Master and Fool (3 page)

He became aware of
the vibration of the glass: strong, unwavering, almost hypnotic. Jack felt
himself falling in time with it. How right it felt, how very
right.

"Jack! Be
careful! You're losing yourself." Stillfox's words carried more weight
than speech alone; they were heavy with sorcery. Jack felt the other man's
power. It was repugnant to him. The glass was his, and he would brook no
interference. Then suddenly, something was forcing its way between him and the
glass, a sliver of thought turned to light. It acted like a wrench, cleaving
apart the join. Jack fought it aggressively. He had been rocked into quiescence
by the vibration of the glass, and now he was a giant awakened. No longer warm,
the glass grew hot An orange line began to glow around the rim.

"Jack, I
command you
be gone! "

Jack felt a powerful
shearing, saw a bright flash of light, and then he was torn away from the
glass. As he sped back to his body, the glass exploded outward, sending chunks
of molten glass flying through the air. Even as he settled himself within flesh
and blood, the fragments hit him. Scorching, sizzling, cracking like whips,
they landed on his chest and on his arms. Jack, dizzy with the shock of
returning, shot up from the chair. His tunic was smoldering, the skin burning
beneath. Too new in his body to feel pain, Jack could only feel honor. He had
to get away from the glass. Pulling at his tunic, he tore it from his
shoulders. Gobs of hardening glass tinkled onto the floor.

The moment the
pain started, Jack was hit from behind by a wave of coldness. Reflex-quick, he
spun round. Stillfox was standing close by; a large empty bucket rested,
dripping, in his hand. Water. The herbalist had poured water on him. He took a
step forward. "Jack-"

"Leave me
alone, Stillfox," cried Jack, raising his arm in warning. Tired and disorientated,
he was shaking from head to foot. "You shouldn't have interfered. I had
it. I was in control."

Stillfox's voice
rose to a matching anger. "You fool. You were in control of nothing. The
glass was controlling you. You nearly lost yourself to it."

Searing pinpoints
of pain goaded Jack into a rage. "I tell you the glass was mine!" He
beat his fist against his side. The herbalist shook his head slowly. He let the
bucket drop to the floor. When he spoke, he pronounced his words very carefully.
"Make an error in judgment like that again, Jack, and I swear it will be
your last. I will not step in and save you a second time. I am nobody's
nursemaid." Abruptly, he turned and made his way toward the door. Without
looking round he said, "There is ointment in the rag-stoppered jar above
the fireplace. See to your burns." The door banged shut behind him.

Jack immediately
slumped into the chair. The anger, which had fired his blood only moments
earlier, left his body with his very next breath. He felt hollow without it ...
and ashamed. Bringing his head down toward his knees, Jack rubbed both hands
against his face. How could he have been so stupid? Stillfox was right; he
had
lost control, losing himself to the vibration of the glass. It had been so
hard to resist, though: a siren's song. Jack searched his mind and came up with
a few choice baking curses, which he hissed with venom. How was he ever going
to learn to master the power inside?

Ten weeks now he'd
been with Stillfox. Ten weeks since the aging herbalist had found him hiding in
the bushes on Annis' west road and taken him in. Ten weeks of instruction and
straining and failure. Every attempt to draw power seemed to end in disaster.
Stillfox had been patient at first, slowing his pace, whispering words of encouragement
and advice, but by now even Stillfox was losing his patience.

Jack rubbed his
temples. He was making so little progress. Sometimes it seemed as if he could
only draw power when there were real dangers: real-life situations that stirred
the rage within. Here in Stillfox's quiet cottage, nestled in a sleepy village
ten leagues short of Annis and a mountain's girth west of Bren, all the dangers
seemed like insignificant ones. There was no one threatening his safety; he
wasn't being hunted, threatened, or conned. The few people he cared about were
in no danger, and judging from what Stillfox had told him about the war, it
appeared that things were calming down in the north. With nothing and no one to
fight for, it was hard for Jack to summon rage and direct it toward a glass, or
whatever else the herbalist set before him. These things weren't important to
him-skill alone wasn't worth fighting for. There had to be some emotional
attachment: someone or something to get angry about. For the first month he had
been unable to draw forth anything unless he focused his mind on Tarissa.

