The Book of Words Page 5

“A boar!” cried the king exultantly. That single vision had sent a shiver of fear through him: the beast was massive, much larger than was usually found in these parts.

  The horsemen closed in on hound and boar, and the archers loosed their first arrows. Most went wide as the boar dived once more into the bush. However, when the boar was spotted again, it was sporting two arrows: one on its neck, the other in its haunch. The king knew that the first hits would actually quicken the boar, filling it with a dangerous blind rage. He turned his horse quickly and pursued the game deeper into the bush.

  The hounds smelled blood and were wild with excitement, their cries reaching a fever pitch. The men responded to the sound; blood had been drawn, the hunt had now truly begun.

  The king had no time for thought. He survived on his reflexes and those of his horse, which seemed to know when to jump and turn without any prompting from its master. The boar was sighted again. This time its escape route was cut off by a deep gully. The archers fired once more and the boar was hit a further three times. The beast let out a piercing squeal. One of the arrows went astray, striking a hound and puncturing its eye. In the confusion, the boar turned on the party and blazed a path through them. The king was furious. “Put that hound out of its misery!” he said through clenched teeth. He spun his horse round, drawing blood with his spurs, and charged after the game.

  The boar did not slow down. Pursued by the hounds, it fled into the depths of the forest, leaving a trail of blood in its path.

  Finally the boar was cornered by the hounds; it had run toward a still pond and could go no further. The dogs kept it from moving by forming a half-circle around it. The mighty beast kicked at the earth, preparing to charge. The men readied their weapons. The king moved closer, his eyes never leaving the beast. One wrong move, one hesitation could lead to death. Lesketh knew he had only an instant before the boar charged. He neared the beast, raising his spear and, with all the force in his body, thrusting the weapon deep into the boar’s flank. The beast sounded a chilling death cry and hot blood erupted from the wound.

  One moment later, all the lords were upon the beast, stabbing it countless times with their long spears. The boar’s blood flowed onto the ground and down to the pond. The houndsmen called the dogs off; the party was jubilant.

  “Let’s have its balls off!” cried Carvell.

  “Off with its balls,” repeated Maybor. “Who will do the honors?”

  “You should, Maybor. It’s rumored you’re skilled in the art of castration.” Everyone laughed, relieving the tension of the hunt.

  Maybor took his dagger from its sheath and dismounted his horse. “By Borc! I don’t think I’ve ever seen such huge balls.”

  “I thought you had a looking glass, Maybor!” quipped Rolack. The lords guffawed loudly. With one quick slice, Maybor relieved the dead beast of its testicles and held them up for his companions to admire.

  “On second thought,” he said with mock seriousness, “I think mine are bigger!”

  As the men chuckled in response, the king thought he heard a familiar whirring sound. The next instant, he was knocked off his horse by the force of something hitting his shoulder. As he fell he saw what it was . . . an arrow. The instant of recognition was followed by the forewarning of danger. It didn’t feel right. He’d been hit by arrows before and knew well the sting of impact. The sting was there, but there was more—almost as if something was burrowing into his flesh. A thin but biting pain gripped his body and he passed out.

  Bevlin awoke in a bad mood: he’d had a terrible night’s rest. He’d slept in the kitchen amongst his books. He wondered where his good sense had been—here he was, as old as the hills, barely able to walk, and yet he’d offered his bed to the young and abundantly healthy knight. He himself had slept on the hard wood of the kitchen table. Of course he could have slept in the spare room, but the roof leaked above the bed, and he’d reached the age now where he’d rather be dry than comfortable.

  His spirits picked up somewhat when he discovered his visitor was cooking breakfast. “How did you manage to do that without waking me?” he demanded testily.

  “It was easy, Bevlin. You were fast asleep.” Bevlin did not like the idea of this handsome young man seeing him asleep in such an undignified manner. He was willing to forgive him, though, as the food he was preparing smelled delicious.

  “There was no need for you to do this. I would have cooked breakfast.”

