Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘What the fuck are these halfwits doing now?’ asked Goth.

  As he spoke, the Academie gates burst open and out thundered Kythay, snorting, squealing and kicking madly. He laid out four of Goth’s men before they had realised what was happening; the others scattered, Goth included.

  Saxon linked again. Now, Alyssa, fly. Fly for me, girl. Don’t let me fail again.

  Alyssa let go of all her thoughts, closed her eyes, felt the Green gathering around her and leapt. She pushed out with her powers and, like a ruptured fountain, they spewed magic and she flew, dropping and tumbling towards Milt and Oris who were waiting. It seemed an eternity. While Kythay terrified the Inquisitors and Goth screamed his disbelief, Alyssa landed on the boys’ braced arms which acted like a spring. They tossed her up towards the parapet and her powers lifted her impossibly high in the air, spinning like a top. She finally landed into the strong grip of Sorrel and other women around her.

  Alyssa had never felt such combined fear and power before. The impact knocked her almost unconscious; she lay in the safety of Sanctuary, pear juice oozing through her garments like blood.

  In the panicked seconds which followed, Kythay miraculously found his way back through the gates, which were slammed shut behind him.

  The boys, as if coming out of a dream, began to laugh as they realised what they had done and how high Alyssa had flown. Sorrel watched, sickened, as Goth’s fury turned wild. He picked up a club and bashed Saxon until he lay prone in the dust of the courtyard. He was bleeding, it seemed, from every inch of his broken body. When he offered no more resistance, Goth turned to the boys.

  On his hysterical command, arrows were loosed into their slim bodies. Milt was slayed by four and Oris took three. They collapsed against one another, their arms still braced together, the barest smile of wonderment at their achievement still evident on each face.

  Goth screamed up at the parapet. He sounded deranged.

  ‘I am a patient man, Alyssa!’

  She did not hear him. She had disappeared into the Green and fled to its darkest spot to hide.

  16

  Tor’s Journey

  The girl played with the thong which held his breeches on his hips and pouted.

  ‘Why so soon?’

  Tor kissed her softly. ‘I am expected back at the Palace for my duties.’

  ‘You have duties here, physic.’ She pouted even more.

  ‘Cassandra, I’m ashamed for you.’

  He continued to fasten the black glass buttons of his white collarless shirt which marked him as a man of medicine. Cassandra continued with her attempts to undo them just as quickly.

  ‘Now stop!’ His voice crackled with humour. ‘I’ll see you again soon but I must away now, my sweet lady.’

  Tor twisted away and looked around the room for any stray belongings which might have got cast into some corner during the evening’s pleasures. He spied his black jerkin.

  Cassandra’s voice had hit a whine. ‘You always say that. Yet I must wait and wait and queue behind Dorothea or Shally, and Betsy even told me you made a promise to Sissy Beaton. I’ll kill you if you lay with Sissy!’

  Tor laughed. He found his hat, pecked her cheek and squeezed her young breast gently. ‘Just remember, Cassy. I love you best of all.’

  She picked up a cushion and hurled it towards the door as he opened it.

  ‘You are irresistible, you know.’ With a parting wink, he closed the door and took the stairs two at a time.

  Girls in various stages of undress called their farewells, most reminding him it was their turn when he was next in the city for a night of fun. Tor stepped from Madame Grace’s brothel and winced at the sharp daylight. A large falcon landed soundlessly on his shoulder. No one reacted. All were used to seeing Tor and his majestic bird.

  The falcon preened its feathers and linked with him. Carousing with the ladies is your business but being late for your Palace rounds will raise Merkhud’s blood to boiling. The bird stopped just short of clicking its tongue with exasperation.

  Tor’s success with women was well known in Palace circles; in fact he was something of a mascot for the King’s Guard. Tor did not mind this reputation one bit. Ever since that night with Eryn he had derived immense pleasure from the company of women. He was a generous and considerate lover and the girls at the brothel, like Cassandra, often felt jealous if he did not spend his whole evening with them. His manners and gentle ways enamoured them of him quickly; it almost did not matter that he had matured into an extraordinarily good-looking man. For the working girls, this was a bonus.

