For my special Trinity—Ian, Will and Jack McIntosh
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Dedication
Map
Prologue
1 A Bridling at Twyfford Cross
2 The Floral Dance
3 Stones of Ordolt
4 Alyssa Qyn Disappears
5 The Rescue of Cloot
6 King of the Sea
7 Dreamspeaker
8 Miss Vylet’s
9 Shapechanger
10 The King’s Secret
11 Reunion
12 A Surprise for Merkhud
13 Cirq Zorros
14 Saxon the Kloek
15 Goth’s Revenge
16 Tor’s Journey
17 The Heartwood
18 The Story of Orlac
19 Xantia
20 A Rude Awakening
21 Aczabba Veiszuit
22 Sanctuary
23 Forbidden Lovers
24 The Birthing
25 Capture
26 A Reckoning
27 Visitors
28 The Stoning
29 The Final Betrayal
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ALSO BY FIONA McINTOSH
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
Prologue
Mild, cloudless and still. It was a perfect day for an execution. Sallementro cast an experienced gaze around the gathering crowd and wondered at its subdued mood. It was nearing noon. The prisoner would be led out shortly, or so a nearby watcher announced to no one in particular. People nodded, spoke in hushed tones and shuffled their feet. The gathered hardly seemed to notice the contrived tomfoolery up front as a hired buffoon tried to warm up the crowd’s anticipation of justice. If anything they turned away; ignored the boisterous behaviour and kept their own quiet thoughts.
It was all very curious, Sallementro thought.
He had arrived in Tal only that morning. Another wandering minstrel, hoping to catch the ear of a wealthy noble who might avail himself of a troubadour’s services to woo his mistress or impress his friends. Perhaps, Sallementro mused, he might even be invited to perform at the royal court. That would be a coup.
He pulled himself back to the present. Whilst the execution was all the talk of the city’s inns and markets, the musician had not, as yet, had the chance to learn more about its victim. That the young man was important was obvious. Why else would King Lorys himself proclaim his death sentence and by such an antiquated method?
Crucifixion and stoning. Sallementro shivered. It was barbaric but it was going to make for a fine ballad. He began to hear the first few notes in his head as he edged his way through the people.
Raised in the fertile counties of the far south, he had gone against his father’s wishes. Generations of his family had farmed the rich soils around Arandon and had amassed an enviable name and wealth. He was expected to support his eldest brother’s needs; ensure the family holdings were consolidated. Sallementro argued he was the third son and expendable but this had never yielded any success with his irate parents. His mother shrieked during their many arguments that she would prefer him to choose the Cloth than this. A wandering singer! Arrogant and stubborn all of them, they could not imagine a greater blight on the family’s good name. Sallementro had never wanted to be anything else though.
And then there were the strange dreams with the mysterious woman who demanded he follow his chosen path, urging him to wander far and wide to practise his art. The dreamspeaker whispered across his sleeping thoughts of a young woman in need—not just of his friendship but his protection.
Odd. He was a songster not a soldier. Who could he protect? He cringed at his mother’s angry voice. He was no hero.
The woman was relentless though, invading his dreams for ten summers. He had been travelling the Kingdom now for another ten summers and felt as though he had known her all of his life. Yet in truth he knew only her voice and her wishes. Lys…was that her name? Stupidly, he could never quite recall.
Sallementro had never told anyone about her but he silently acknowledged that the mysterious woman had a strange hold over him. It was she who had given him the courage to stand up to his family; she who had empowered him through her whisperings to leave them and pursue his singing. Who was she?
His musings came to an end as a fat hand shoved him. He was in the midst of a stream of apologies for treading on the rotund lady’s toes when heads began to turn in unison. His victim lost all interest in him. Sallementro followed her several wobbling chins to gaze at the north tower, towards which people were pointing and staring.
‘There she is!’ someone brayed.
