The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Yes, sire,’ the man said, his solicitous expression unchanged. ‘Allow me to assist you.’

  EIGHT

  A RECKLESS MOOD HAD hit Alyd and Wyl that evening. With a number of soldiers, they broke the Legion’s drinking record, leaving an increasing number of the men retching in the street and doomed to sleep where they had fallen, too intoxicated to help themselves. Tournament night alone was the only occasion on which this sort of indiscretion by the Legionnaires would be tolerated.

  ‘Leave them,’ Alyd called over his shoulder, swerving into Wyl. ‘Weak sods that they are. Now, hear me, men still standing,’ he bellowed, ‘I gave my word to General Thirsk that I would take him into the Alley and have his fortune told.’

  Sounds of hearty agreement ensued and Wyl, his spirits still soaring from Ylena’s close escape, made no protest at being swept along on the merry, drunken tide of happy soldiers prolonging their tournament revelries. He had managed to put behind him Celimus’s diabolical threat to hurt those he loved, and was even feeling slightly foolish at falling for it. The group wended its way into the Alley, which was itself still a lively hive of activity.

  ‘Right, lads. We need to find the Widow something or other,’ Alyd said, grinning crookedly, eyes vague and red.

  ‘Widow Ilyk,’ Wyl corrected, far less in his cups than his friend.

  ‘First one to find her gets a silver duke for his trouble,’ Alyd yelled, brandishing the coin.

  Soldiers departed in various directions, more out of fun than a need to earn more coin to drink with.

  A small boy with a curious smell about him emerged from the crowd and grabbed at Wyl’s shirt. ‘General, sir, I know where the widow’s tent is.’

  ‘Then you can earn the duke,’ Alyd said, unsteady on his feet. ‘Could you take us to it?’

  ‘Follow me,’ the boy said brightly.

  ‘How old are you?’ Wyl asked, suddenly noticing that Knave had appeared with the lad.

  ‘Ten summers, General, sir.’

  ‘Call me Wyl.’

  ‘I couldn’t, sir.’

  ‘Then what do I call you, young guide?’ Wyl said, ignoring the odd aroma and taking his small hand.

  The youngster eyed him. ‘My name is Fynch, General.’

  They walked on, Alyd calling to some of the men to stop their search and to follow.

  Wyl looked at the lean child who had large, seemingly all-knowing eyes. ‘Do you live in Pearlis, Fynch?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I work at Stoneheart,’ he said proudly.

  ‘I see. And what is your duty?’

  ‘I’m a gong boy, sir,’ he said proudly. ‘I’ve been cleaning the sewer tunnels at the palace since I was four, but I’ve recently been promoted to take care of the royal apartments’ dropholes, so I can assure you I am earnest in my work.’

  ‘Well now, that would explain the rather individual smell you carry around with you, Fynch,’ Alyd said, not unkindly. ‘And you will no doubt be very busy tomorrow as Prince Celimus’s lavvy will be getting a right royal workout tonight, I’ll wager.’

  Fynch did not understand the jest but he joined in the men’s laughter, thrilled to be in the company of the General he had admired for several years, and pleased that this was the first person ever who had not made a comment on how tiny he seemed for his age.

  ‘Here we are, sir,’ he said presently as they came to the tent, which now looked even more mysterious with its candle-lanterns of many-coloured glass strung along the awning, sending flickers of red, blue and green into the darkness of the Alley.

  ‘Do you believe in this fortune-telling stuff?’ Wyl asked him.

  ‘I think the widow does this purely for fun,’ Fynch admitted. Then he fixed Wyl with a direct gaze. ‘But if you ask me whether I believe in some people being able to see things … whether some people have the Sight, then yes I do.’

  ‘Blasphemous child!’ Alyd said theatrically. ‘Look out for Stalkers,’ he added but stopped that line of jest at Wyl’s pained expression. ‘All right, who’s first?’ Alyd called. The men all raised their hands at once and drunkenly pushed into the tent. Alyd flipped the boy the coin. ‘Thanks, Fynch.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he answered. ‘Can I assist with anything else, General?’