  Tor’s dark, thick hair was now worn longer. Whilst his face had hardened and thinned to make him a handsome man, it was his eyes which caused most comment. They were a remarkable blue, their brilliance often unnerving for those meeting his gaze for the first time. Not intimidating though. Tor’s smile lurked within his eyes constantly and his hearty laugh was infectious.

  The last few years had seen him mature into a confident man. Those blue eyes no longer looked awkwardly down. Now he held his head high. Years of training with the Guard under Cyrus had developed his muscles and bulk and now Tor had the body to match his great height.

  He absorbed his training under Merkhud with the greatest of ease and Tor’s ability as a healer was unrivalled. Now he was the first to be called to any ailing courtier and remained on permanent duty to the King and Queen. He deferred only to Merkhud, who quietly recognised that the young man’s skills often surpassed his own these days. People said he had taught his apprentice well. Merkhud knew better. He had hardly taught him anything. Tor had developed his own talent and his audacious use of the power continued to trouble the old man, who fretted constantly at the threat of discovery.

  The falcon, Cloot, was talking but Tor’s thoughts had fled elsewhere that bright morning. He was thinking of Alyssa and wondering what she would make of his success. Tor had never stopped believing that one day he might find her again. For all the women who loved him and for all the women with whom he found his frequent pleasures, none could match Alyssa.

  He found himself in a pensive mood as his friend lectured him about responsibility on the way back to the Palace.

  Tor was consumed by an unrest which had been creeping up on him since Newleaf. He had pushed it to one side, reassuring himself that his life was enviable and that he should not pursue these other nagging concerns. His good sense rarely prevailed in this contest though.

  He interrupted the bird. Cloot, has it ever occurred to you that people must think we’re strange? Me walking around with a mad bird balancing by my ear?

  Cloot blinked. No. Never. I think I make you look rather dashing. In fact it’s probably because of me that all these women fall at your feet. I make you look a little dangerous…certainly romantic.

  Tor grimaced. I’m being serious.

  Cloot knew precisely what Tor meant.

  I’ve promised that I will tell you if Lys comes to me again but she has been quiet these past five years. Since coming to the Palace I have not dreamed of her at all. If she still has tasks for me I’m yet to hear them.

  Tor strode on, his long legs making easy passage of the distance from the brothel to the more salubrious part of the city. He acknowledged almost all those he passed with a wave, a nod, a smile. His real attention, though, was elsewhere.

  But what does she have in mind for me, do you think? His tone echoed the frustration gnawing at him.

  Cloot scolded gently. Most people can only dream of the privileges you now take for granted. Forgetting the comforts you enjoy, every man likes you, every woman falls in love with you…I think even our Queen is a little smitten. You have a craft to practise and you are not just good at it, you are the best. You have nothing to want for!

  Tor’s frustration bubbled over. Except an explanation for Lys, for you, for this insane power and for Alyssa. Where is she? Why can’t I reach her like I used to? Am I supposed to just forget her? Is that all part of the plan? he s
lammed into Cloot.

  Aha and so now we have it. I thought we had laid this to rest, boy. You chose your way and Alyssa chose hers. It’s been five summers since you left Flat Meadows; don’t you think that if she wanted you she would have answered you? Written perhaps? Sent word through another? Why do you chew old gristle?

  Tor took a moment to consider Cloot’s answer and to calm down. He lifted his hand to wave to a mother and her son on the other side of the street. He had saved the child’s life not long ago from the green fever. No one had ever heard of anyone recovering from the condition; it had caused quite a stir at the time. Railing against everything Merkhud had instructed, Tor had used his powers rather than his now extensive knowledge of herbcraft and medicine, but then he had already known no herb could save the child.

  Whilst the cityfolk claimed a miracle had visited the household, Merkhud had seethed for days before he could even look at Tor. When he had finally confronted him, Tor was glad the West Tower of the Palace was so isolated since he felt sure Merkhud’s fury could have been heard even in the East Tower. Merkhud had spat out his rage, berating his apprentice for ignoring his order to never, ever make use of his magical powers during his duties as physic.

