Book Of Words - Master And Fool Part 7

His food had given out three days earlier and right about now he was ready for a meal. In fact, even as he walked through Bren's southwestern gate, Jack was planning exactly how he'd get his hands on some food. No unsuspecting goatherders here, that's for sure. He would have to rob someone, and after three days of not eating, he wasn't particularly fussy about who-the first man he saw with a hot pie, most likely.

The scale of the city took his breath away. There were buildings of stone and brick and timber, two, sometimes three stories high. The streets were wide, and most were either paved or cobbled. Shops and taverns and warehouses crowded side by side, leaning against each other for support, all jostling for recognition with brightly painted signs and carvings above their doors. Above it all towered the wall. It dominated the city, rising high above the buildings and casting its long shadow to the east. Jack had never seen anything like it in his life. Annis' wall seemed like so many naked stones compared to this.

Stillfox had said that Annis and Highwall would lay siege to Bren. Jack cast a last admiring glance at the battlements: he would like to see the army that would try to breach these walls.

Jack began to walk the city in search of food. The place was a lot quieter than he'd imagined. Yes, it was late in the day, so stallholders were upping stakes and shopkeepers were closing shutters, but those people who were on the streets seemed strangely subdued. There were no riotous drunks, no children chasing pigs, no old women gossiping in groups. Even the beggars were quiet.

Jack approached an aging stallholder who was busy loading his mule with unsold goods. His baskets were filled with apples, not pies, but Jack decided to try him anyway.

He had a kind-looking face. "Can I help you with those baskets, sir?" he asked.

The stallholder looked him up and down. "You're welcome to, young man, but only expect the sour ones for your trouble." He indicated the baskets to be lifted. "From your accent I suppose you're here for the war. People from all over have been flooding into the city hoping to have a go at Highwall's army."

Jack shook his head. "No. I'm not here for the war." He began loading the baskets on the mule. They were heavier than he thought, and he wondered how the old man had managed to do the job every night.

The stallholder seemed to read his thoughts, for he said, "Any other night, young man, and I wouldn't have needed your help. Business has been terrible slow today. I've got so many apples left they just might break my poor mule's back." Jack was thinking just the same thing. The old man must have someone else deliver the apples in the morning, as the mule did not look up to it. "So you normally sell them all?"

"Aye, that I do. But not today." The stallholder spat reflectively. "Never seen a day like it in all my life. It's like the whole city's in mourning."

Jack felt his stomach twist into a knot. "Why? What's happened?"

The stallholder looked at him as if he were mad. "Where've you been these past months, boy? Living under a rock? Today is the day that Catherine marries King Kylock." He looked up into the deep blue sky. "And if I'm not mistake, the ceremony will be over and done with right about now."

Right on cue, a distant bell began to ring. It tolled three solemn notes. Jack's blood quickened to the sound: it was almost as if the notes were for him alone. He stood, apple basket in hand, unable to move a muscle or take a breath, and listened to the sound of Kylock's fate. It tolled strong and clear, setting the whole city vibrating in time. The very walls rang with it. Jack felt it in his soul like a message, like a warning, like a blade. Ever since the first morning he'd woken in Stillfox's cottage and seen a vision of the war, Jack knew Kylock and he were destined to oppose each other. And the ringing of the bell marked the beginning of the match.

Jack lost his hold on the basket and the apples went careening to the ground. He'd come to the right place at exactly the right time. Bren had called him for so long, and now that he'd finally arrived it was no coincidence that Kylock, Baralis, and Melli were here, too.

As if the very city itself were confirming Jack's thoughts, a hundred separate bells began to chime. Chapels throughout the city were marking the wedding, each one bent on out-pealing the last. High and low they rang out their notes, no two of them ringing in time.

The wedding feast had been torture to Kylock. Hundreds upon hundreds of people had touched him, holding out hands to be clasped and cheeks to be kissed and cups to be shared in toast. His whole body was tainted with their saliva and their sweat. Minuscule fragments of their skin clung to his sleeves, and his lungs were filled with their breath. He would have liked to burn them all for his suffering.