  ‘No. You’ve been most helpful. I’m sure we’ll see you around the castle.’

  ‘That you will. Would you mind if I waited for you?’

  Wyl smiled. He suspected that the boy had no home to go to. And he was intrigued at how Knave stayed close to the boy. ‘I don’t mind at all. You can walk back with us later. I might need help with my friend.’ He glanced towards where Alyd swayed at the entrance.

  ‘I’ll wait out here then, sir,’ Fynch said, seating himself cross-legged on the grass next to the General’s large black dog.

  Wyl and Alyd were the last to be seen by the fortune-teller, by which time the rest of the soldiers had staggered out, still drunk and seemingly none the wiser for the counsel. It did not surprise their Captain. No one took a fortune-teller seriously.

  ‘Fairground tricks, General,’ he said, a dazed grin on his face. ‘All a bit of fun for the lads.’

  ‘Come in,’ they heard the woman call.

  Wyl threw a resigned expression towards Fynch before he and Alyd pushed open the drapes and entered the dimmed space within.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said.

  Wyl stared at the old woman standing before them who called herself the Widow Ilyk. It came as a shock to him that she appeared to be blind, her eyes almost white from whatever afflicted her. The rest of her face was forgettable. A collection of ordinary features which had seen much weathering by sun and wind on her travels. As a result she was tanned and her skin looked like well-worn leather. She wore no adornments and her clothes were simple, well-patched garments of dun brown. For some reason he had expected her to be gaudy of dress and dripping with charms and bracelets.

  It appeared that the same thought had struck the Captain through his liquor haze. ‘What, no fancy costume for us, Widow?’ Alyd feigned disappointment.

  ‘I am tired of it,’ she replied, her milky gaze never leaving Wyl. ‘I wore it all day. Those clothes are hot and heavy.’ She grinned, revealing gaps in her stained teeth. ‘Ah, but the people do enjoy the theatrics. I like to please. Would you prefer that I climbed back into them?’

  ‘No,’ Alyd answered, holding up his hands. He looked very unsteady. ‘No bother. I’ve brought my friend here — just for a laugh.’ Alyd belched, rocking on his heels.

  Wyl decided it was time to get him home. He looked back at the fortune-teller, a little embarrassed. ‘Do you travel alone?’ he asked, for want of anything better to say.

  She hobbled towards a chair, feeling for it. ‘My niece helps me. She is not here this evening,’ she replied, seeming to stare at nothing now. ‘You two men were here earlier today, weren’t you?’

  ‘How can you know this?’ Alyd slurred, teetering dangerously.

  ‘I’m guessing.’ She chuckled to herself and changed the subject. ‘Young man, would you be kind enough to hang the sign you see beneath this table outside my tent? I think I am done for the night.’

  Wyl obliged. When he returned to the dimly lit area where the widow sat, Alyd had placed himself opposite her and she was holding both of his hands in her large, wrinkled pair. Blue veins traversed their old journeys across the backs of her hands and her oversized knuckles suggested she suffered the disease of the joints.

  As if reading his thoughts, she spoke. ‘Ah, but the pain in my fingers is bad today.’

  Alyd winked crookedly at Wyl. ‘What can you tell me, old woman?’ he mumbled.

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Tell me about Captain Alyd Donal, the luckiest husband in all of Morgravia,’ he said expansively, all but falling off his chair.

  ‘Well, I can see that you have consumed too much of the King’s fine ale today. And in the future I envisage a mighty headache and fragile humour,�
�� she said, a smile at the edges of her mouth.

  Alyd tried to focus on her, his expression confused. ‘Do you know, I think you’re right, Widow.’ He hiccupped; a sign of impending doom. ‘You are indeed a woman of insight,’ he said, suddenly overcome by nausea. ‘Would you excuse me, I think the ale wants to be returned.’ And he ran from the tent.

  Wyl spun around in surprise to watch him stumble out and then awkwardly turned back to the woman. He wished he could leave as well.

  She chuckled again. ‘And so to the quiet friend,’ she said, the white eyes resting somewhere over his shoulder.