Tarissa. The pain
in Jack's arms and chest flared to a blaze as her name skimmed across his
thoughts. He stood up, kicking the chair behind him. He would not think of her.
She was in the past, long gone, as good as dead. He refused to keep her alive
in his thoughts. She had lied and betrayed him, and no amount of tears or
pleading would ever make it right. Magra, Rovas, Tarissa--those three deserved
each other. And he had been so stupid and gullible that he good as deserved
them, too.

Jack walked over
to the fireplace and picked up the ragstoppered jar from the mantel. Over the
past few months Jack had learned that he needed to be harsh on both Tarissa
and
himself, it was the only way to put a stop to the pangs of regret. He was a
fool and she was a villain, and that was all there was to it. Nothing more.

Taking the rag
from the jar, Jack sniffed at the contents. Whatever it was, it smelled bad.
Gingerly he dipped a finger downward. The liquid was cold, greasy, and the
color of dried blood. Borc only knew what it was! Whenever Stillfox was
preparing to use the contents of one of his jars, he would first dab a droplet
on his tongue to test that it was still potent. Jack had no intention of
tasting this, though. Let it kill him slowly by invading his wounds rather than
poison him swiftly on the spot.

Jack began to dab
the ointment on his burns, first his arms and then his chest. The process took
a lot longer than he'd thought; not only were his hands shaking wildly, making
it difficult to target the areas in question, but a natural squeamishness on
Jack's part didn't help, either. Yes, it was only stinging, he told himself--
and since leaving Castle Harvell he'd endured much worse than a handful of
glass burns--but it was the idea of causing
himself
pain that he wasn't
happy with. The burns were throbbing away quite bearably until he put the
ointment on them, then the real torment began. The ointment stung like lye in
an open wound. It seemed to get under his skin with a thousand tiny barbs, then
claw its way back to the surface. Was this Stillfox's revenge?

"Jack. Don't
use-"The herbalist burst into the cottage. Seeing Jack with the jar in his
hand, he stopped himself in midsentence. He shrugged his shoulders rather
sheepishly. "Never mind, it won't kill you."

"What will it
do, then?"

"It was meant
to teach you a lesson." The herbalist's voice dropped to something close
to a mutter. "Only I think it taught
me
one, instead: there's little
satisfaction to be gained from acting out of spite." He looked up from the
floor. "Never mind. The ointment may pain you for a few days, but it
should do you no harm in the long term."

Jack was too
surprised to speak. He threw an accusatory glance at Stillfox, but really, in
the bottom of his heart, he knew he'd deserved it. He had endangered both
himself and Stillfox, and when the herbalist had tried to help him, he had
fought him off. Jack threw the jar onto the fire. "Let's call it
quits," he said. Stillfox smiled, the lines around his eyes and on his
cheeks instantly multiplying. Jack noticed for the first time how very old and
tired he looked. "Here," Jack said, pulling the chair near the fire.
"Come and sit down, I'll warm you some holk."

The herbalist
waved his arm dismissively. "If I had needed someone to look after me in
my dotage, Jack, I would have picked someone a lot comelier than you."

Jack nodded in
acknowledgment of the reprimand. "I'm sorry, Stillfox. I don't know what's
got into me. I'm just so tired of failing all the time."

Stillfox pulled a
second chair close to the fire, bidding Jack to sit. He brought a blanket and
laid it over Jack's bare shoulders. Finally, when he had settled himself in his
seat, he spoke. "I won't lie to you, Jack. Things have not been going well
with your training. I think part of the problem is that you're just plain too
old. You should have been taught earlier, when your mind was still open and
your thought process not so . . . " the herbalist searched for the right
word " . . . rigid."

"But I only
felt the power for the first time a year ago." A year ago, it hardly
seemed possible. His life had been so chaotic for so long now that it was hard
to believe there had ever been a time when things had been normal. He didn't
even know what normal meant anymore.