But he wouldn't. Oh no, he played the game, instead. The game of courtly manners, smiling and bowing and gracious to a fault. Promising positions and pensions and elevation to those who counted, whilst barely deigning to acknowledge those who did not.

Through it all one thought had kept him going: tonight Catherine would be his. Just to look at her calmed him. Her face so pale and serene, her eyes so blue and pure: she was an angel, created for him alone. The only part of his body that was clean were his fingertips, for she had kissed them before they left the hall.

Up to their chamber they walked, the lamp-holders stepping before them, the court watching quietly from below. Baralis waited at the top of the stairs, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng a caution as he bowed his head toward the floor. Kylock paid him no heed. He stretched out his arm and his new wife rested her hand upon it.

"My lord chancellor," he said, "you have done your duty well. Your presence is no longer called for this night." Beside him he felt Catherine shudder, her breast pus.h.i.+ng gently against his arm.

"As you wish, sire," murmured Baralis as they pa.s.sed. The double doors to the chamber were flung back as they reached the n.o.bles' quarters, and the heady scent of roses crept forth to meet them. Kylock turned to one of the servants who was holding back the door.

"Get those flowers out of here. Now!"

The servant darted forward to do his bidding. Kylock stepped into the room with Catherine. His eyes took in all the details of the chamber. Good. A tub full of scalding water steamed away in the corner. "Draw a screen around the bath," he commanded to the servant whose arms were now full of roses. The man off-loaded his burden to another and began to pull the screen out from the wall.

When the screen was in place, Kylock ordered the servants to leave. He and Catherine stood side by side until the double doors closed behind them. Kylock then turned to face his new wife. Catherine was radiant in the firelight: more than an angel now, she was a G.o.ddess. Her golden hair glowed like a halo and her skin was as smooth as a statue. She was a holy icon, and it was only fitting that he kneel at her feet.

Catherine s.h.i.+fted nervously as Kylock stepped forward. Her hand fluttered up to her chest. Looking down at him, she saw to her amazement that he was lifting the hem of her dress. She couldn't stop herself from shuddering. He was so solemn, so intent-like a man possessed. His neck arched further and he kissed the fabric of her satin bridal shoes. Even through the fabric she could feel the cool touch of his lips.

Part of her was thrilled by the gesture-here was a king supplicating himself before her-yet part of her knew it was wrong. She felt out of her depth. Kylock was a stranger, an unknown ent.i.ty who seemed intent on wors.h.i.+ping her. Uneasy, she took a step back.

Her withdrawal seemed to break the spell. Up came Kylock's head. His eyes took a moment to focus. There was a trace of spittle on his lips. "My love," he said, so softly she had to strain to hear him. "I can hardly believe that soon you will be mine."

"Why soon?" Catherine said. "Why not take me now?" Reaching back, she pulled at the lacings of her dress. She wanted to be naked before him. She didn't want to be wors.h.i.+ped, she wanted to be desired.

Kylock raised up his hand. "Not now, my love. Not like this." His voice had an edge to it, and Catherine let the laces fall. Satisfied, Kylock continued, "I must ready myself first." He motioned toward the screen.

Catherine hid her disappointment. She had hoped Kylock would be like Blayze: unable to resist her. Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "Very well, my lord. As you make ready, so will L" She turned her back on him and walked over to the dressing table. By the time she had poured herself a cup of wine, he had disappeared behind the screen. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief and downed her drink in one.

Well, it was obvious she was going to have to work a little harder to gain Kylock's interest. He was no Blayze, that was for sure.