The minstrel found himself holding his breath as he watched a young woman step out onto the balcony. She was flanked by two burly guards. The woman shook off their steadying hands and defiantly lifted her chin. As she did so, the midday sun glinted off a pale gem-like oval attached to her forehead. The crowd murmured as one.
Looking at her Sallementro felt his heart skip and the chorus of his song came crashing into his mind. Here she was. The girl whom he had heard about for two decades. The dreamspeaker spoke true. Sallementro felt an instant, aching bond with the beautiful, sad-faced woman who was staring solemnly back at the crowd. At last he had found her. And now he must protect her.
Tension, which had been building all morning, suddenly flared. Some people called out words of encouragement to the girl whilst others shook their heads or wept.
‘Who is she?’ Sallementro thought he had whispered to himself.
‘She’s the lover,’ his ageing neighbour replied. ‘Worth dying for I’ll say.’
‘I beg you, tell me her name, sir.’
‘Why, she is Alyssandra Qyn.’
Further conversation was drowned by a fanfare of trumpets heralding the sovereign’s arrival. King Lorys and his Queen, Nyria, were the most successful royals ever to rule Tallinor and their close and happy union was legend throughout the surrounding kingdoms.
Right now though, Sallementro noticed, there was no trace of joy in the pair. Stiff and with an unfocused gaze, they barely acknowledged the lukewarm cheers from their people, nor did they glance towards the beautiful girl. A good thing too, Sallementro thought. She wore a gaze of pure hatred and it was firmly fixed on the King.
‘If looks could kill, Lorys would be in his death throes right now,’ murmured a man standing in front of Sallementro.
‘Her looks could kill, you fool,’ breathed another neighbour. ‘She’s an Untouchable, remember. Brimful of magic. See the jewel on her forehead?’
Sallementro had heard of the Untouchables. He recognised the disc of archalyt which branded her one of the clan of sentient women who lived in the remote northern region of the Kingdom. Protected from all persecution by the Inquisitors, they were warded from using their powers by the enchanted gemstone. When a woman joined the clan, a sliver of the stone, polished to a glass-like oval, was pressed onto her forehead. If she was genuinely sentient, the disc adhered instantly. There it remained for ever, to prevent magic being used by her or against her.
‘What does the stone mean to others?’ Sallementro asked the man nearby, who seemed to know about it.
‘You must be a southerner, minstrel, not to know about archalyt!’ the man replied.
‘Enlighten me then and I shall create a song for it,’ Sallementro suggested artfully.
His informant was in rare good humour. ‘The archalyt means she has the King’s protection. No man may touch her, ever. That goes for the pig Inquisitors too.’
Sallementro nodded and looked back at the young woman on the balcony. He could see the glittering stone more clearly and, without realising it, began t
o rhyme words for the opening verse of what he already knew would be one of the best songs he would ever create.
A cry went up. ‘Ware, the dead man comes!’
Some of the younger women were already crying. Sallementro was astonished. People began to call to the condemned prisoner even though they could not see him yet. He glanced up at the balcony again. Alyssandra Qyn had finally dragged her death stare from the King. Her eyes now followed the steps of her lover.
One young woman was crying so hard she swooned. Sallementro helped her friends to pull the girl to her feet. More people were becoming agitated as the prisoner came closer. He decided the prisoner must be an extraordinary fellow to provoke such an outpouring of grief.
He was right.
The condemned man, Torkyn Gynt, squinted at the noon sun. It pained his eyes after seven days in the black dungeon. A ringing in his ears blocked out most of the sounds in the castle bailey. He entered it between a column of soldiers, all of whom he knew well; all of whom reluctantly guided him to the execution plinth. Tor was a favourite son of Tallinor. These soldiers of the elite Shield had tutored him in every skill, from downing ales to swordplay. Little did any of them know, he thought, that he needed no weapon to defend himself. The gods had given him enchantments so potent and powerful he needed nothing more than his own magic but he had promised he would not use that power today. Instead, for the sake of Alyssa Qyn’s safety, he would face his death. He would die courageously. He would meet his destiny.
