Eryn nodded, her eyes firmly on her satin slippers.
‘Well, he has just asked me an extraordinary question. He wishes to spend tonight—the whole of what’s left of tonight, that is—with you. He has asked me how much this might cost and I thought it would be best if you sorted this out directly with him. I fear too much may have already passed between you two to make this a comfortable trade. It is your choice, my dear.’
Eryn finally looked up at Tor, her eyes defiant. ‘He’s already paid—a gold sovereign, madam.’ She dropped the heavy coin into the older woman’s palm. ‘More than enough to buy me for the night.’
She hadn’t taken her eyes from Tor’s. They burned angrily.
‘In that case, my dear, you’d better show him to one of our special rooms.’
And with that Miss Vylet turned and bid Tor a warm goodnight. ‘Enjoy your stay, Mr Gynt, and please call in any time you find yourself travelling through Hatten again. My best to our mutual friend and good luck in Tal.’
She disappeared through another door in her study. Only a heavy silence remained.
‘Follow me, please.’ Eryn’s voice was brittle.
‘Eryn, wait a moment.’ Tor felt horribly uncomfortable. Suddenly this was no longer an idea which appealed.
She ignored him. ‘It’s this way.’
Eryn walked out of the door. He paused but had no choice but to follow. She was already at the top of the stairs and disappearing down a darkish corridor lit by flickering candle lamps. He took the stairs two at a time and at the top glimpsed her walking into a room at the very end of the corridor.
Tor walked slowly, his tread heavy. This did not feel right. Light though, she was lovely; more so when she was angry and her eyes blazed as they had. He arrived at the door. Everywhere around him was so quiet that he knocked gently. She opened it. His mouth went dry in an instant for she was naked.
‘Close it, please, I won’t be long.’
He watched her shapely bottom move with tantalising, rolling grace to the four-posted bed. She pulled the drapes across. ‘Whenever you are ready, sir.’ Her sarcasm was barely concealed.
Enough. Tor strode across the room and ripped back the drapes with such force that she almost shrieked. Instead she gathered up the sheets around her thin shoulders and stared angrily at him.
‘Enough, Eryn. None of this is to my liking or of my doing. You chose me for the wedding ceremony, remember, and now I hear from Miss Vylet that you were her spy. You were told to find me, which you did so expertly almost as soon as I arrived in Hatten. Then Petyr at the baths and Locky…you’re all “friends”, I gather?’
He shook his head at how gullible he had been but gave her no chance to retaliate, holding up his hand to silence her.
‘Thank you for being part of the elaborate scheme. The sovereign’s yours. You’ve certainly earned it.’
He threw the curtains closed, stepped up to a small table where wine was set out, drank a draught and, with no further word, headed for the door.
‘They’re my brothers not my friends.’ Her voice was urgent yet sullen.
‘What?’
‘I said they’re my brothers—Petyr and Locky.’ She poked her head out from the drapes. ‘Don’t go,’ she said quietly and disappeared, re-emerging a moment later with a satin wrap around her. ‘I mean it. Really…don’t go, Tor.’
She walked to him, took his reluctant hand and made him sit by the fire with her. ‘It’s cold out there tonight.’
Tor barked a tired laugh. ‘Especially when you’ve been rained on.’ She had not let go of his hand and began massaging it.
‘All right. No apologies. A truce instead. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ Tor replied with relief. ‘Now what?’
‘Finish what we started last night, except this time there’s no guile. I’m here because I choose to be, not because I have to be or because you’ve paid.’
‘Your writing is atrocious. Do you know that?’ he said suddenly, remembering her note.
She laughed. ‘Be grateful I can write at all. Most of the girls can’t.’
‘Who taught you?’
‘Margolin and a few others who liked me enough to spend a little of their precious paid time on teaching me rather than just—’ Tor cut her words off with a hand across her mouth.
‘Don’t say it, Eryn. You’re better than that.’
‘Am I?’ she said wistfully. ‘Not really. I rather like this life, Tor, so don’t go trying to change me.’ She meant it.
He pulled her close. ‘May I finish that kiss, at least? If you only knew how furious I was to wake up and realise I’d missed my chance.’