Catherine cast her gaze upon the mirror. Her own beauty never failed to please her. Slowly, she took the pins from her hair, relis.h.i.+ng the fall of every golden lock. Next she turned to her beauty box, dipping two fingers in to scoop up the rouge. She had deliberately not worn any cosmetics in Kylock's presence, thinking that he would prefer his women unadorned. Now it seemed she would need all the help she could get. She would not have Kylock regarding her as a holy relic to be wors.h.i.+ped. She was a woman with a woman's needs, and when he emerged from his bath he would see her for what she was.

During the banquet she had been unable to drink or eat. Her excitement over her wedding night had drawn her stomach to a close. It had been many months since she had been with a man, and she missed the rough-soft excitement of pa.s.sion. Kylock was darkly handsome with a mouth that was marked by a cruel downward twist and eyes that were deeply set and thickly lidded. Catherine had felt sure he would be aggressive, even rough, in his lovemaking. Now, when they were finally alone, the first thing he wanted to do was take a bath!

Catherine smiled and poured herself another cup of wine. She would make sure that her feet were the last thing he'd want to kiss when he emerged from behind the screen. She rubbed the rouge into her cheeks and then her lips, turning them from pale pink to bloodred. Once finished she took up her cup. The wine was unwatered and went quickly to her head, making her feel wicked and l.u.s.tful. For centuries people had said that the women of Bren were like cats in heat, so there was little point in denying it now.

Rather merrily, Catherine tugged at the strings of her bodice. As the fabric cleaved apart, she turned to the mirror and paused to admire the high curves of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A flash of inspiration came to her, and she rubbed a spot of rouge into each nipple. Oh, yes, she thought, arching forward to admire her handiwork, Blayze would have loved this!

What next? Catherine picked up a jar of scented oil and began dabbing behind her ears, at the base of her neck, and anywhere else that she fancied. As she finished her toilette, she listened for telltale signs of readiness from behind the screen. She could hear nothing at first, then her ears picked up the sound of water splas.h.i.+ng ... and something else. She couldn't tell what. Slipping out of her underskirt and stockings, she walked over to the screen. Without her maiden's belt she felt strangely light, not herself at all. Early this morning Bailor had pa.s.sed her the key, and she had now been without the belt all day. Catherine almost missed it. the pressure and the chafing had delivered a subtle pleasure all their own.

Coming to stand beside the screen, Catherine started to brush a stray hair from her face when she noticed there were still spots of rouge on her fingertips. Naked now, she went to wipe her hands upon a nearby tapestry. At the last moment she stopped herself, a chuckle of delight sounding deep within her throat. Instead of wiping the rouge on the tapestry, she rubbed it into her pubic hair instead. The blond down became a blus.h.i.+ng pink. Catherine bit her lip; she wanted to laugh out loud at the sight of it.

The faint rubbing sound that was coming from behind the screen put a stop to all her delight. There was something unnerving about it: here was a man on his wedding night, with his new bride waiting for him, yet he chose to spend their first hour alone together scrubbing himself in a tub. Catherine felt a cold chill skim down her spine: this wasn't right, it wasn't normal.

She crept along the length of the screen until she came to the end. Then slowly she peeked her head around the corner of the screen.

Steam rose up from water hot enough to scald most people. Kylock sat in the tub with his back toward Catherine. A series of red scratch marks ran from his flank to his waist; some still had flakes of dried blood attached to them. He was bent forward, intent on something set before him--Catherine couldn't see what. She swung out a little farther: Now she saw what he was doing. He was scrubbing his hands with a small wooden brush. Back and forth the brush went, so quickly it was only a blur.

Catherine watched for a moment thinking, Surely he will stop before he rubs all the skin from his bone. But he didn't. He continued scrubbing with a terrible blind purpose. It was as if nothing else mattered.

Looking up from his hands to the slant of his cheek, Catherine realized that his jaw was moving. She could neither see his lips nor hear the words, but the muscles in his cheek kept working and his jaw jerked up and down.

