"What did she look like?"

"Dark hair. Blue eyes, small bones, a heart-shaped face. Simply beautiful."

Spinning. Everything was spinning. Jack heard the air rush past his ears. "What was her name?"

"Aneska."

And then it all stopped. Dead.

Quain brought the rum gla.s.s to his lips. He swallowed and then looked straight at Jack. "The day she left Rorn she said must go by a different name. A name that would go unremarked in every city in the Known Lands. I said she should call herself Lucy. Whether or not she took my suggestion, I'll never know."

All the time that Quain was speaking, Jack hadn't taken a breath. He took one now, and the air crackled all the way down to his lungs. He was out of the chair before he knew it. He had to touch the captain and prove to himself that the man and his words were real. Quain was warm and smelled of rum: solid as the old sea dog he was. Jack knew he spoke the truth.

A tightness formed in Jack's chest. He felt a world of new emotions pushing against his heart, causing it to ache with a sharp-sweet pain. There was relief, wonder, excitement, joy, and most of all there was sadness. How she must have suffered, he thought. How well she had hidden both her past and her fears.

Jack was grateful, too. Grateful that the man before him had been the one to reveal the truth. Coming to kneel at the captain's feet, Jack said, "She did take your name. She called herself Lucy."

Quain's hand came to rest upon his shoulder. "Aye. You're her lad. I knew it the moment I set my eyes upon you." There was longing in his voice as he spoke. "She was a brave la.s.s."

Jack nestled close to him. Finally there were answers. He knew why his mother had changed her name, why she climbed the battlements every morning to search the faces of strangers, and why she lied about her past. Fear had been the one defining force in his mother's life, and Larn had been the cause of it.

She lived with fear, but she lived for vengeance. The oath she swore to destroy the temple was so strong it had outlived her. Perhaps it had even destroyed her. Still, her work was done now: Larn was gone and she could rest easy in her grave.

Jack looked up at Quain. "Why did you wait to tell me this? I might never have come to you."

"Jack, I know the sea. It can lull a man as surely as if he were a baby in a crib. When your eyes can't see the sh.o.r.e and your feet can't feel the earth, the only thing that matters is the journey itself. A man needs to get back on dry land again before he can see things in their proper perspective. I figured it would be the same with you. A few hours on solid earth and you'd work it out on your own."

"But there are still some things I don't understand."

"I've told you all I know." Quain patted Jack's shoulder. "Pour us some more rum, lad. It's time we toasted your mother's memory--questions without answers can wait until tomorrow."

Jack stood up, filled both gla.s.ses to the brim, and handed one to the captain. Quain was right: tonight should be a celebration.

So that evening aboard The Fishy Few two men toasted and drank, swapped stories and histories, and laughed and wept until dawn.

Twenty-four.

It was dawn. The light coming in from the shutters was steaming with mist from the lake. It was bitterly cold. Melli didn't think she had ever been so cold in her life. The winters at Castle Harvell were nothing compared to this. The storm had raged for six days. Today the sky was clear.

Ice had formed on the damp northern wall of her room. The cup of water by her bed was frozen. Her breath plumed white in front of her face and beneath the covers; her body wouldn't stop shaking. Freezing gusts of air frisked around the room. Cold blasts from the chimney fought with thin drafts from the windows, lifting curtains, rattling furniture, and sweeping the dust from under the bed.

Melli was nose-deep in covers. She badly wanted to relieve herself, but she knew from experience just how cold it was out there. Besides, her watergla.s.s wouldn't be the only thing that was frozen, and she didn't fancy peeing over a thin layer of ice. She'd wait until the guards brought her a new pot. It was actually colder now than during the storm. Oh, the wind had blown up a terrible fuss, sending snowflakes flurrying down the chimney and breaking the catches on the metal shutters as easily as if they were wood. But at least while the air was moving it was too busy to freeze your toes.

And your nose and your cheeks and your eyelids. Could one's eyelids freeze? she wondered. Might they just seize up, leaving one's sights caught in midblink? Alarmed by this thought, Melli pulled the blankets up right over her face. Better to suffocate than risk freezing eyelids.

It was really quite amazing how much warmer it was beneath the covers. Her little pot-belly was as good as a stove. Nearly seven months now, she guessed-keeping track of time had never been one of her strong points. She'd always had servants to do that for her.

