The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Fynch imagined the canny mercenary’s eyes narrowing at this. The Prince’s reasoning sounded thin.

  ‘What is your plan?’

  ‘I will brief you shortly. In the meantime I have hired some foreign soldiers to accompany you.’

  ‘Can they be trusted?’

  ‘No. But they will do my bidding or they will not get paid. And they will be paid handsomely for following my direction. Greed alone binds them to us. They will have their own orders which do not involve you. Your task is simple: despatch Thirsk.’

  ‘Where must it happen?’

  ‘Not on Morgravian soil.’

  ‘Half now?’ the man finally said.

  ‘And the other half when I have proof that he is a corpse,’ the Prince replied, the familiar slyness back in his voice.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Good. Come, now, let us drink to our pact.’

  Their voices began to recede and Fynch felt relief flood as he risked moving his body and flexing one of his hands. He heard the soft growl again and froze: the Prince had returned.

  ‘Pour me one,’ Celimus called. ‘I’ll be right out,’ he added and proceeded to rid his bladder of its contents.

  Fynch closed his eyes and quickly looked down just before the hot liquid hit his bent head, stinging his face on its journey towards where Knave stood. In his humiliation mixed with despair at this newly learned information, he barely heard the soulful ringing of the cathedral bells, the particular rhythm of which signified the death of a sovereign.

  TEN

  MAGNUS DIED IN AN opium-induced stupor as he gazed absently through his beloved arched windows into the cold, bright autumn morning.

  The night previous, sensing death was standing at his bedside, he had met with as many of his counsellors as Orto considered important. He had also met briefly with his son; they had little to say to each other, although Magnus had certainly tried to speak about his vision for Morgravia, hoping in a last ditch effort to reach his son on some level where the two might find common understanding.

  His painful effort was in vain.

  A wintry smile had passed across the Prince’s face, as cold as the heart which beat inside him, as he once again wished his father a speedy death. Then he leaned towards Magnus and for one blinding moment of hope the dying man thought his only son might be offering a hug of farewell. It would be enough, Magnus had thought in that shining second of anticipation. And then he had grimaced wryly as he realised how wrong he was … indeed how desperate he was for his son’s love. The King’s was a dark smile of sudden and complete acceptance. It was his final surrender to the sickening notion that he truly hated Celimus as much in return.

  The young man had bent only to tug on his father’s hand, pulling viciously at the large ring which bore the seal of Morgravia. The sovereign felt the bile rise to his throat.

  ‘You have no further need for this, Father.’

  Magnus had then summoned such a withering look it had made Celimus step back. His son’s reaction had given the King a final sense of power. ‘And your reign will be cursed. You will die hated as I make my final prayer to Shar that your crown is somehow wrested from you. Get away from me! Let me walk towards Shar looking at the palace dogs rather than you. Leave!’

  ‘I’m gone, you useless old fool. By nightfall the kingdom will be mine to do with as I please and I swear to you, Father, it will bear no resemblance to your weak reign. My mother was right. You are a peasant. Good riddance to you and all who swore fealty to you.’

  Celimus had departed then but not before he deliberately paused to spit at his father. ‘That’s all you’ve ever meant to me. Die lonely and with the thought that Wyl Thirsk will fast follow.’

  And Magnus, too helpless now to even call loud enough for a runner to Wyl, had watched in horror as the Prince strode gracefully from his chamber, leaving behind his saliva which slid down his father’s face and mingled with the tears which freely came.

  When Orto had arrived a short while later he found the King slipping away. His servant knew it would be only minutes now. With his knack for making intuitive decisions, Orto had sent his speediest page to fetch Wyl Thirsk and a second runner for the physic, who arrived first.

  ‘I can give him a draught which will send him peacefully on his way,’ the man had offered.

  ‘Do it after Thirsk arrives,’ Orto suggested.

  The physic nodded and silently went about his business of preparing the lethal concoction.

  Wyl arrived breathlessly and Orto welcomed him softly. ‘I think I’m right in suggesting, General, that yours might be the last face our dear King Magnus might wish to look upon before he leaves us.’