  Wyl shrugged. What harm could it do? He sat and offered his hands but she did not take them.

  He risked a personal question. ‘Are you blind?’

  ‘Almost. I see everything as a blur. Still, I have never needed the sight through eyes.’ The tent felt suddenly still and tense as Wyl absorbed her meaning. He felt a disquiet take a hold. Talk of magic made him uneasy.

  She seemed in no hurry. ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Argorn,’ he replied. ‘And you?’

  ‘Not these parts. My home is in the far north — a little-known town called Yentro. Now, what would you like to know?’

  Wyl shrugged at her question. He was here now and suspected she would not permit him to leave without some sort of reading. He wanted to say he knew this was just for fun but her intent, serious expression compelled him to play along. ‘Why not tell me my fortune?’

  ‘Pah! I’m no sideshow fortune-teller. I put on that act for the revellers.’

  He took his chance. ‘Perhaps I should leave, then?’

  ‘Stay. You intrigue me. There is an aura about you.’

  Now Wyl laughed. He could hear loud, sickly groans coming from Alyd outside and thought it best to make his departure.

  ‘I promise you, Widow, no one has ever found anything intriguing about me.’

  She did return his smile this time. ‘Tell me, do you believe in otherworldly things?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Having the Sight,’ she said, carefully this time.

  ‘No. But here is the regal I owe you for permitting us to visit your tent. I think I must go see to my sickening friend.’

  Wyl pressed the coin into her hands and was taken aback at the alarmed manner in which she shrank from his touch.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, indignant.

  She did not reply. Instead a low moan issued from her throat.

  ‘Widow!’ he called. ‘What ails you?’

  The old woman began to sway and then she spoke a soft, mysterious chant in a language Wyl had never heard.

  He recoiled from her. ‘I will leave now.’

  She seemed to come out of her strange reverie. ‘Wait!’ she hissed. ‘You must be told.’

  ‘Told what?’

  ‘Let me hold your hands.’

  ‘No! I want no part of this. I don’t know why I let myself come here tonight.’

  ‘Because you were relieved.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That you foiled him,’ she answered, her milky gaze locked on his astonished face now.

  Wyl sat. ‘Tell me,’ he commanded.

  She shook her head, her blank stare moving to look past him. ‘None of that is important. Neither is the fact that I know. Only one thing matters.’

  Wyl was confused now. ‘You’re not making sense to me.’

  ‘Listen to me carefully, Wyl Thirsk,’ she said, her voice low and grave.

  ‘I didn’t give you my na —’

  ‘Hush! I am in much pain and have the strength to say this only once. Pay attention to me. I am a seer and I speak only the truth to you. Keep your money — I give my advice freely to a man touched by magic.’

  Wyl baulked but she grabbed his hand this time. Her grip was harsh. ‘You walk a perilous journey, son, and on it you are accompanied by something dark and friendless.’

  Wyl’s eyes narrowed. He felt a hollow open in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Heed me well,’ she continued. ‘It may destroy you or you may use it wisely to your own ends. It has no loyalties; no rhythm of its own. No care for anything but itself.’

  ‘Woman … what are you talking of?’

  ‘I talk of the Quickening,’ she snapped. ‘It is Myrren’s gift which she bestowed on you as she died. You must take great care, Wyl Thirsk.’

  Quickening? Wyl repeated in his mind. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some might consider it a curse but Myrren made it her gift.’

  Until this moment Wyl had never considered Myrren anything more than a beautiful and tragic young woman. To hear this stranger infer that she was empowered was unnerving.

  ‘Her gift to me was a dog,’ he said flatly.

  She nodded now. ‘He is part of it. Knave will protect you and the true gift she gave.’

  Wyl pressed her. ‘How can you know all of this?’ He shook his head, bewildered; how she could know his name, his dog’s name, even Myrren’s name? He took a steadying breath. ‘How must I use it?’

  ‘That I cannot advise. It is your gift to wield as you see fit.’

  ‘When will I know of its existence?’

  ‘It is already within you. It exists now.’ She coughed raggedly.

  ‘What do I do with it, woman? Tell me!’ he begged, frightened now by her words.