  Tor had surprised his mentor by meeting the fury with calm but deliberate resistance and the claim that he would use his powers as he pleased. Something then had broken between them. Tor knew at that moment he needed to be free from the stifling control Merkhud held over him and begin to lead his own life as he chose.

  He did not fear Inquisitor Goth or discovery and he refused to accept that his powers should not be used to aid people in need. What else use were they? And then there was Cloot. He had learned to accept his friend in the guise of a bird but who would ever believe such a tale? Who would believe that the magisterial falcon had once been a crippled freak of a man?

  He sighed. Cyrus would believe it. They had never discussed the episode of his rescue from the Heartwood, yet from that moment Cyrus had become an ally at the Palace.

  He made Tor take up sword lessons and the fighting arts, in which he relentlessly drilled the King’s Guard daily. Though Light knew why, Tor often thought, for he needed no weapons. His powers were more than equal to any aggressor. Cyrus also taught him about fine wine, everything he knew about women and about loyalty and respect to Lorys. Tor knew the Prime had become something of a big brother to him but it had occurred with such subtlety and over so many years that he had barely noticed until now how close he was to the King’s Man.

  Cyrus had accepted the falcon from the day Tor and Cloot had turned up in the forest and saved him from an ugly death. He had even lied to the King for him. Why?

  And who was Lys? Why had she sent Cloot to him? What was she protecting Tor from? These questions circulated in his mind endlessly. This was not the first nor the last time he would taste them on his tongue.

  Cloot had not said anything. Tor knew he had still to answer his question.

  Because, Cloot, I love her. Looking back I could almost believe Merkhud took me away from her. I can’t even feel her presence any longer. Tor reached up and stroked the bird’s head. I want to find her.

  He heard Cloot sigh.

  And I want to leave here for a while and find out what my life is meant to achieve. I want to speak to Lys, I want the Heartwood to talk to me again and I want to eat one of Goody Batt’s pastries!

  Cloot chuckled at his friend’s attempt to lighten the moment. But both of them knew there was nothing light about this decision.

  Tor walked alone through the cool corridors of the Palace, musing on his outburst to Cloot and his extraordinary decision. He did not feel like work today. It would be the usual offering of sores, sparring injuries, sprains and toothaches which afflicted the Palace’s population on a regular basis.

  From around a bend in the corridor, a young lad with straw-coloured hair and freckles came charging up to him. He burst in on Tor’s thoughts of bunions and the very choice carbuncle on Peggy Weltsit’s neck which might be ripe enough for him to deal with today.

  ‘Physic Tor!’ The boy’s face was pale. He was shouting. His breathing was hard and he had obviously been on the move for a while.

  ‘Whoa, young Peagon. What’s the hurry?’ He bent down to look Peagon in the eye. Tor surprised himself sometimes at how tall he had become.

  ‘Please, sir, we’ve been looking for you. It’s the Queen, sir.’

  Tor continued to be surprised that anyone would think to call him sir. He frowned. The Queen had been well when he saw her yesterday.

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘She’s ill?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bad?’

  Peagon took a big pull of air. ‘Yes, sir. I believe very bad…er, sir.’

  ‘Quick, lad. Is she in her rooms?’

  He caught the nod of the boy’s head and then lengthened his stride into a run, leaving the panting page well behind. Tor knew his way to her majesty’s apartments. He could have found them blindfolded, or walking backwards, from any part of the Palace. His long legs took the stairs into the East Wing three at a time. He did not bother with the courtesies of being announced. The guards knew him anyway and stepped aside briskly when they saw who was thundering up the stone stairwell. He could almost smell their relief at seeing him.

  Inside, he strode past two ladies-in-waiting, their faces pinched. They registered shock at his impolite arrival in their Queen’s rooms but the look on his face was sufficient not to be argued with. One of them pointed a manicured finger towards the bedroom.