Catherine withdrew back behind the screen. She had seen enough. The sight of Kylock muttering to himself while he rubbed his hands raw had changed her mood entirely. There was something very wrong with her new husband: it almost seemed as if he wasn't quite sane. Catherine shook her head. No. She wouldn't think such thoughts. After all, only two days back, Kylock had learned of his mother's death. All of Bren was talking about it.

By all accounts she had died horribly, at the hand of a Halcus raiding party, raped and dismembered, her body wrapped in an Annis banner. No wonder Kylock was acting strangely: the news must have upset him deeply. In less than a year he had lost both his parents, and Catherine knew just how difficult a loss that was to bear. No. Her new husband wasn't crazed or demented, he was simply a man who didn't know how to deal with his grief.

Having come to this conclusion, Catherine felt a lot better. It was her duty, as a wife, to help her husband through this difficult time. She knew from experience that whenever Blayze was worried about an upcoming fight, or angry with his brother; that nothing took his mind off his troubles more than a night of fiery pa.s.sion.

Whilst she was thinking, Catherine had poured herself a third cup of wine. She took a hearty gulp and then called out, "Kylock, my husband, your wife grows weary with the wait." She listened for a moment, and then heard the sound of water splas.h.i.+ng from behind the screen. Her cry had obviously broken his trance.

Her smile was smug as she glanced one last time toward the mirror: tonight was going to be glorious. In her mind, she was already creating a fantasy where Kylock, weak from many hours of glorious lovemaking, broke down and wept in her arms.

Pa.s.sion first, though, grief later. Crossing over to the bed, she blew out the surrounding candles one by one until she was happy with the light. In one hand she held her wine cup, in the other the jar of scented oil. Giggling, she began to sprinkle the oil upon the bed. When that was done to her satisfaction, she finished the last of her wine and slipped gaily between the sheets.

Encouraging sounds came from behind the screen: sounds of footsteps and drying and dressing.

Catherine began propping pillows up to support her neck and back. She tried several poses, thrusting out her chest, squaring her shoulders, spreading her hair out like a fan on the pillows. Nothing seemed quite right. She wanted to delight and surprise Kylock when he emerged from his bath. Judging from the increased activity behind the screen, she didn't have much longer to decide. If only her head was a little clearer; she had drunk too much wine by far, much more than was proper for a lady on her wedding night. Still, it made her feel so delightfully uninhibited.

Sucking on her thumb, Catherine came up with a plan: she would pose for him under the covers. Above he would simply see her face looking maidenly and modest, whilst below, she would be spread-eagled and waiting. It was perfect!

Smiling, Catherine adjusted the covers and then waited, a little impatiently, for Kylock to appear.

Kylock was not as clean as he would have liked to be for Catherine. Even now, with his mother new in the grave, he still couldn't rid himself of the stench of her. She clung to him from whatever h.e.l.l she had been d.a.m.ned to: the smell, the taint, the sin. Queen Arinalda was a wh.o.r.e who had died a wh.o.r.e's death, and he would not allow himself to be dragged down with her. Tonight he would finally be rid of her-death alone was not nearly enough. He needed to be embraced by Catherine's purity to banish the last traces of his mother's l.u.s.t.

He was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and that could never be changed, but his union with Catherine would give him his own private legitimacy. He would be born anew in the sanct.i.ty of her womb.

Eager now, Kylock ran the cloth over his hair, rubbing out the last of the wetness. On his instructions, a clean robe had been laid out in the corner over a chair. He ran the fabric between his scalded fingers. Good, it was silk.

In less than a minute he was ready to face his new wife. He was anxious, excited, his breath coming light and fast. Stepping out from behind the screen, he looked around the room. Everything had changed: the light was dimmer, more intimate, the cloying smell of perfume filled the air, and Catherine was no longer standing. She was already in bed, waiting for him.

She smiled as he approached. "Today you laid Halcus at my feet, my lord, and I haven't yet repaid you."