  “I know,” said Tawl. “That was what I was afraid of.”

  Bevlin decided to let the remark pass without comment. The young man had good cause to be wary of his cooking. “What are you making?”

  “Hamhocks stuffed with mushrooms and spiced ale.”

  “Sounds good, but could you grease the ham up a little? It looks a smidgen dry to me.” The wiseman had a liking for grease; it helped food slip down his rough old throat more easily. “So tell me, where does a fine man such as yourself pick up the skills of the hearth? Last time I heard they didn’t teach cooking at Valdis.”

  Tawl’s smile was sad. “My mother died in birthing while I was still a boy. She left me two young sisters and a babe in arms to care for.” The knight hesitated, looking deep into the fire, his face an unreadable mask.

  When he spoke again his tone had changed: it was bright with forced cheer. “So I learnt to cook.” He shrugged. “It made me popular with my fellow knights at Valdis, and I earned more than a few coppers roasting up pig’s liver in the early hours of the morning.”

  Bevlin wasn’t a man who valued tact highly and curiosity always got the better of him. “So where are your family now?” he asked. “I suppose your father will be looking after your sisters.”

  “Suppose nothing about my family, wiseman.”

  Bevlin was shocked at the bitter fury in the knight’s voice. He lifted his arm as a beginning to an apology, but was denied first say.

  “Bevlin,” said Tawl, his face turned back toward the fire, “forgive my anger. I . . .”

  “Speak no more, my friend,” interrupted the wiseman. “There is much in all of us that bears no questioning.”

  A candle length later, when the two men had finished eating and were sitting in the warm kitchen drinking mulled ale, Bevlin carefully opened a fat, dusty book. “This, Tawl,” he said, gesturing the yellowing pages, “is my most precious possession. It is a copy of Marod’s Book of Words. Not any old copy, mind you, but one faithfully transcribed by the great man’s devoted servant, Galder. Before his master died, Galder made four exact copies of Marod’s great lifework. This is one of those four copies.”

  Bevlin’s old fingers traced the inscription on the sheep’s-hide cover. “One can tell it’s an original Galder copy if one looks very closely at the pages: Marod was so poor near the end that his servant couldn’t afford to buy new parchment and was forced to reuse existing papers. Galder would wash the ink off the paper with a solution of rainwater and cow’s urine, he would then leave the paper in the sun to dry. If you look carefully, you can still see the ghosts of some of those previous documents.”

  Tawl studied the page that Bevlin opened: the old man pointed out the merest whisper of words and letters lying beneath the text. “Of course, the unfortunate fact is that the very solution used to soak the pages clean eats away at the nature of them, making them brittle and delicate. I fear it won’t be long before it is rendered unreadable and will only be good as a relic in a collection. That will be a very sad thing indeed, for Marod’s book holds much of relevance for those who live today.” The wiseman closed the book.

  “But there must be thousands of copies of the Book of Words around. Every priest and scholar in the Known Lands must have one,” Tawl said.

  Bevlin shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately copies are often vastly different from the original. There is not one scribe who failed to alter Marod’s words in some subtle way, changing ideas to suit their beliefs or those of their patrons, omitting sections they considered immoral or insignificant, alte
ring verses they thought were miswritten or frivolous or just plain dull.” Bevlin sighed heavily, the weariness of age marked clearly on his pale features. “Every translator’s interpretation minutely altered the essence of Marod’s words and prophesies. In consequence, through the course of centuries, his work has been irrevocably changed. The priests and scholars of which you speak may well have books of the same name, but they are not the same work.

  “For all I know, the other three Galder copies are lost or destroyed: I may be the only person in possession of the true word of Marod.” The wiseman finished the last of his ale and placed the empty goblet on the table. “It is a source of much sadness to me.”

  Bevlin looked thoughtfully into the face of his companion. Tawl was young, maybe too young to undertake what would be asked of him. The wiseman sighed heavily. He knew the immensity of the task at hand. This young man before him, strong and golden and self-assured, had his whole life in front of him, a life that could be blighted by a fruitless search. Bevlin extinguished the candles with his fingers. What could he do? He had no choice; no one had asked him if he wanted the responsibility for all that was to come. All that could be done was to give the young man a choice—he could at least do that.

