. That's the truth, and
every man under this roof will tell you the same."

"I know,
Grift. I know."

Grift opened the
door to Maybor's room and let them in. The sheets had been changed on the
pallet, and Maybor's body rested on top of them, his arms folded over his
chest, a red silk robe draped across his torso. His face had lost its color,
but his hair was still shiny and the skin on his cheeks looked newly shaved.

"Here."
Grift handed Jack a small cloth bag. "That's the rings and the torc he
wore for battle. He wants them to go to the villages to help pay for the horses
and the lodgings. He signed them a note, too. Promising payment in full from
his son."

Jack slipped the
bag into his tunic. "Do you think Kedrac will honor it?"

"I doubt it,
but that's not important. Maybor died believing he would and that's what
counts."

"But surely
after what happened at the battle-"

"No. Maybor
was adamant his son would honor his memory-by leaving this note he's offering
Kedrac a chance to be forgiven. He doesn't want his son to go through life
thinking his father went to his grave hating him." There was more than a
touch of pride in Grift's voice, and Jack realized that the castle guard must
have grown close to Maybor. "I know Kedrac," he continued, "and
he may be headstrong and impressionable now, but one day he'll be sorry for
what he did. And by giving him a chance to pay the villagers and the
tavern-keeper, Maybor is offering him a way to make amends when that day
comes."

Jack tried to
think of a suitable reply, but he searched for words in vain. He had little to
say on the subject of fathers.

Strangely it was
Tawl who spoke. His voice hadn't recovered from his confession on the stairs,
and his tone was rough and low. "Maybor was a good man to think of his
son. Not all fathers would care enough to spare their sons from guilt."

Tawl's face was
grim. Jack wondered what else lay in his past besides the death of his sisters.
Why weren't his father and mother there to help him? Why were there always so
many layers of grief and pain hidden within families?

Grift came forward
to usher them from the room. "You'll be leaving today?"

"Yes,"
said Jack. "We'll meet next in Bren."

Grift nodded. He
seemed very old to Jack all of a sudden. Old and small. "May Borc bless
your journey," he said. "And yours, Grift."

Just as he walked
through the doorway, Tawl turned and said, "I want to be able to give Melli
something of her father's. "

Without a word,
Grift moved over to Maybor's body and cut off a lock of his hair. He bound it
with a strip of silk from his tunic and handed it to Tawl. Silver hair, red
silkit was Maybor through and through.

Baralis was worried
about Skaythe. The man had not responded to his sending. It had been over a
week now since their last communication, and Baralis was beginning to think
that something had happened to him.

After all, no one
could ignore him for that long. Certainly not a man like Skaythe.

Measuring a
thumbnail of the mind-freeing drug into the palm of his hand, Baralis swallowed
it dry. Only when the bitter taste of the drug had gone from his tongue did he
see fit to take a sip of wine. Such small acts of willpower had helped make him
who he was today.

Baralis raised his
hand, and Crope, who was busy sealing the shutter cracks with carded wool, came
over and saw to the fire. By the time the flame was high, Baralis was ready
with the compound. Blood, leaf, and drug moved within a copper bowl, swirling
in time with the motion of his palms. From his heavily cushioned chair, he
inhaled the toxic fumes. As always there was a brief instant when his body
fought him tooth and nail. The physical world detested relinquishing its mastery
to the dark.

Baralis' thoughts
shifted out of place. His point of consciousness rose above his body, as
insubstantial and weightless as pollen on the breeze. Up and up he went,
passing through stone as if it were water, and water as if it were air. He
skimmed the great lake to gain momentum and circled the city to catch the
scent. Skaythe's responses to his sending had left a trail, a trace of sorcery
that could be followed like a thread through a maze. Baralis sniffed him out,
then tracked him down: Skaythe would not ignore him tonight.

South he went,
high above the mountains, well above the clouds. The moon shed light but not
warmth on his back, and the stars glinted like beacons upon his soul. They
would have him for their own if they could. Not tonight, though. Not ever if he
had his way.

Skaythe had left a
tenuous trail. Weak to begin with, the past ten days had reduced it to a broken
line. Baralis was a hound on the scent of blood, and then a scholar making
guesses. The last time he had heard from Skaythe was after Valdis had captured
the baker's boy and the renegade knight. Skaythe had intended to follow them
north and, as soon as he had a chance, assassinate both of the fugitives. That
was what the man had said, anyway. Baralis was beginning to suspect that
Skaythe had a drama of his own to play. Still, no matter what happened to
Skaythe, Baralis knew he could count on the knighthood to bring the fugitives
to Bren. At least Tyren would not fail him.

Baralis continued
soaring southward along the Divide. Gradually he began to make his way down.
The peaks were like spearheads below him, the stars like pinheads above. The
trail was stronger now, and he followed it lower, the cold mountain mist
brushing against his mind. Eventually he came to the area where Skaythe had
last communicated with him. It was an exposed hillside at the foot of the
Divide. There was nothing to tell of his passing. No sign of anything amiss.