Kylock started to return the smile, then he noticed that Catherine herself had changed: her lips and cheeks were painted red. Wh.o.r.e's red. He felt a tiny muscle beginning to pump at his temple's edge. In all his dreams of rebirth Catherine had never looked like this. He took a step closer. The smell of perfume grew stronger, and underneath it was another smell: the smell of wine. The place stank like a brothel. Slowly, Kylock began to shake his head. This was not right.

Catherine smiled up at him, as brazen as a tavem wench. "Come now, husband," she said. "Your wife is waiting to pleasure you."

The candles cast their light on Kylock's back, sending his shadow out before him. Catherine fell under it as he walked toward the bed.

Throwing the covers from her body, she whispered, "I am ready, my lord. Take me now."

Kylock looked down upon his bride. She lay openlegged upon the bed, her back arching upwards, her hips thrust toward him.

The world began to dim for Kylock. The pressure point on his temple stretched across his forehead, becoming a tight band of pain. His vision blurred. His breathing stopped.

His body became as rigid as a board. Terrible pressure built within his skull: something was pressing against his brain. Catherine paled. She said, "My lord, what is wrong?" Kylock's stomach churned bile into his throat. He gazed upon Catherine's naked body. The nipples were grotesquely bright, redder even than her lips.

He took a deep breath. "No," he murmured. "No." And then he saw her s.e.x. It was smeared with the same foul redness. She had prepared herself like a trollop. She was no blus.h.i.+ng, inexperienced maiden. She was a craven, licentious wh.o.r.e.

Just like his mother.

Kylock snapped. His tenuous link with sanity was severed in an instant. Catherine screamed. He punched her in the mouth to quiet her. Her head went reeling back into the pillows. Kylock sprang onto the bed. Everything smelled of her: the awful cloying stench of decay. He had to be rid of it. Catherine reached up with her hand, raking her nails across his cheek. Dark, terrible anger rose within Kylock, and he took Catherine's neck in his hand. Blood ran from her nose. It was the same color as her lips, her nipples, her s.e.x.

He slammed her neck back against the headboard. Something cracked. Catherine's body stiffened for an instant and then slumped back against the sheets. Kylock dropped his hold and her head fell against the pillow at an unnatural angle. There was blood on the headboard, and blood seeping on either side of the pillow.

The pressure in Kylock's head was too much for him to bear. He felt a sickening contraction in his stomach. His bride lay still beneath him. "No!" he screamed. And as the word left his lips something real and metal to the taste came with it.

Baralis was in his chambers when he felt it. He was ma.s.saging oil into his hands when he felt a wave of warm air that stopped him dead. Sorcery! Here, within the palace. He shot from his chair. Every hair on his body p.r.i.c.kled a warning, all his senses were intent upon perceiving the source. The salty glaze upon his eyes evaporated in an instant, causing him to blink repeatedly to water them once more. His tongue rested in the base of his mouth, and as he inhaled he drew in the aftertaste of the force. It was known and yet unknown to him. Familiar to a point and then entirely alien.

It was something new. Something dangerous. And it made Baralis afraid.

"Grope," he called. "Grope!"

As he waited for his servant to appear, Baralis paced around the room, a hound on the scent. The waves were coming from the east of him-that meant the n.o.bles' quarters . . . "Borc, no," he whispered under his breath. It meant Catherine's chamber, as well.

Crope entered the room. "Come with me," Baralis ordered, making his way to the door. A cold feeling of dread settled within his stomach. There was no time to lose; he had to know what had happened. Down corridors he sped, robe flapping behind him, Crope padding at his heels. The waves of the drawing grew stronger with every step. They led him straight to Catherine's door. The two guards who watched the hallway crossed their spears as Baralis approached.

Baralis had no time to deal with them. He shaped a compulsion, part soporific, part delusion. A deep instinct within warned him not to use too much of himself. Borc only knew what he might find behind the door. The faces of both guards slackened, muscles falling limp. c.r.a.pe came forward, grabbed both guards, and guided them toward the floor. Baralis nodded to him. "Good." The huge servant came and stood by his side, and together they stepped toward the doorway.