  The wiseman held his hands closely together to stop them from shaking and looked firmly into the blue eyes of the knight. “I expect you must be wondering what all this has to do with you coming here?”

  “What you doin’ here, boy? This ain’t no place for the likes of you.” The guard’s voice echoed through the stone halls of the castle.

  “I need to get to the nobles quarters,” said Jack.

  “The nobles quarters! The nobles quarters—what business could you have in the nobles quarters? Get going, you little snot.”

  Jack was late. He couldn’t understand why he’d been so exhausted after meeting the king’s chancellor earlier. It seemed as if the man had drained all the energy from him, much to his great misfortune: the morning loaves had been late to bake, and were, by the time they were ready, more precisely called afternoon loaves. Frallit’s fury had been stoked to an inferno by that particular observation. Even more infuriating to the master baker was the realization that he couldn’t beat Jack on the spot—he could hardly send a bruised and bloodied boy to the king’s chancellor.

  Jack almost felt sorry for Frallit, who was shown to be powerless in the face of genuine power. The master baker might be lord of the kitchens, but Baralis was lord of the castle. Still, Jack was sure Frallit would come up with some suitable punishment for sleeping when he should have been baking. Besides an armory of physical punishments, the master baker had a stockpile of humiliations at his flour-caked fingertips. For the second time this day, Jack found himself preferring the tried and tested sting of a sound thrashing to the blow of the unknown.

  Jack contemplated the guard and realized that he wouldn’t get far with chitchat. The man wasn’t going to believe that he, a mere baker’s boy, had an appointment with the king’s chancellor. For some reason Jack felt like action—it would be good to be the one in control for once. A faded tapestry hanging against the wall caught his eye. He took a step forward and pulled hard on its corner. It fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. The guard’s face had just time enough to register amazement and Jack was off, jumping over the tapestry, dodging around the guard and running down the corridor.

  Dust was in his lungs, the guard was at his heels, stone raced beneath his feet. The chase was on.

  In between wheezing breaths, Jack realized it hadn’t been such a good idea—he didn’t have the slightest notion in which direction Baralis’ chambers lay. It was exhilarating to outrun the guard, though, to pit himself against another and grab the chance for success. After a short while the footsteps receded and his pursuer could be heard shouting obscenities from behind. Jack smiled triumphantly—a man reduced to shouting obscenities was a man with not enough breath to run.

  Finding the chamber was not as difficult as Jack thought. Staircases and turnings presented themselves to him, and he knew instinctively which to take. It appeared that the very castle itself was beholden to the great man. Its most dark and vital passages seemed to lead to Baralis’ door.

  Jack paused on the threshold, trying to decide if a humble tap or a confident knock was called for. He’d just decided that humility was probably his best course when the door swung open.

  “You are late.” Lord Baralis stood there, tall and striking, dressed in black.

  Jack tried to keep his voice level. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “What, no excuse?”

  “None, sir. The fault was entirely my own.”

  “My, my, we are an unusual boy. Most people would have a hundred excuses at their lips. I will forgive you this time, Jack, but do not be late again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I noticed you were admiring my door.” Jack nodded enthusiastically, pleased that the great man had misinterpreted his reason for dallying on the threshold.

  Baralis ran his scarred fingers over the etchings on the door. “You do well to admire it, Jack, for it has several interesting properties.” Jack expected him to expand further on the subject, but Baralis just smiled, a guarded curve of lip with no show of teeth.

  Jack followed him through what seemed to be a sitting room and then into a large, well-lit chamber crammed from top to bottom with all manner of paraphernalia. “You will work here,” said Baralis indicating a wooden bench. “You will find quill, ink, and paper on the desk. I suggest you spend today learning how to use them.” Jack was about to speak but was cut short. “I have no time for mollycoddling, boy. Get to it.” With that Baralis left him at the desk and busied himself at the far side of the room, sorting through papers.