No servants now, though. She had two, sometimes three, guards and old no-teeth herself, Mistress Greal. Metalhehned, foul-smelling, and blade-brandishing as the guards were, Melli infinitely preferred them to Mistress Greal. The guards were silent, courteous-if you could call a man pointing a spike at your throat courteous-and blissfully disinterested. Mistress Greal, however, was like a dog who'd got a bone and wouldn't let go. She sneered, prodded, insulted, and was constantly on the lookout for some other luxury to take away. It seemed that candles, heat, floor mats, supper, and fresh water just weren't enough. Now Melli had to wear the same clothes for weeks on end, wash in freezing lake water, gnaw bones that looked like they'd been chewed on by packs of dogs, and sleep under blankets coa.r.s.e enough to try a saint.

Melli had found she could adapt to anything that Mistress Greal threw at her. Despite everything her pregnancy was going well, and except for a little swelling in her ankles and a back that constantly ached, she was actually growing stronger by the day. Weeks merged into months and autumn gave way to winter, but every time she felt a tiny shift within her stomach it gave her reason to carry on.

Melli liked being pregnant. It meant she wasn't alone. She hugged her belly and talked to her child and promised him or her that she'd escape before it was born. It wasn't an idle promise, either. She knew exactly what Kylock wanted from her and she wasn't prepared to give it. She wasn't going to let Kylock use her body to wash his sins away. What he had done could never be forgiven. Seven days ago he had ordered the ma.s.sacre of five thousand men. The Highwall army was beaten, and he could have disarmed or imprisoned them. But no, their throats had been slit, their bodies mutilated, and their remains left to freeze upon the southeastern plains of Bren.

Kylock was a monster and he should have been strangled at birth. Melli was sick of playing his twisted games of sin and repentance, sick of being the apple of such a distorted eye. She was going to escape. She knew her child was marked for death: Baralis would never allow Bren's rightful heir to live past the birthing. Kylock wasn't interested in the child-he wanted her-but she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to wait around for the next two months and then just deliver herself up like a gamebird on a platter. She would be no one's rite of absolution.

A sound came from behind the door. Melli pulled back the covers in time to see Mistress Greal make her entrance. The good lady was dressing like a queen these days: furs, brocaded silks, gold chains around her scrawny neck. She probably looted the chambers of all the n.o.blemen Kylock had tortured then killed. Anyone in the city who spoke a word against Kylock was likely to end up dead.

"Any news of my father?" demanded Melli.

"M'lady," countered Mistress Greal sharply. "Any news of my father, m'lady." She took off a glove and stuck one of her bony fingers in the air. "Colder, but not as drafty."

"Why don't you just knock down the wall and throw me in the lake? Seeing as you're so intent on freezing me to death." Mistress Greal shrugged. "You'd be going the same way as your father, then."

"Have they found his body"-Melli grit her teeth"m'lady?"

"After the storm that just pa.s.sed, do you really think they need to look? Your father might have run like a coward from the battle, but the mountains would have got him in the end. After all, he was hardly in his prime."

Melli ignored the speculation and jibes. They hadn't found his body, so that meant there was still a chance he was alive. "How many other men are unaccounted for?" Mistress Greal approached the bed. "Nosy, aren't we?"

"You mean you don't know."

"There's nothing that goes on in Bren that I don't know about, missy. Nothing."

"Has my brother asked to see me?" Melli knew her brother was in the city, but did he know that she was? "The king has told him you're dead. You died of a fever three months back. No one knows you're here, missy. And no one cares." Mistress Greal spoke with relish. "Anyway I'd hardly set store by that brother of yours. I heard he sent his special guard onto the field to kill your father."

"You're lying." Melli wanted to slap Mistress Greal's toothless face. She wanted to tear her hair from its roots and ram her head into the chamberpot. Melli had tried the slapping thing before, though, and it had taken Mistress Greal less than a second to call the guards.

"Ask the king next time he comes-see if I'm lying then." Melli rested her head against the pillows. She couldn't bear it to be true. How must her father have felt knowing Kedrac had sent men to murder him? The fact they fought against each other was bad enough, but this ... The only thing Maybor had lived for was his sons.

No. That wasn't entirely true. Maybor loved her as well. It had just taken him many years to show it, that was all. "Maybor was seen riding away from the battle?" Melli had already asked this days ago, but right now she needed rea.s.surance.

Mistress Greal smiled. "Your father is the sort of coward who likes to hit defenseless women. First sign of real danger, though, and he's off faster than you can call him a drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Melli was out of the bed in an instant. As always, her increased weight was a shock. She grew heavier by the day. But no slower. Her arms were around Mistress Greal's throat before the woman could take a breath. Mistress Greal elbowed Melli in the chest.

"Guards!" she screamed, aiming her other elbow for Melli's stomach. Melli grabbed her wrist. Mistress Greal's hand slipped away and Melli was left holding her glove.