Never in his life had Baralis been so afraid; every fiber of his soul screamed out that something was terribly wrong. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The aftermath from the drawing lapped over his body in waves. The light was dim, very dim. The room reeked of exotic fragrances. Dampness filled the air. The only movement came from the base of the bed. Kylock was kneeling on the floor, his hands resting on the bed. He appeared to be stroking something. Baralis didn't want to step forward, didn't want to see, didn't want to know what had happened, but he knew he must. Above all he was a shaper of destinies and his work was as much about dealing with catastrophe as it was about creation.

One step was enough to reveal the naked body of Catherine. She was lying on a heap of sheets and pillows. Her head was bent impossibly far back from her body, and there was blood on the pillows to either side of her face. Kylock knelt over her, muttering words to himself whilst gently stroking her feet.

The headboard had been completely destroyed. Not burnt, but rather blasted away. All the gla.s.s and the metal in the room was hot to the touch, some of it glowing. A mist of water vapor hung in the air like a pall.

Baralis recognized the signs of an unfocused drawing: hot metal, evaporated water, mild unspecific destruction. Despite the formidable suppressing powers of ivysh, Kylock had drawn power from within. Crude, yes. Unfocused, certainly-but the sorcery was there all the same. Baralis shuddered. What sort of man could draw so strongly that he broke through ivysh's restraint? It should not have been possible. Still, violent emotion could work strange effects upon a man's body and mind.

Baralis shook his head, purposely dispelling all possible implications from his thoughts. He could not afford to dwell on them now. He had more immediate problems to deal with. He gestured to Crope to close the door and walked toward the bed.

Kylock did not acknowledge Baralis' presence; he simply continued stroking his dead wife's feet.

Reaching up, Baralis touched Catherine's neck with his fingertips. She was already growing cold. There was no pulse. He slid his hand behind her neck; her spinal cord had been broken. Lifting his hand up, he cupped the back of her head; her skull had been cracked near the base. Nodding softly, Baralis withdrew, pausing to wipe the blood on his robe.

He stood there, looking down upon the newly deceased d.u.c.h.ess of Bren, and began to formulate a plan. Catherine's body took on the look of a corpse as he thought. A minute, perhaps two at the most, pa.s.sed; then turning to Crope, Baralis gave his instructions.

An hour later he was ready. Crope had brought him potions, drugs, herbs, and props. A subtle compulsion had ensured that no one would mark the huge servant's pa.s.sing. c.r.a.pe was now busy replacing the destroyed headboard with a similar one from Baralis' own chamber.

Kylock had to be dealt with first. Baralis knelt beside him at the foot of the bed and very gently guided his hands away from Catherine's feet. "Ssh," he murmured as he brought the cup to Kylock's lips. "Drink this, my lord. Drink it now." Like an obedient child, Kylock drank his medicine. It was a special strain of sleeping draft used by warriors from beyond the Northern Ranges to dispel battle-terror and weariness on the field. In less than an hour Kylock would wake refreshed, strengthened, clear of mind and sound of body. At least that was what Baralis hoped--the alternative didn't bear thinking about.

"c.r.a.pe," he called. "Take Kylock and lay him to rest behind the screen." The drug worked quickly, and by the time Crope moved from the head of the bed, Kylock's eyes were already closed.

Baralis turned his attention to the room. The shutters had been pulled back to enable the water vapor from the bath to escape. Crope had brought fresh linens for the bed and a bowl of warm water to wash the blood from Kylock's hands and Catherine's hair. Moving around the room, Baralis checked all gla.s.s and metal items. The candlesticks surrounding the bed were the only things that needed discarding: the metal had grown so hot that it had melted, running thickly to the base. Candle wax formed grotesque shapes over the metal. Crope would have to bring new holders and candles.

