The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Wyl sat up and looked about him, shocked at the arrival of his dog. Most of the mercenaries in the camp were snoring; there was no need to post lookout guards in this part of the realm.

  ‘What is it?’ Romen asked quietly, his eyes still closed. He was clearly a light sleeper.

  ‘Um … I have to go to the, er …’

  The man sighed. ‘I’ll come, wait a moment.’

  ‘No! That is, I have to empty my bowels.’

  Romen yawned. ‘All right. You know I’ll have to leave one of your hands tied behind your back … can you manage to —’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘And I’ll have to tie this other length to your ankle — I’ll keep a hold on this end here so you don’t go wandering off into the night.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, Koreldy. My sister’s life depends on me staying right here with you.’

  ‘Off you go then.’

  ‘I may be a while — I’ve got cramps.’

  ‘Take your time,’ the man replied, yawning again.

  Wyl left the fireside, one leg trailing the long rope, the other end of which was tied to Romen’s wrist. Just over the hillock he was overjoyed to be greeted by Knave but even more surprised to see the wide-eyed gong boy waiting for him too.

  Fynch put his finger to his lips before whispering: ‘Just listen.’

  He told him everything he had overheard whilst hanging in the drophole and then all that had happened since, leaving out only his unsettling visions. He was brief and precise. Wyl listened grimly, his rage and bitterness settling into something cold and intractable within. Celimus would pay. Somehow, Shar help me, he thought, I will survive this and he will suffer. He surfaced from his angry thoughts and heard Fynch still whispering intensely.

  ‘…we can follow you and perhaps plan an escape.’

  Wyl shook his head violently. ‘Your turn to listen,’ he whispered back and proceeded to tell Fynch all that had occurred this past day. He quickly realised that the little boy had not known of King Magnus’s death, being too young to understand the significance of the particular mourning bells signifying the death of the monarch. The lad looked distraught hearing of Alyd’s death and then Ylena’s plight, but Fynch was a plucky boy and pulled himself together quickly for Wyl’s sake.

  ‘Hurry up, Thirsk,’ Romen suddenly called from behind them.

  ‘Coming,’ Wyl replied. ‘You must go now,’ he whispered to Fynch. ‘Keep Knave close — and go home, back to Stoneheart. Forget about me.’

  The boy bit his lip. ‘I won’t. We’ve come this far to help you.’

  ‘Go back, Fynch! I don’t want you near me!’ Wyl said deliberately viciously. He did not want the blood of this courageous boy on his hands, and blood, he believed, would flow soon enough. ‘You cannot help me. You are … a … a nuisance,’ he spat under his breath, hoping now to hurt Fynch, force him to leave.

  Wyl watched the child’s eyes narrow in pain as he patted Knave farewell. He turned and did not look back.

  ‘Feel better?’ Romen asked sleepily.

  ‘Remind me not to eat squirrel again,’ he replied, laying his head down and recalling the strange Widow Ilyk and her caution to him about keeping Knave and his friend close.

  Had she meant Fynch? How could she have known?

  He pondered this as he drifted into an unsettled sleep in which he dreamed of himself being killed and yet somehow remaining alive.

  There was no sign of Fynch or Knave as they entered Briavel’s western border the following midday and by late afternoon they had been met by a contingent of its soldiers who were clearly expecting them. Wyl suspected their party had been trailed anyway since the moment the first horse’s hoof set foot on Briavel’s soil. There was no possibility that a party from Morgravia could enter this realm — and vice versa — without its guard being put onto alert. The mercenaries agreed with the Briavellians’ edict, without a murmur, to make camp a few miles from the beautiful walled city of the capital, Werryl. There they would remain under a thin supervision of the Briavellian Guard. Romen had already briefed Wyl on their plan. He had foreseen them being met and taken under escort to King Valor. And Wyl knew he was trapped. So long as he was seen to be co-operating then Ylena was safe. He realised he too would remain safe until he met with Valor. He hoped Shar may smile on him and grant him a private meeting.