  Tor pushed through the doors and his eyes went straight to the Queen. She looked serene as always but as pale as he could ever remember; even her lips were as colourless as the cream silk nightgown she wore.

  Nyria was propped against pillows in her large gilded bed. Her eyes were closed. King Lorys, still in his riding clothes, was struggling with her embroidered bed canopy. His broad shoulders and the confined space in which he stood seemed at odds. It would have looked comical if not for the stricken, ghostly expression on his face.

  Tor could tell immediately the Queen was fatally ill. He needed no magical powers to know this. Around her were crowded other high-ranking courtiers and Chief Inquisitor Goth. No doubt here in his laughable role as the Palace priest, Tor thought. The Inquisitor privately hated the Queen but publicly went to great lengths to be as obsequious as possible to her. Tor was not fooled and neither was Nyria. Goth was certainly not here to wish her a speedy recovery.

  Tor picked out Cyrus who was muttering in a low voice to the King. Lorys nodded and Cyrus withdrew to the back of the room.

  Standing by the large picture window, which overlooked the surrounding valley in which the capital sat, was Merkhud. The old man stared out over the lush hills of the beautiful Southern Downs. His normally erect shoulders were hunched today. He must have sensed rather than heard Tor’s arrival. He looked up and Tor saw he was chewing his lip. It was something the old man did when he was angry or distressed…or both.

  Lorys broke the thick silence. ‘Tor, lad. You’re our last…’ The King choked on whatever else he was going to say.

  Merkhud stepped quickly back to the bedside and whispered something to Lorys. The King coughed lightly.

  ‘Yes, of course. Gentlemen, please. Let’s allow our healers here to have some peace and space for their ministrations.’

  The King motioned towards the reception room but Cyrus was already at the door herding people out.

  ‘We’ll be outside,’ the King said and shot a look at Merkhud who nodded.

  The Queen had not opened her eyes in this time and her breathing was shallow.

  The others moved to follow Lorys but not before Goth could level one of his sneers at Tor. Their mutual hate was rarely disguised by either of them.

  ‘Quick as you can, Inquisitor.’ Tor couldn’t help but needle him. He saw Cyrus lift an eyebrow which said plenty.

  ‘Priest, if you please.’ Goth’s cold
eyes flickered in the tortured, twitching flesh of his face.

  Tor sensibly let it rest and closed the two doors softly behind those departing. He turned back to face Merkhud.

  The old man’s voice was soft but accusing. ‘We’ve been searching for you for hours, Tor.’

  ‘Cloot found me, sir.’

  ‘A bird? What good is that?’ Merkhud was angry.

  More good than you’ll ever know, Tor thought but not unkindly. How could he? He owed this man so much. More than that, he loved him. Merkhud’s agitation was palpable and Tor knew he must tread carefully. He became businesslike to disguise the guilt he was being made to feel.

  ‘Tell me what we know,’ he said firmly. It got the desired result.

  Merkhud sighed. ‘Very little. It’s her heart of course. As you know, it’s fragile. Perhaps Cyrus should tell this. He was there.’

  Tor looked towards Cyrus in the shadows. The Prime cleared his throat. He did not move but his voice was clear and he told his tale like a military debriefing.

  ‘Their majesties had enjoyed an uneventful ride and were on their way home. It was only when they stopped for a draught of wine that the Queen mentioned she felt weak. I believe King Lorys recalls that she used the word “breathless” to him. It passed quickly so we continued on but soon had to stop again. This time it was serious enough that the King listened to my advice. He and the small company we rode with remained with the Queen whilst I sent runners to find either Physic Merkhud or yourself.’ Cyrus fell silent.

  Tor looked back at the old man. He was not surprised as much as distressed to hear the old man’s voice shaking whilst he told of his arrival on the scene. He knew Merkhud was extremely fond of the Queen—everyone did—but it was not until this moment that the thought kindled that perhaps the old man was actually a little in love with her. It seemed preposterous and yet, why not? She had been an elegant, engaging and attractive woman. Tor checked himself for thinking about her in the past tense.

  He put his hand on Merkhud’s arm. ‘And then?’