  ‘Celimus?’ Wyl asked, knowing it was an empty question.

  Orto shook his head. ‘They have spoken. It left him disturbed. Please, General, the physic would like to give him a draught to soothe the pain and make his journey over.’

  Wyl nodded, his chest tightening with sadness. He knelt by the large, canopied bed and took his sovereign’s hand. He kissed it reverently.

  ‘Sire, it is Wyl.’

  Magnus struggled through his rapidly vanishing wits to reach the brightness where daylight shone and beloved Wyl Thirsk’s face smiled crookedly at him through damp eyes.

  ‘My boy, my son,’ he whispered, trying to squeeze Wyl’s hand in return but knowing he failed.

  The physic handed Wyl the cup and nodded. Inside was a shallow amount of a dark, strong-smelling liquid.

  Wyl held the cup to the King’s mouth. ‘Drink, sire.’

  Magnus knew what it was. ‘Yes, time for me to cross over, Wyl,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Now you and my father can be together again,’ Wyl whispered, holding back his tears.

  The King swallowed the contents of the cup and his head fell limply back against the cushions. The physic was dismissed by Orto. The King turned, eyes suddenly blazing with clarity.

  He spoke haltingly as if each word pained him but he was clear from the slur which plagued only moments earlier. ‘Wyl, the blood promise I made you give years ago. I take it back, all of it. You know what I speak of. You alone have the power to take Morgravia. The Legion is loyal to you.’

  Wyl looked towards Orto, shocked by what the King said. Orto’s expression glimmered with triumph. Wyl hoped his loyalty was true.

  ‘Sire, you must not speak of such treachery. Please … I —’

  ‘No time! Get Ylena away. He means to kill you. Leave now …’

  The King’s voice trailed to murmurings and then nothing. His eyes stared blankly over Wyl’s shoulder as he took one last look at the bright sun shining on Morgravia. A final shuddering breath issued from his sunken chest and then he was gone.

  ‘I must fetch the priest,’ Orto said quietly.

  ‘Orto —’

  The man turned back. ‘I am loyal to Magnus, not to Celimus, sir. I heard nothing but the shallow breathing of a man drifting in the poppy seed liquor to his death.’

  ‘I am in your debt.’

  ‘I will be leaving the palace, sir. Soon it will not be a safe place for me to be. You may care to take similar precaution. I shall find a way to send word of my whereabouts, should you ever have need of contacting me.’

  A look passed between them over the corpse of Magnus.

  Wyl stood and shook Orto’s hand. ‘I’ll send word for the cathedral bells to be rung.’

  Orto nodded. ‘Good luck, sir … until we meet again.’

  Fynch shivered, his teeth chattering against the biting chill of the lake. He had scrubbed his body raw of Celimus and still he kept ducking his head underneath the surface until it ached so much he felt his eyes might pop. And all the time Knave paced at the water’s edge, agitated and barking over the sound of the bleak drone of bells.

  ‘I’m coming,’ Fynch called through numb lips, his mind like stew after the shocking revelation he had stumbled over.

  Would Thirsk believe him? Likely not. His story would sound too far fet
ched. And him just a gong boy — who would listen to him? Knave barked again, louder this time, and Fynch swam his weary way to the bank, using the dog’s strong tail to heave himself out of the water. As he did so the vision blazed in his mind again: it was General Thirsk, a sword being pulled from him, the light dying in his eyes. It vanished and his head hurt once more. A fresh wave of nausea shuddered through his tiny frame and the boy retched. Earlier panic had made it hard for his normally agile mind to think coherently. He knew to wait until the dizziness dissipated.

  Knave’s rough tongue licked the droplets of water from him repeatedly. The dog’s breath was warm and gradually Fynch found his wits again, coming out of the frightening vision. His head pained but he ignored it, rubbing himself vigorously with his shirt before he pulled on damp clothes. There was no time to lose. Convinced now that his vision was a warning, a premonition, Fynch knew he had to find Wyl Thirsk, tell him what he had overheard and somehow make the General believe him.