  Jack didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do. He had never seen anyone use a pen before. Certainly no one in the kitchen could read or write; recipes for breads, beers and puddings were kept in the head. The cellarer was the only person who Jack knew could write. He was the one responsible for keeping account of all the kitchen supplies, but Jack had never actually seen him use a pen.

  He picked up the quill and turned it in his hands, then readied a piece of paper and pressed the nib to it. Nothing. He realized he must be missing something. His eyes glanced around the desk. The ink. That was it. He poured a quantity of the liquid onto the page, where it quickly spread out. He then ran the quill through the ink, making crude marks. He felt he hadn’t got it quite right so tried again on a fresh piece of paper, once more pouring the ink onto it. This time Jack managed to trace some lines and shapes in the ink.

  “You fool.” Jack looked up to see Baralis hovering over him. “You are not supposed to pour the ink on the page. The ink stays in the pot. You dip the pen into the ink. Here.” Jack watched as Baralis demonstrated what he described. “There. Now you have a go.” Baralis left him alone once more.

  Several hours later, Jack was beginning to get the hang of it. He had mastered the exact dipping angle required to pick up maximum ink and could draw signs and shapes. To practice he drew what he knew of: the shapes of various loaves—the round, the platt, the long loaf. He also drew baking implements and various knives and weaponry.

  After a while Jack’s attention began to wander. He’d never been in a place of such wondrous luxury. Walls lined with books and boxes tempted him, bottles filled with dark liquids wooed him. He couldn’t resist. He stole over to the wooded sill and took the stopper from a particularly seductive-looking jar. A smell sweet and earthy escaped. There was nothing to do but try it. He raised it to his lips.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jack,” came Baralis’ mocking voice. “It’s poison. For the rats.”

  Jack’s face was hot with shame. He hadn’t heard Baralis approach—did the man walk on air? Quickly replacing the stopper, he tried his best not to look like a person caught in the act. He was almost light-headed with relief when someone else entered the room. Jack recognized the huge and badly disfigure
d man at once.

  “Yes, Crope,” said Baralis, “what is it?”

  “The king.”

  “What about the king?”

  “The king has been hit by an arrow while out hunting.”

  “Has he indeed.” For the briefest instant, malice flashed across Baralis’ face, but just as quickly, his expression changed to one of deep concern. “This is ill news.” He looked sharply at Jack. “Boy, go back to the kitchens at once.”

  Jack raced out of the chambers and down to the kitchen, his mind awhirl with thoughts of the king. He would probably be the first person downstairs with the news; he would be the center of attention and Frallit might even treat him to a cup of ale. The thought of ale wasn’t as cheering as usual, and it took Jack a moment to realize why: he was afraid. The look that had so quickly flitted across Baralis’ face had formed a memory too disturbing to ignore. Jack hurried on his way. Baralis’ expression would be one detail he would leave out of his account to the kitchen staff—he was a smart boy and knew that such things were best not repeated.

  “There are grave times ahead.” Bevlin exhaled deeply and continued, his voice thin with age. “Just over twelve summers back I saw a terrible thing in the sky. A fragment of a star fell from the heavens. As it sped toward the earth a great cleaving occurred. The two pieces lit up the sky with equal brilliance before disappearing beyond the horizon in the east.” The wiseman walked over to the fire and stirred the embers. He had need of more warmth.

  “I need not tell you that such an event is a sign of great importance. At the time I had little idea what it meant, and I have spent the past years looking for answers. I read all the great books of prophecy, all the ancient scripts.” Bevlin managed a wiry smile. “Such works are always filled with vague predictions of doom: dark clouds looming on the horizon, fatal curses upon the land—the stuff with which parents frighten their children into obedience. I found little of value in any of them; more often than not they are written with the reasoning that if one predicts doom long enough, one is bound to be proven right. Doom, I fear, is just as inevitable as leaves falling in autumn.”