The guards came in, spears pointing. Melli backed away, one arm up in submission, one arm behind her back, tucking the glove into the waistband of her skirt. At least one hand wouldn't be blue with cold tonight.

"You little b.i.t.c.h!" Mistress Greal stepped forward and slapped Melli on the cheek. "Get on the bed." And then to the guards: "No food for her today."

"But, m'lady, the king said the girl was to be fed proper." Mistress Greal looked at the guard. Melli was gratified to see she had two nasty-looking red marks on either side of her neck. "Give her your slops, if you must. But nothing more." With that, she turned on her heels and left the room. Melli breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," she said to the guard.

The guard nodded. He was young, with a bad complexion and brown hair. "Was nothing, miss." He and his companion left the room. The lock turned, the bolt was drawn, and Melli was left alone once more.

She pulled Mistress Greal's glove from her skirt. It was her prize. Soft brown pigskin lined with rabbit hair, it was shaped for a large left hand. Melli put it on. The fit didn't matter. The fact of the thing did. She was going to escape from here somehow, and she'd need a weapon and some warm clothing when she did. Melli held her gloved hand up to the light. It wasn't a bad start.

"So you've finally decided to join us, then," said Tawl, hand on hips, looking like a cross between a riled fishwife and an impatient merchant. He had a new tunic on, and it was colored a little more brightly than the usual one he wore. But then everything looked brighter today.

Jack was hung over. His mouth was as dry as a bag of grain and his head felt as heavy as a stone. "I spent the night with the captain. Had a few drinks, fell asleep at dawn, next thing I know it's midmorning."

"You know we're leaving Rorn today?"

Jack looked around. Only a minute earlier he had practically walked into Tawl, Nabber, and Megan on the steps of the Rose and Crown. "Where are the horses?"

"Nabber sold them. We'll pick up some more in Marls."

"Marls?"

"We're sailing there today. I'm not risking going back up the peninsula. Baralis will be expecting us to go that way." Jack wished his head felt clearer and that the sun wasn't shining so brightly. He couldn't think of any objection to Tawl's plan, so he clapped Nabber on the shoulder, and said, "Marls, it is, then."

Giving him a strange look, Tawl said, "What happened to you last night?"

"I finally learnt the truth."

No one spoke after that: the words seemed to carry a charm that held the tongues of all who heard them. Tawl nodded once, as if he had received exactly the answer he had expected, and Nabber simply smiled, his gaze firmly on the crowd.

They made their way down to the harbor in silence. Tawl and Megan were arm in arm, Nabber was some distance behind them-doubtless engaged in some last-minute withdrawals-and Jack walked a few steps ahead.

Jack was trying to come to terms with what had happened last night. His hangover was not making it easy. He and Quain had finished off a bottle and a half of rum. They'd told tales, sang songs, and then fallen asleep. Or at least Jack did. He woke up the next morning to find himself covered with warm blankets and Quain sitting in the comer, watching. "You're so like her," he said. "Just to see you fills my heart with joy."

Jack looked up at the bright morning sky. Quain had obviously been in love with his mother. He had helped her selflessly, saved her life, given her his savings, and ultimately let her go. Thirty years had pa.s.sed and he still remembered her with all the bright intensity of youth. What had she been like then? Jack wondered. Above all else she must have been brave. A young girl traveling the length of the Known Lands on her own was unheard of. And she had done no half-measure, either. She'd headed to the farthest possible point from Larn: to the Four Kingdoms. Jack felt a cold chill chase down his spine. What fear she must have felt to cross a continent.

She had never shown any of it to him, though. Nine years they'd had together, and not once in that time had he seen her cry or look afraid.

Larn was gone now, but it would never be forgotten. It was inside him, and as he thought about it now, he realized that it might have always been there. Jack recalled the moment when he had first touched the rock in the cavern; he remembered the smell, the sight, and the feel of it. It was just like coming home. His mother's home, the place that made her who she was.

Jack stopped in his tracks. The old woman who had sat and rocked and shown them the way was his grandmother Stillfox had said the girl from Lam's mother was deformed, unable to use her right arm or the muscles on the right side of her face. It was her. Jack recalled her right hand, curled up like the skeleton of a dead bird. Somehow she had known he was coming and helped him.

The seers had helped him, too. That last day, they must have known he was on the island, yet they held their tongues. Wishing for death.

"Are you all right, Jack?" It was Tawl. "I'm fine, really. Just tired."

"You look pale. The ship's at the end of the quay. Once we've boarded, you should get some rest."

"What ship?" Jack hadn't been paying much attention to where they were walking. But now, looking around, he saw they were in a different section of the harbor from where The Fishy Few docked.