All trace of seriousness drifted away as she turned to face him. They kissed gently and then deeply. When Eryn finally pulled back she studied his face.
‘Was that kiss just for me or are there more of us in this room?’
‘Oh, there might have been a few others in there somewhere,’ he teased.
She swiped at him playfully and tried to get up from the floor. He grabbed her wrap to prevent her and in doing so it came off. Eryn rushed for the bed with Tor leaping behind her. They hit the mattress hard, only to hear a sinister crack as the bed’s main beam gave way. This made them laugh and the more they tried to shoosh each other, the worse it got.
‘Light! What is Miss Vylet going to say?’ she said, finally composing herself.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He kissed her shoulders and then her neck.
‘Get those disgusting clothes off,’ Eryn said in a dreamy voice as Tor traced a finger over her body. ‘And I know this is your first time too, so don’t be bashful. You’ve got yourself the best teacher this side of the capital!’
Curiously, it was Prime Cyrus who flashed into Tor’s mind as he pulled off his damp shirt and breeches. He felt the Prime’s presence, just for a moment, on the edge of his mind. Strange—Cyrus was calling to him for help. The vision passed as he lowered his body down next to Eryn.
9
Shapechanger
The Company of King’s Men clattered along the road to Tal at an easy pace. No need to push the horses nor the men. Each could almost smell the capital now, at worst two days ride away. Summer was putting on a last hurrah of warmth before autumn made its arrival: the trees had already begun to don their multicoloured finery to ensure a grand welcome. Children, farmers and even a small band of tinkers raised their hands in greeting as the Company passed by.
The Prime was none too happy about the noises of appreciation which many of his men made as they passed a small vineyard of women bent to their work, but his mood was too light to reprimand them harshly. The grapes the women picked would make the delectable sticky wines which the nobles liked to take with their sweet courses at feasts, and by all accounts it would be a splendid year. Although Cyrus was a lover of fine wines and could appreciate the sunny silkiness of a golden Syric, it was always the voluptuous beauty of the powerful reds which his palate craved. He thought about the dwindling supply of superb Moriett he kept in his rooms at the Palace. He imagined himself relaxing in his favourite chair; perhaps even by the fire, for the nights were certainly becoming chill enough. Yes, he could almost taste the liquid velvet.
Herek ruined his musings. ‘I thought we’d push on to Brewis, sir. The weather’s fine enough and that means we could probably make the city’s outlying villages by nightfall tomorrow. Perhaps even to Sherwin. Then it would be an hour’s ride in the morning.’ Herek’s voice was questioning. It would be the Prime’s decision alone.
The Moriett called him. ‘Agreed. Let the men know and then pick up the pace. If we’re going to make Brewis, let’s do so before dusk.’
Herek understood. Brewis, a small village, pretty as a picture, sat on the edge of one of the long fingers of the Great Forest. No Tallinese was comfortable roaming the forest at night, and the horses became particularly skittish if not settled well before dark closed in around the mysterious wood.
The hamlet of B
rewis was visible from the crest of the rise in the road where Cyrus and his two lieutenants had stopped. Surrounding Brewis were the fields of impossibly pretty lavenders for which it was famous; it supplied all of the Kingdom’s nobles with these fresh herbs for their floors. Pointing directly at the village was the finger of the southwestern fringe of the Great Forest. Brewis was still two miles away but Cyrus was keen to make camp.
‘Over there, sir,’ Herek said, pointing to a smallish depression in the land.
Cyrus cast a keen eye across the landscape. ‘That’s the best we’re going to do. Let’s get them moving before our light goes.’ He cantered ahead whilst Royce, the other lieutenant, waved on the men.
By the time the sky had spread its mantle of sunset colours across Brewis and the night’s chill was just biting, the men had set up camp and their fires were dancing. The Prime had ordered ale be given out, which pleased the men no end and they drank to his health which he accepted graciously. He held his men’s loyalty very preciously and went to enormous lengths to ensure that all who served him were well cared for. There was not a man under his command who did not give the Prime his loyalty willingly.