  ‘Come, Knave. Let’s find him,’ he said, knowing he would be risking his job by entering the main palace grounds. It mattered not. The life of a man he was somehow mysteriously connected to was at stake and he alone knew.

  The dog bounded off and Fynch ran behind, not knowing he was already too late.

  Wyl paused outside the new King’s chamber. Celimus had not even had the courtesy to wait for his father’s body to cool. Tradition required him to hold off claiming kingship quite as blatantly until at least the old King had been laid out in the cathedral. He should wait until the stone had been laid on his tomb to be actually crowned but Celimus stood on no ceremony. He wanted the crown so badly, Wyl imagined, it was probably already glinting on his head. He knew it was a nervous inclination but he had to bite his lip to stifle the sudden desire to laugh at the picture which flitted into his mind of Celimus meeting him in full royal regalia when hardly anyone outside of Stoneheart had actually learned the news that King Magnus was dead. Only the tolling of the bells would give hint to what had occurred this morning.

  It had been only an hour since he had kissed the dead face of Magnus. In that short time, the body had been washed, presumably would now be moved to the chapel, and Celimus had apparently swept into power and his father’s chambers. It was sickening.

  Wyl took a deep breath and wondered what Celimus was up to by summoning him so soon. He wished Alyd was there to accompany him, but he had not been able to find his friend, not even in his chambers — which was odd considering Alyd’s state the previous eve. Ylena too was elusive; perhaps she had been cross at her husband’s drunkenness and taken herself off on a shopping expedition in the city. More worrying was the news that Gueryn had been posted north during the night. Wyl was extremely unhappy about this and felt guilty that he had been revelling with his soldiers and therefore unable to prevent the sudden departure of his mentor. The posting had the King’s signature on it, but it smelled wrong to Wyl. Magnus would have been in no fit state to be signing off on despatch orders. That piece of manouevring had Celimus stamped all over it and Wyl meant to get to the bottom of it. Celimus’s threat to him at the tournament began to niggle anew at his mind.

  The soft fragrance of winterblossom wafted in through an open window and reminded Wyl of former days — happier times — when he had stood at these massive oak doors awaiting entry to see King Magnus. Now he was dead, taken by Shar’s Gatherers to be with Fergys, he hoped. Wyl felt alone indeed as one of the doors opened and a man he recognised as one of Celimus’s most loyal servants stepped out.

  ‘At last,’ the man said. ‘The King does not like to be kept waiting.’

  Any number of retorts sprang to Wyl’s lips but he bit them back. This one did not warrant his attention and so he gave the fellow a look of disdain.

  ‘Hurry up, then. Announce me.’

  The doors were opened fully and Wyl stepped inside to wait. His gaze was drawn to the carved keystone he had marvelled at as a child. Once again he was reminded that the fire-breathing warrior dragon signified he had entered the private domain of a King — but this time, one he detested. The man returned soon enough, a scowl settled on his face.

  ‘King Celimus will see you now.’

  Wyl ignored him and strode past to where another servant led him into the study.

  Wyl knelt, his whole being privately protesting at having to pay homage to Celimus.

  ‘My King,’ he said, not looking up but glad his voice was firm.

  ‘Ah, Thirsk.’ Celimus did not invite him to stand. Wyl could just see the feet of an aide step up to the King who had obviously motioned for him. Celimus whispered something and then the feet disappeared. Wyl remained kneeling, saying nothing although he heard other people had, as quietly as possible, arrived behind him. Out of respect, soldiers were required to remove all weapons when in the private chambers of the royals. He wished now he had not observed the protocol so honestly. Gueryn had oft warned him to conceal a small dagger.

  As Celimus finally stood and walked around him, Wyl was grabbed. He struggled valiantly, crushing a nose with the back of his hand. That assailant staggered backwards, and Wyl then bent low enough to fling another over his own back. He swung around ready to face the enemy only to feel the razor-sharp tip of a sword at his throat. He felt it break his skin.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ its owner said smoothly and Wyl, perceptive to such things, picked up a Grenadyne accent.