He passed by women who echoed his own fear in their tears as they wept openly. The men’s faces were blank but inside they thanked their gods they were not in his place.
Tor’s heart was pounding so hard he felt sure it would burst and kill him long before any stone hit its mark. The manner in which the King he loved had decreed he must die terrified him. In fact he was surprised he could actually put one foot in front of another right now.
Put on a brave show for them, my boy. Don’t allow the scum Inquisitor Goth the pleasure of watching you show your suffering.
He heard Merkhud’s words over and again but it was so much easier said than done. Earlier, when he had been allowed a final visit from his mentor, the old man had acted strangely.
Gripping Tor’s hand Merkhud asked, ‘Do you trust me?’
‘I always have,’ Tor lied. He knew too much now about Merkhud’s past to believe every word he uttered was not driven by secret manipulations.
‘Then trust me now,’ the old man said.
Merkhud’s normally gentle voice was thick with pain. He was choking back his own fear at what lay ahead for the boy he regarded as a son. And at what was still ahead for both of them.
Could he pull off this wild plan? Could such a magic truly be wielded?
This was the last time he would embrace this fine young man; the man he had deliberately betrayed.
A hard, brief kiss to the side of Tor’s head and the old man struggled to his feet and rapped on the cell’s heavy timber door with his walking stick. All too soon it swung back and Tor noticed that Merkhud was wiping away tears before the gaoler stepped in. Merkhud turned, looking a century older in that moment of grief. His words were cryptic, whispered only for Tor’s superior hearing.
‘No matter what happens today you must trust me and listen. Shut out the noise and your fear and listen for me. I will come.’
Tor nodded gravely but did not understand what the old man was saying. He let it pass. There was nothing to be achieved now.
‘Promise me you’ll be brave for her and for me. And find forgiveness for your King. He knows not what he does.’
And then Merkhud was gone.
Tor suddenly felt very alone. He could not reach Alyssa via the mindlink; she must be wearing the archalyt again. They thought it was part of her for ever. They had not counted on his strange, indetectable magic which removed it at a touch. Now she would wear it for good. He hated them for marking her.
Alyssa had been spared an identical barbaric death though; that much at least he had achieved, convincing his King to pardon her involvement in what he had claimed was a seduction not an affair. Lorys, he noted, had agreed without much pressure. Tor had seen it and so had Queen Nyria: fascination…desire…lust.
Tor understood. Alyssa was an exceptional beauty and if that could save her from death, why not?
The gaoler cleared his throat from the cell doorway, a little lost for what to do. He liked the boy. Always had. Didn’t everyone? He began to close the door as quietly as possible, then offered something which he hoped might help. ‘Not long now, lad. An hour or two maybe.’
His words were no comfort. Tor’s resolve broke. Tears fell for himself: for the pitiful way in which he was to die and the stupidity of his actions which had brought him to this monstrous conclusion. He cried too for Alyssa, who had never asked for anything but his love, yet he had betrayed her twice. He wept for his parents. Would they have made the journey to Tal to witness their famous son’s untimely end? His greatest despair, however, was reserved for two newborn infants he would never know. Not even their mother, his beloved Alyssa, knew they were alive. That was his third betrayal of her and now he would die and she would never know the truth.
‘Tor…’ Someone called his name gently. It was Herek, wondering if he needed help.
Had he stumbled? The sharp sunlight, the cries of the crowd and his own heartbeat. It was too much. Now they were asking him to sit on a special chair: it was the Chair of the Damned, he realised. He would sit here now and hear why he was to be stoned. It was purely protocol—everyone gathered knew why Torkyn Gynt was to be slaughtered—but the Chair of the Damned was a final chilling reminder that death was imminent, stretching the ordeal just a little longer. It gave the victim a few last moments to repent his sins, beg forgiveness, beg for mercy—whatever he felt moved to say or do. It gave the audience, traditionally hungry for the blood of the accused, the opportunity to watch him suffer the terror of these final moments.