"Shrimp Scourer. Over there." Tawl pointed to a small, single-masted caravel. "Quain recommended it to me. They should be expecting us."

Jack nodded and walked on. The sea was gray and calm, the wind fair, and the sky clear except for a band of streaky clouds to the east. It was a fine day. In the kingdoms at this time of year it would be cold, dark, and frosty Jack wondered if his mother had ever gotten used to the difference in climate. She had never liked the cold; her winters were spent inside by the fire, sitting so close she'd scorch her cheeks. Her self-imposed exile must have been hard for her to bear.

Reaching the boat, Jack waited for Tawl to say goodbye to Megan. Nabber had appeared out of nowhere, and by the looks of things, he and Tawl were arguing over the contents of his sack.

"All of it?" squawked Nabber.

"Yes," said Tawl. "We can pick up some more cash in Marls."

"You mean I can pick up-"

"Stop," said Megan. "I don't want your money, Nabber. You've already bought me these lovely clothes. I wouldn't ask you for anything more."

Nabber hung his head low. "I could give you half." Tawl gave himself away by laughing. "Make it three quarters."

"two thirds."

"Done. Now hand it over."

While Nabber counted out the money, Tawl took Megan's hand in his. Jack, wanting to give them privacy, stepped onto the Shrimp Scourer's gangplank.

A small, swarthy man cut across the deck. "Friends of Captain Quain?" he asked.

Jack nodded.

The sailor waved him aboard. He was dressed in a brightly embroidered waistcoat and bloodred britches. "Perfect day for setting sail," he said, holding out his hand to be clasped. "I'm Balvay of Marls, first mate, ship's outfitter, and son of Nollisk." Jack took his hand. "I'm Jack of the Four Kingdoms." He hesitated for a moment and then added: "And Larn. My mother's family hails from Larn."

The words were strange upon his tongue, but they rang with the clear note of truth. At last he had found half of himself. He had origins and history and family still alive. "Yes, my mother came from Larn," he repeated, just for the sake of it.

Baralis stood on Bren's battlements and looked out upon a field of frozen corpses. Snow had drifted against the dead, forming a landscape of white limbs and white bodies reaching up from icy graves. Dark little figures, quick-moving like ants, could be seen scurrying between the mounds. The storm had delayed the looting, and only now were people venturing from the city in search of spoils.

"The bodies need to be disposed of," Baralis said to Kylock. "Why? They won't start to stink until spring." Kylock raised a gloved hand to his cheek. "Besides, they serve me better here, where everyone can see them, than smoking poorly on a pyre with little flame."

This statement annoyed Baralis. Kylock was far too arrogant for his liking. His temper engaged, he swiftly turned to the subject that irked him the most. "The girl should be moved from the palace before Kedrac discovers she's here."

"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to Melliandra, Baralis. Quicker than normal today." Kylock leant against the wall. He gazed out at the southern plains. "There's no need to move her. In two days time Kedrac will be leaving the city."

"He'll head up the force bound for Ness?"

"No. Not Ness." Kedrac turned to look at Baralis. "Camlee "An attack on Camlee will be seen as an attack on the south."

"I've seen it on a map, Baralis, and it's north enough for me." Baralis took a settling breath. Kylock was ravenous for victory, but not for power. The two were very different. Kylock would take Camlee because he could, because he enjoyed all the bloodiness and pa.s.sion that went with conquering, not because he wanted to rule its people. He didn't care a jot about the cities he defeated-he agreed to leave Helch in the hands of Tyren! No, he wanted only the thrill of the rout. The delights of political dominance, exploitation, and control--where the real power lay were concepts too subtle to catch the young king's eye. All that might well change over time, but for now it meant Baralis could use the king's ambitions to fulfill his own.

"Camlee would be quite a prize."

"It will be so easy to take it, Baralis. Everyone will a.s.sume we're heading for Ness. We'll even encourage them to believe it we'll set a course due east and only turn south at the last possible moment."

"What about Ness?"

Kylock waved a negligent hand. "Ness is nothing. A trumped-up sheep market. They have no battlements to speak of, no army, no decent leadership. Their only defense is the hillsides that surround them. We can leave them until after Camlee has fallen."

Kylock was right, but not for the reasons he thought. Given a chance the south would rally around Camlee-it was one of their own, a close relative, and they would defend it if they had to. Ness, however, was a distant cousin. The south would care little for its fate. By choosing to attack Camlee first, Kylock would take the south by surprise, thereby robbing them of the chance to arm in secret.

"The south won't do anything if Camlee is taken quickly," said Kylock. "Valdis will be to the south, Bren to the north, and by the time I've finished, Ness will be to the east. Camlee will be surrounded by cities loyal to me."