  Whilst men Wyl did not recognise chained his wrists and ankles, the stranger’s smile never left his face nor did he remove his blade until the General was twisted around to face the King. Wyl now looked more closely at his burly attackers; their beards and the way they wore their hair marked them as foreigners. He dragged his gaze away from them as the King spoke.

  ‘I’m wondering, Wyl, how loyal you are,’ Celimus commented from the large picture windows where he stood.

  ‘I am sworn to give my life for Morgravia and her citizens, sire,’ Wyl answered, breathing hard with fury at this treatment.

  ‘That’s all well and good. But a new King must surround himself with people true to him first and foremost. I cannot have my own General plotting against me.’

  Wyl was silent.

  ‘Speak freely,’ Celimus encouraged. ‘They don’t care,’ he said, shrugging and gesturing towards the foreigners. ‘They are loyal to money only.’

  ‘I am your servant, sire. I am your General and yours to command.’

  Celimus smiled now and Wyl hated him for that sudden easy way he could become so casual and friendly.

  ‘That’s good, Wyl. It seems both our fathers had high hopes that we might run the realm as they did. Do you think it might work as they dreamed?’

  ‘I see no reason why not, your majesty,’ Wyl said, glancing around again, wondering at his options for escape. His mind was already racing to how he could get word to Ylena. Old Magnus was right to warn him. Celimus knew Wyl was dangerous simply by the power he held over the soldiers of the Legion. Wyl had been the one too slow to recognise it. And now here he was, helpless and captive.

  ‘Well, I’m impressed by your optimism, General. But I need something more than words. Words sound hollow when there is no action as tangible proof of sincerity.’

  ‘How may I prove it, sire?’

  ‘Simple. I have a mission for you, Wyl. And if you can carry it off successfully for me, then I think you will have gone a long way towards proving your words are not empty. I realise we can never be friends but I would value your loyal service.’

  Wyl nodded. ‘Tell me what you wish me to do.’

  ‘Please, sit,’ Celimus said, waving his beefy henchmen back.

  Wyl preferred to stand but felt it was best to do as he was told at this moment. He noted Celimus remained standing by the window, looking out into one of the small courtyards. He also did not give any order for Wyl’s hands to be released.

  ‘It’s a delicate mission which requires your touch — or at least your family name,’ Celimus said, not turning
. ‘I want you to lead a small company of men into Briavel and win an audience with King Valor.’

  Although he tried not to, Wyl knew he showed his surprise at the audacity of what Celimus suggested.

  The King continued. ‘You will make him an offer.’

  Now Wyl was intrigued. ‘What is my offer, sire?’

  ‘An offer of marriage between myself and Valor’s daughter, Valentyna. He is an old man now and would see the sense of joining our two realms, for no young royal — especially one as flighty as I gather she is — would choose war over peace and prosperity. I alone can give her that security. Or, I can bring her interminable grief as I will systematically wage war on her realm until it falls.’

  Celimus stopped talking and turned around, his dark gaze resting languidly on the General. Wyl felt strangely heartened. Was he really hearing right? He saw the King was patiently waiting for his response.

  ‘Your majesty, your idea is inspired,’ he admitted. ‘It would bring peace after centuries of war,’ he added, hating that he was stating the obvious and yet was still unable to contain his pleasure. ‘I will gladly take this mission and I will not fail you, sire.’ Wyl stopped, realising he was gabbling.

  ‘I’m glad you like my plan,’ Celimus said sardonically.

  Wyl’s brow creased again. ‘But why did you think you’d need to bind and subdue me to hear such a promise?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust you, Thirsk, that’s why.’

  ‘And do you now?’

  ‘Perhaps. I have assembled the company you will take with you.’ He looked past Wyl’s shoulder and nodded. ‘You’ve already met Romen Koreldy. I have appointed him your second.’

  Wyl’s gaze fell again upon the tall stranger. The man had dark features, although his eyes were of a particular silvery grey. They had a laughing quality to them. Hair dropped thickly to his shoulders and a closely trimmed moustache followed the line of his neat, wide mouth. When he spoke his salutation it had the same amused quality in its timbre that his eyes held. This was a man who was clearly comfortable in his own skin; confidence and surety seemed to ooze from him.