One of the supplies men ambled up and offered him a mug of ale.
Cyrus smiled. ‘I won’t tonight, but my thanks.’
He wanted a clear head for tomorrow, and besides with the Morriet so close he could not think of downing an ale in its stead. He would wait.
The man shrugged and limped off to a nearby fire, muttering about there being more for the others. Cyrus smiled again, his eyes falling on his other lieutenant.
‘C’mon, Royce, a song is in order, I think.’ He motioned for the lieutenant to sit in the centre of the ring of small fires.
While the men were all cheering and clapping for Royce, who was swallowing down the contents of his mug with his lute in his free hand, Herek saluted.
‘Yes, Herek?’ Cyrus looked up from where he was sitting.
‘All’s secure, sir. Four men on watch, all sides, sir, and we’ll be rotating every hour.’
‘Good job, Herek. Now relax and have an ale, man. All that snapping to attention makes me twitchy.’
‘Er…yes, sir, thank you, sir.’ Herek snapped another salute for good measure and went in search of ale.
Cyrus leaned back on his bedroll. He was in no hurry to sleep, though he felt full and relaxed and warm. Royce possessed an excellent voice. He was in good spirits tonight, not just from the ale—being newly married he was looking forward to seeing his young wife. He sang lusty songs and drank the rest of the evening away, as did the men until they all drifted off.
Cyrus was surprised more ale was not drunk. The men were clearly tired for they seemed to hit their bedrolls far earlier than he would have thought. Oh well, this was fortunate. It would mean a prompt start at first light.
Lieutenant Royce, still in high spirits from his songs and unable to settle, swapped with one of the men on watch who couldn’t stop yawning. ‘Go ahead, Cork, I’ll take this one.’
He was rewarded with a grateful grin and another huge yawn. Royce caught Herek’s attention and pointed that he was taking the northern watch. Herek nodded. He too felt damnably weary yet was surprised that the men had turned in so early.
The clouds had closed in so the moon was hidden. Before midnight all the men were snoring happily in a lightly drunken sleep.
Only Cyrus slept clear-headed and shallowly, as was his custom.
The intruders waited another hour to make sure the confection in the ale had worked. They melted out of the blackness and if Cyrus heard the low owl hoot it did not disturb him unduly. As he rolled over in his slumbers to warm his back, his four sentries were having their throats slashed, witnessing their own lifeblood pumping out onto the cool grass.
Cyrus registered their presence all too late and by the time he had leapt to his feet, there was a blade at his heart, another at his throat and a pudgy, strong hand clamped across his mouth. He fought them as best he could, stunned that his own men had not risen as one at his noise. The attackers poured a vial of liquid into a square of cloth and the heady vapour did the rest. The Prime collapsed silently into burly arms.
Rolling him in his own blanket and using none of the caution they showed before, the men carried the Prime towards the forest. He was thrown across a horse face down and tied. They took their time, for not a man in the King’s Company could have woken if he had wanted to, and four others never would again.
Cyrus came to slowly. The powerful drug had left his head fuzzy and his mouth parched.
There were five of them. He could just make out their silhouettes around a small fire. From time to time one would look over at him to see if he had surfaced but Cyrus was not about to announce his consciousness. He needed to decide just how bad this situation was.
He opened bare slits in his eyes and tried to work out whether he knew who these thugs were. He thought he recognised one of them as Goron, a brutish Hatten shipyard worker who had risen in rank to supervisor, though Light only knew why. Nevertheless, he had no grudge with Goron. As to the others, he drew a blank.
Cyrus tried to clear his head. None of this made any sense and he was concerned for his men. He had already worked out that the ale must have been tampered with, but that was impossible without some corruption on his side, or, more likely, the innkeeper. He flinched as if hit when the thought struck him.
All right, they’d drugged his men and stolen him away. Why? What could he possibly have that they could want? Everything fell into place when a familiar figure emerged from the woods. It was Corlin. This was about revenge, then. This madness centred around Corlin’s hurt pride and the need to strike back at the man who had belittled him in Hatten’s town square over a freakish cripple. Cyrus almost snorted aloud in disgust as the jigsaw completed itself. The man was definitely mad.