Tor sat, suddenly bewildered and stared at the dust on the ground. He could not look at anyone. One of the most senior of the courtiers who had presided at the trial in the Great Hall unrolled a parchment and read aloud its length of accusations. The actual sentence would be read shortly but only after the executioner himself had been introduced.
Tor could not bear to listen to their words any more. Instead he called himself within; shut out all of the people and allowed his thoughts to drift back. Back to where it had all begun, on that balmy afternoon in Twyfford Cross seven summers previous…
1
A Bridling at Twyfford Cross
Torkyn Gynt was young, adventurous and bored. He hated being an apprentice scribe but it was expected by all that he would continue Jhon Gynt’s excellent work. He watched his father squinting at the letter he was working on with the Widow Ely. The older man’s eyes were failing and the day when his son would have to take over was fast approaching.
Today, however, they would spend the warm, sunny afternoon working at Twyfford Cross. A more sleepy, uneventful village Tor could not imagine. He felt like yelling his frustrations aloud as he heard the Widow Ely whingeing, yet again, about her sore hip. His mood was broken by the miller’s old dog Boj, who ambled over to the walnut tree beneath whose cool canopy they were working. Boj nudged Tor’s hand. His days of being a champion mouser were over but everyone in the village loved the old rogue.
Guilt stabbed at Tor as he watched his father struggling to read back the letter to the cranky widow. He offered to take over and sighed to himself as he dipped the nib into the ink. Life did not get much less exciting than this, he decided.
As he scribed her boring words, his thoughts embraced more alluring sights than the widow’s beefy hips. The curve of Alyssa Qyn’s breasts brought a smile to his face. His client’s hacking cough unfortunately brought him back to the tiresome present. That and an urgent prod from his father, who knew better than most what a daydreamer his son was.
Rub
bing his ribs and glaring at Jhon Gynt, Tor heard it. His strangely acute hearing picked up the ominous sound. His mother always said his ears were sharp enough to hear the birds breathing in the trees; a gift from the heavens she called it. Tor eventually realised this was her way of acknowledging—without actually admitting—that he possessed extraordinary powers. These were not times to be gifted with sentient ability; in fact it was a curse to possess any magic. So nothing was ever said openly. His strange and powerful talents had been kept hidden now for fifteen summers.
Widow Ely’s voice droned on. She hardly noticed Tor unfold his long legs from beneath the table and stand but Boj did. Disturbed from his doze, the dog waddled off.
Tor listened. Riders! Many of them and travelling fast. He did not need to see them to know they represented danger. Jhon Gynt was shocked to see ink, parchment and nibs suddenly scattered and hear his son yelling.
Too late. They were upon them in moments. Boj was trampled on his way across the street as a dozen riders came at full gallop into the village square. The face of the man in charge was unmistakable. Tor had not seen him before but vivid descriptions by others assured him this man was Chief Inquisitor Goth.
Goth’s face was a tortured mound of flesh. Savagely pocked, one side lay slack whilst the other twitched incessantly, giving his right eye a permanent tic. His sneer turned into a nasty smile as he drank in the village’s silent shock. Boj, almost dead, still managed to snap at the heels of Goth’s mount. A sword was driven into the dog’s belly to finish the cur off but inwardly Tor cheered his courage. Some of the folk flinched at Boj’s cruel death but held their tongues from a familiar fear.
Tor blinked his distinctive, cornflower blue eyes. He could feel his power gathering.
His father must have sensed it because he squeezed his son’s shoulder. ‘Don’t do anything foolish, Torkyn,’ Jhon murmured.
Goth stared at the villagers. They were still, watching the reviled Inquisitor carefully, waiting for his inevitable command. He allowed the silence to hang just a moment longer, relishing the fear he created wherever he rode.
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