  ‘You will know when the time comes, although I see swirling about you a woman of note. She needs your protection.’

  Wyl was baffled. ‘You have to tell me all that you see.’

  The widow coughed again and dropped his hands. When she had recovered, she said breathlessly, ‘I see only this. Those you love will suffer. Keep the dog and its friend close.’

  The world was spinning for Wyl. He could not tell whether it was the effect of the ale making him dizzy — although he felt suddenly sober — or the strange sticks which burned their spicy fragrance in her tent.

  ‘You lie, old woman.’

  Her voice was hard now when she spoke. ‘I never lie in what I see. Your friends are vulnerable. There is a woman — she’s important — who needs your help.’

  He wanted to ignore her, wanted to run. Instead he grabbed her arm, caring not for the way she flinched again from his touch or perhaps from the pain he might be inflicting.

  ‘Get gone, woman. We have no need of you here.’

  ‘Take care, Wyl Thirsk. Beware the mountains. The other friend I spoke of is already known to you. Keep him close.’

  Wyl shoved her arm aside and strode from the tent.

  NINE

  FYNCH WAS FOUR WHEN his father first pressed him into service as one of Stoneheart’s gong boys. His wages, a pittance though they were, had helped to keep the family from starvation and, although his daily grind was about as unsavoury a task as any could imagine, the young Fynch had quickly taken pride in his work. So much so, his diligence and commitment to his lowly task over the past six years came to the attention of the King.

  Before his illness forced him to his bed, Magnus had enjoyed morning walks around the palace, during which he had come across the hardworking lad. Both were creatures of habit. Fynch found himself toiling in the same place at the same time most days, and likewise the King followed a preferred route through the grounds. The regularity of their encounters meant that a nod of greeting eventually ensued, which turned into a few polite words and then into a daily discourse, brief but engaging. Magnus, in his later years, had become interested in the young. It was his eternal regret that he had not played a greater role in shaping Celimus and that he had, in effect, lost his own child. He had found Fynch, despite his low status and serious nature, to be intelligent beyond his years.

  One summer morning when the uncleared refuse from the royal lavatories had become particularly ripe in the heat, the King had complained to the seneschal about the unreliable nature of the youngster in question and suggested that young Fynch was the lad for the task. Fynch was promptly moved fro
m one of the lowlier tunnels to the main royal apartments. It was a meteoric rise in status for one so young. From then on his wages had quadrupled, for the gong boy to the royals was expected to be discreet.

  Fynch had taken his promotion very seriously — as was his way — and there had never since been cause for complaint with regard to the keeper of the royal dropholes, for either his tongue or toil. But now that the King had taken so ill, Fynch missed their fleeting chats; Magnus did too.

  Since his new appointment both of Fynch’s parents had died in a cart accident, leaving the family of four children with its eldest barely thirteen years old. Like Fynch she was a serious child and took to the task of caring for her brood with vigour. Fynch’s wages were now of infinite importance to ensure the younger ones could count on at least one daily meal and he considered himself the man of the family.

  Even at ten Fynch remained a painfully slight child. He ate as little as the bird which inspired his name. His sister, who loved him well, had given up on scolding her brother with regard to his poor eating habits. Even though she still fretted that if he fell ill the family would perish, she had the sensibility to realise that Fynch was not driven by his belly as were so many lads working around the castle. Yet, in spite of his woeful leanness and stunted growth, he continued to thrive. His size also meant he could continue in this line of work for many years yet, which further secured the family’s wellbeing.

  At the time of his promotion to the royal dropholes, Fynch struck up another curious relationship — this time with a big black dog. It was an unremarkable autumn dawn, misty and chill. But the gong boy was about his work early to ensure the King’s and the Prince’s individual dropholes were cleared and freshened before they had risen for the day. Whilst shovelling he had noticed an immense black dog emerge from around one of the castle walls. It had stared at him for a long while. He had whistled to it, knowing this beast looked too well fed and shiny to be a wild dog and glad of the small distraction from his filthy work, but the dog had remained motionless, watching him carefully through dark, intelligent eyes.