"You might
have only been aware of this power during the last year, but it has been with
you all your life." Stillfox leant forward. "Sorcery doesn't come to
anyone in a burst of blinding light. It's real, visceral, as ingrained as
instinct and as compelling as a beating heart. You were born with it, Jack, and
someone should have taken pains to discover it sooner. If they had, you
wouldn't be here today: a fugitive hiding in a foreign land, leaving nothing
but destruction in your wake."

Harsh words, but
true enough. "Is it too late, then? Is there nothing I can do?"

Stillfox sighed
heavily. "You must keep trying, you have no choice. Power will keep
building up inside you, and unless you learn to either focus or curb it, it
will ultimately destroy you."

"But there
are risks even in learning. The glass-"

"Everything
is a risk, Jack. Everything." The herbalist's voice had lost all of its
country accent. "Walk to market and there's a risk you will be robbed, run
over, or stabbed. Marry a girl and there's a risk she'll die in childbirth.
Believe in a god and there's a risk you'll find nothing but darkness on the
other side."

"Trust
someone and there's a risk they might betray you," said Jack softly,
almost to himself.

"Jack, your
power is very great. So great it frightens me. The few times when you have
managed to focus successfully left me speechless. You have been given a gift,
and it would be a terrible tragedy if you never learned to master it."

Jack eased his
chair back from the fire. The heat was burning his already tender arms.
"Perhaps if I move on to live creatures, not inanimate objects, l-"

"There is
even worse danger there," interrupted Stillfox. "Animals can and will
fight back. Speed is of the essence in such drawings. You must master the
technique of
entering
before we go any further." The herbalist gave
Jack a searching look and then stood up. "Now, I think it's time you had
some rest. You've had quite a shock and those burns do not look good. A little
lacus will help."

Jack was glad of
the change of subject. He'd had enough of sorcery for one day. Possibly enough
to last a lifetime. He didn't bother to wish he was normal: wishing was
something he'd given up long ago.

Baralis rubbed
idly at his fingers. It was summer now, but still they pained him. It was the
all-pervasive dampness that did it. Tomorrow he would see Catherine about
changing his quarters; he was tired of living like a mosquito suspended above
the lake.

On his desk lay
the various maps and charts. Once the duke's, they were now his. Maps and so
many other things: a whole library of ancient books, rooms filled with
antiquities and arcane devices, cellars full of secrets, and strong rooms full
of gold. The duke's palace was a huge unopened treasure chest, and the duke's
death had given him the key.

Oh, but he had so
little time, though. Hardly a moment to himself since the funeral. There was so
much to do, and so much to be done. Just managing Catherine alone took a
quarter of his day. She was child--demanding, prone to temper tantrums,
constantly craving attention--and he was part father, part nursemaid, part
suitor. She would summon him to her chambers at all hours of the day, and he
never knew what he would find once he got there: tears, anger, or joy. When
there wasn't a problem she would invent one, and she was never satisfied until
she had exerted her will over him in some small way. It was all a game to
Catherine, and it suited Baralis to let her think that he was just another
piece on
the
board.

Baralis stood up
and walked over to the fire.
He
was master of the game, his will was the
power behind all of Catherine's moves. The new duchess was just a beginner when
it came to the art of manipulation. She might learn fast, though. After all,
she was being taught by an expert. Just how great an expert he was could be
judged by the events of the past five weeks. First, he had shifted the blame of
the duke's death onto Tawl, Melli's protector; second, he had persuaded
Catherine to go ahead with the marriage to Kylock; and last, despite Kylock's
heinous act of regicide in Halcus, he had persuaded both the court and the
common people of Bren to support the marriage.

Well, more
accurately, Catherine had persuaded them. Three days after the news of King
Hirayus' death had reached the city, Catherine had, on his instructions,
gathered her court around her. In no uncertain terms she told them that she
fully intended to marry King Kylock, and anyone who objected to the match
should come forward now and let their misgivings be heard. One man made the
mistake of coming forward: Lord Carhill, one-time advisor to the duke and a man
whose only daughter was married to a well-to-do lord in Highwall. The minute he
stepped from the ranks, he was seized by the ducal guard. He was executed, then
and there, before the court. That night his sons were hunted down and beheaded,
and the following day his land was seized in the name of the duchess.