A Man Betrayed by J. V. Jones Page A

She coughed up blood for a full year before her
death.
    She tried to hide
the bloodstained rags from him, stuffing them deep within her embroidery basket
while he slept. Only he wasn't asleep. He couldn't fall asleep until he'd seen
the rags and made sure they were no more bloodied than normal. But too often
they were. So he would wash them for her; rubbing the stain against the stone
by the light of a midnight candle. The next morning he'd rise early and take
the drying rags from the grate. After he'd softened them by rubbing the fabric
against his palm, he'd slip them into her basket. When his mother wakened, she
would find the newly cleaned strips, and they could both pretend for a while
that there had never been any blood.
    It got so bad near
the end that rags weren't enough, so he ripped up his tunics to give to her. At
the very end; she was kept from him. Whispered words of warning barred her
door. Jack's only consolation was the light that stole from under the panel. As
long as it shone, the candles still burned, and while they burned, she still
lived.
    Crope was the last
to talk to his mother. Even now, Jack could remember the huge giant emerging
from the doorway, tears in his eyes, hand in his tunic. How he hated Crope for
being called to her side. No call came for him.
    For three days he
was not allowed to see her. And then there was nothing to see. The light
disappeared from under the door. The cellar steward's wife came. "She's
dead," she said. "No use getting upset. Make yourself useful by
scrubbing those pots. You wouldn't want to turn into a burden."
    So he'd scrubbed
pots the day his mother died, and scoured the floors the next. It had helped,
in a way, for a tired and aching boy, whose fingertips bled from using course
brushes, had little time or strength to think of his mother. He realized half a
year later that he could no longer remember what she looked like before the
illness. He'd scrubbed the memory clean away along with the pots and the pans.
    Jack's fist came
crashing down on the side of the pallet. The wood cracked and splintered. Melli
was dead. He would not forget her with the same faithless haste. It was all his
fault. He should never have left her to deal with the body. He should never
have killed the man in the first place.
    The girl called
Tarissa stepped into the room. "What's going on?"
    Jack regarded her
coldly and said nothing. She spotted where the wood had been punched. "You
did that?" Her voice was flat, neutral in more ways than one. Neutral in
its careful lack of emotion, and neutral in its dialect. She had neither the
kingdom's lilt of her mother, nor the Halcus accent of Rovas.
    "Look, I'm
sorry about the girl," she said.
    "Are
you?" Her sympathy made him angry. "Or was it just part of your
plan?" Jack could still feel the pressure of Melli's last touch upon his
hand. The memory of their final parting was new and painful, and he ground his
knuckles into the splintered wood.
    "Plan?"
    Again Jack's fist
came down upon the wood. The girl stepped back, momentarily frightened. "Innocence
doesn't suit you," he said. "Don't expect me to believe that you and
Rovas were up near the frozen pond for the good of your health." The
splinters drew blood. Why had they saved him, not Melli? His life was
worthless. No one would mourn his passing. But Melli, she might have been a
queen. She was beautiful and proud, and the day he'd turned against the
mercenaries and blasted them with a mixture of rage and sorcery, she had saved
his life. With his mind gone and his body failing, Melli had dragged him for
leagues across the forest to find shelter.
    "What's done
is done." Tarissa shrugged. "We did not bring about the death of the
girl. You have yourself and a certain Halcus captain to blame for that."
    "What is this
captain's name?"
    Rovas entered the
room and Tarissa fell under his shadow. "I will not tell you his name
yet," he said.
    "Why
not?" Jack had the feeling they were both acting. That the whole