Corlin spoke quietly to the seated men before stepping around the fire and walking towards the Prime. He kicked the tied-up man violently. It took the wind out of Cyrus who grunted hard once and then struggled to breathe through the pain in his ribs, one of which was almost certainly now broken.
‘Good evening, Prime.’ Corlin offered his fake humility. ‘This is a slight turn of situation, isn’t it?’
Cyrus tried to sit up but was pushed back by a boot.
‘Save your strength, Cyrus—you’re going to need it,’ Corlin sneered nastily. ‘It’s going to be the longest day of your life, Prime, and I’m going to enjoy watching you beg me for mercy.’
The man laughed loudly and Cyrus felt his bowels clench in anticipation of what lay ahead. Corlin returned to his men, and Cyrus watched them drink a small keg of ale. Apart from Corlin, who had swallowed perhaps only half a mug, the others in his band were sufficiently drunk to do anything. He figured he had only a few minutes of sanity remaining and then the punishment would begin.
This must be how it feels before an execution, he thought, but dismissed that idea. For whereas a prisoner was usually guilty of the crime and accepting of his fate, Cyrus was not. Nor was he terrified any longer. He was enraged, and promised himself that should he survive this—and there was little chance, he admitted regretfully—he would personally administer swift justice with no clemency.
Corlin was getting up from his place by the fire.
‘Here we go,’ Cyrus muttered to the trees. He spared a thought for his beloved wife and child, both long dead but still very much alive in his heart. He threw another thought to his men, hoping they would seek retribution. And then, ludicrously, the image of Torkyn Gynt hit him. He fancied that he saw him galloping towards him with his freakish friend at his side. Madness! The corner of his mouth twitched ruefully and he wondered why the boy had flitted into his mind.
Corlin stood in front of him. ‘Get this piece of dung onto his feet,’ he snarled.
Two of the group held him while a third cut the bonds from the stake then quickly re-tied his hands. Corlin spat in the Prime’s face. The gob sl
id lazily from his forehead down the side of his nose and Cyrus knew then that he hated the man in front of him more than any man he’d known. He took exquisite pleasure in spitting straight back at Corlin, catching him unexpectedly across his lips.
‘You may kiss my dunghole, you turd. I can’t wait to feel my blade across your cowardly throat.’
It felt powerful to be defiant but the euphoria was short-lived. The words ‘nail him’ made his blood run cold.
They dragged him between two trees.
‘No dulling drug to help you now, Prime Shitface.’ Corlin laughed nastily and his mindless thugs laughed with him. ‘Do it!’
They used a heavy mallet and thick iron nails. Cyrus felt only two exquisitely painful blows. The first made him heave up everything in his stomach and the second mercifully made him pass out. It took two more hefty blows to secure his right hand to the first tree and three to secure his left to the other. Once nailed firmly, they revived him with a dousing of chilled water for the rest of the evening’s entertainment.
10
The King’s Secret
‘Old man!’ King Lorys of Tallinor took only a few strides to cross the large room.
Merkhud bowed deeply. ‘My King.’
‘Enough politeness, Merkhud—you can keep that for Court. In these chambers I expect you to take wine with me and give me bawdy tales of your travels.’ Lorys gave the old man a bear hug. ‘Nyria and I have missed you deeply.’
Merkhud was glad to be back in Tal. Travelling had its joys but the comforts of his chambers in the west tower were hard to beat. A page arrived with wine and marinated olives which he laid out expertly considering they could almost smell his nervousness. The lad looked up at the King and just caught the wink before he bowed low and backed away to light the sconces. The overcast chilly day hinted with sincerity at autumn’s arrival. Fires would be lit around the castle in coming weeks.
Merkhud swallowed a mouthful of delicious wine—a Coriel, the grape found only in the rich lands of the south. He thought about how he had been physician to the King’s father, Orkyd, arriving at the Palace only days before Lorys’s grandfather, old King Mort, had drawn his last breath. No one had lived long enough to query the physic’s longevity—he had spent the last one and a half centuries at the Palace.
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