  Werryl’s palace was indeed as breathtaking as fabled stories had it. Very few Morgravians had seen it with their own eyes but the palace lived up to the famous tales of its beauty. In stark contrast to the sombreness of Stoneheart, it was built from the palest of sandstones, so light in colour to be almost white; it sparkled on a high mound.

  The city of Werryl stretched out amongst the safety of the palace’s walls. Smaller than Pearlis it was no less sophisticated and its architects clearly had a keener eye for vanity. Even the bridge leading to the portcullis was superbly constructed with statues of former Kings and Queens carved in marble and holding torches which lit the way at night.

  Daylight was fading by the time Wyl and Romen arrived at the bridge and the keepers were just touching flames to those torches. Their escort led the way into the crowded city and through its pretty cobbled streets to the palace entrance on a rise. A messenger had gone ahead and various dignitaries were awaiting them.

  After introductions they were politely shown to a private bath-house where they might tidy themselves after their two-day ride. It was a courteous touch.

  Soaking in a tub of hot water, Wyl began to relax for the first time. After hearing Fynch’s tale, he now accepted that he would probably die on this journey but he had no intention of losing his life without saving Ylena’s. Celimus would kill her anyway, whether Wyl succeeded in his mission or not — of this Wyl was now sure. He looked at Romen who soaked in the scented waters of another tub, as still as a statue; eyes closed, long lashes touching his tanned cheeks. His long, freshly washed hair was slicked back and Wyl admired the chiselled profile.

  ‘Why do you watch me?’ Romen asked softly.

  Wyl, in spite of his gloom, smiled. Romen was every bit the soldier he pretended not to be. Even soaking in the bath the man was alert to every movement, every nuance around him. He was impressive.

  ‘I was just wondering how adept you might be with the sword.’

  ‘My favourite weapon … although I am devastatingly good at throwing knives,’ Romen replied, still not moving.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Oh far away from these parts.’

  ‘You’re well travelled then?’

  ‘And bone weary from it.’

  ‘Why do you do it, Romen? Why sell yourself like you do?’ Wyl asked, genuinely searching for an answer.

  ‘Why not?’

  Wyl could tell his companion preferred to remain a mystery. ‘How did Celimus find you?’

  Now the man did open one eye. ‘Do you know I don’t know the answer to that. How very annoying,’ he said. ‘It was via a mutual acquaintance apparently.’

  ‘How much is he paying you to kill me?’

  At this Romen did stir; opening both eyes, he looked at Wyl, the silvery gaze suddenly penetrating. ‘Not enough.’

  ‘Is there anything I can —’

  ‘No,’ Romen interrupted. ‘I never go back on my word. But I’ll do this for you, Wyl Thirsk. I will save your sister.’

  It was Wyl’s turn to stare. The sickening pit in his stomach lurched. What could he mean? ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘The King of Morgravia kills for pleasure. I don’t like that. Whatever it is between you two, I sense you have the same hate for him as he does for you. I will not take sides. However, what he did to that young woman, clearly an innocent, was unforgivable.’

  ‘He’s going to kill her no matter what the outcome here,’ Wyl said.

  ‘That’s obvious. But you can go to your death knowing I will not permit it.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t find your words as re
assuring as they sound,’ Wyl admitted, pouring a cup of water over his short red hair.

  ‘You should be reassured. I am guaranteeing your sister’s life. Meanwhile, you are a soldier and death eventually comes to all who carry the blade, including myself. There isn’t a more noble death for a soldier than to die fighting.’

  ‘Except I won’t be fighting, will I?’

  ‘Yes you will. When you have done what we set out to do, I will hand you a sword, Wyl Thirsk, and we will duel. If you kill me, you are free. If I kill you, I collect my extravagant reward.’

  Wyl thought about this. ‘But if I kill you, then my sister is not saved.’

  ‘Ah, well that is a hole in the plan but you too can save her. You have the Legion on your side. Collect your men and overturn the King. He will ruin Morgravia if you don’t.’

  Why do I like this man! ‘It’s a pity we meet under these circumstances, Romen. I would love to have you on my side.’