At the time of the drawing the wine jar had been stoppered, so there were still a few drops remaining in the bottom. Baralis took his flask and filled Catherine's jar one cup short of the brim. Next he turned to her cup. It was a thing of unusual beauty: smoothly carved silkwood with parchment-thin sides and a goodly weight at the base. It was perfect in every way.

"Crope," said Baralis, "when you've finished with the headboard, I want you to take your sharpest knife and carve two circles in the base of this cup. One inside the other."

Crope was excited. "Like the knight's circles, master?" Baralis smiled, his first of the evening. "Yes, exactly like the knight's circles." He thought for a moment, then added, "Oh, and be sure to carve a line that cuts through the circles dead center." Exactly like one particular knight, who would find himself wanted for murder come the morning. Baralis turned his attention back to Crope. "Once that's done, go to my chambers and fetch me some candles and holders."

Crope nodded enthusiastically. He liked nothing better than being useful to his master.

Now it was time to see to himself. Baralis took a small vial from the dresser and emptied its contents upon his tongue. The viscous liquid stung going down. It would not strengthen him exactly, rather prolong what strength he already had. He would now be able to function after the drawing to come. Of course, there would be a price: at some point tomorrow he would simply collapse and it might be as long as a week before he recovered his senses. That wasn't important, though. What counted tonight was eliminating every little thing that could tell of what had happened between Kylock and Catherine. One wrong move, one item overlooked, and everything would fall apart. His plans had stretched over three decades and nothing, absolutely nothing, would stand in the way of his mastery of the north.

Baralis took a deep breath and came to stand beside Catherine. Her body was now blue and stiff. "Turn her for me, Crope," he murmured, "and fetch me a chair so that I might sit." Crope did his bidding, and a minute later Baralis was sitting by the side of the bed, looking down at the broken bones in Catherine's spine. The crack in the skull was nothing: more blood than bone, a simple knitting would suffice. But the spine --Baralis shook his head-the spine would require a surgeon's skill.

A jagged bone pressed against the skin at the base of Catherine's neck. Baralis placed his palm over it. During his time on the plains he had seen many broken bones. The herdsmen had a way with them, knitting together the white and porous husks with a combination of potions, sorcery, and sacrifice. Never had he seen them repair a broken spine. It was too delicate an operation, too much could go wrong: nerves could be trapped, blood vessels could be destroyed, and the bone might fix improperly, causing lameness or worse. Baralis bit down on his tongue, preparing for the trance. None of that mattered to Catherine: a corpse's spine required no such consideration. As long as it looked all right, that was enough.

Crope handed him leaf and bowl, and the fat beads of Baralis' blood dripped readily down from his tongue. There would be no sacrifice to help the process-he would rely upon his own strength alone.

Down he sent his consciousness, down into the corpse. He had worked on freshly killed animals many times, but no amount of training could prepare one for the appalling shock of the dead. Cold, corrupt, actively decaying: a corpse was no place for a sorcerer to linger.

Baralis' fingers went to work, warming, shaping, s.h.i.+fting. His hand pressed the bone backward, while his mind prepared the rest. Once the fragment was in place, he began the knitting, stirring tissue to join with bone. He had no time for finesse, no time for a surgeon's subtlety, and he concentrated purely upon the join. When he had finished, Catherine's neck was rigid. The top four vertebrae were now more firmly linked in death than they had ever been in life. Baralis transferred his consciousness to Catherine's skull. The stiffness would be put down to the poison.

Compared to the spine, the skull was an easy task, a mere knitting of bone to bone. Baralis wasted little effort with show as any bruising would be covered by Catherine's thick, golden hair. As long as her head felt smooth when the physician ran his hands over it, that would be more than enough.

Baralis worked quickly, conscious of the nearness of Catherine's brain and unnerved by the last futile firings of her nerve cells. By the time the task was complete, he was weak beyond telling. Withdrawing from the corpse, he was dazzled by the light, warmth, and freshness of life. For Baralis it merely confirmed that survival at any cost was the most important thing of all. There was little glory to be had in death.