  The man smiled and sank deeper into his tub.

  TWELVE

  LATER WHEN VALOR’S CHANCELLOR saw Wyl and Romen he explained that the King wished to meet with General Thirsk privately. Romen said nothing initially, although his eyebrow lifted in its perpetually cynical manner.

  ‘I shall wait outside,’ he finally said to the man. ‘I am the General’s personal bodyguard on Briavellian soil. It is not worth my life to leave him … unsupervised,’ he added, choosing his words with care.

  Wyl grinned, once again wishing he and Romen might have met in a different time, a different place.

  The Chancellor, Krell, pursed his lips as though gravely affronted. ‘General Thirsk is under no threat in Briavel whilst here as a diplomatic envoy, sir. We have laid out a supper for you —’

  ‘No need, my friend,’ Romen said, casually resting his hand on the man’s arm. ‘I mean no offence but I have my orders, isn’t that right, General?’

  Wyl adopted a contrite expression, secretly delighted he would have time alone with the King. ‘Perhaps Romen could take his supper outside, Chancellor Krell?’ He looked hopefully at the man.

  ‘You mean outside the chamber where you are meeting the King,’ Krell replied dryly. It was not a question.

  ‘Well done, you have it right,’ Romen said, now clapping the man on the back. ‘Thank you. A meal would be most welcome,’ he said and dismissed Krell by turning to Wyl. ‘I shall be right outside, sir … if you need me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Wyl answered and made to follow Krell, who had already shown Romen his back.

  Romen caught Wyl’s arm and muttered under his breath, ‘No tricks, eh, Thirsk? Or the deal’s off.’

  Wyl nodded.

  Wyl was shown into a large, splendid chamber where a table had been set up with a sumptuous cold supper near the fireplace. Awaiting him was a tall, and seemingly as wide, man. Wyl was announced and the two of them were left alone.

  ‘Shar’s Balls, you look like your father, boy.’

  Wyl bowed deeply. ‘I shall take that as a compliment, sire.’

  ‘And my spies tell me you’re maturing into every bit the good man he was too.’ King Valor took Wyl warmly by the shoulders and looked at him. ‘Welcome to Briavel, son.’

  It was confusing. He liked this portly sovereign immediately. This was the enemy his father and Magnus had plotted against for most of their lives and yet he felt they should have all been the greatest of friends.

  ‘I feel privileged, sire.’

  ‘So what news from Morgravia that doesn’t break any secrets in the sharing?’ Valor asked genially, pouring two cups of wine from an exquisite decanter. He held one out to Wyl. ‘Your health,’ he added, raising his glass.

  Wyl followed and they both took a mouthful. It was excellent wine and, looking at the spread before him, Wyl could see no expense was being spared for the Morgravian envoy.

  ‘Some grave news, sire,’ Wyl said and when the King raised an enquiring eyebrow he told him of Magnus’s passing.

  Valor stopped drinking, putting his cup down. This had clearly come as a shock. ‘That is a sorrow. Was Magnus not in good health?’

  ‘No, sire. He had been ailing for a few moons beforehand. I think it was the wasting fever.’

  ‘Ah, a vicious thing it is too. I am deeply sorry to hear of this, Wyl. We were enemies but I respected him enormously — as I did your father. They were very good men, despite being Morgravian.’ A small smile curled at the edges of his mouth. ‘I understand now, why news of your arrival came from Celimus. I thought it was the Prince getting more involved in royal duties. Shar strike me! I can’t imagine the old rogue’s body is even cool yet — the son wasted no time grabbing his new status.’

  Wyl said nothing but his silence spoke volumes.

  ‘I see. Let me drink to Magnus, then,’ Valor said, raising his glass high. ‘May his soul speed to Shar’s Light.’ They both drank. ‘Now sit, Wyl Thirsk. We have business to discuss and then supper to enjoy. My daughter, I hope, will join us shortly.’

  Wyl’s expression must have been one of query because the King added that his daughter had been asked to attend but no one — just at this moment — could find her. Wyl decided not to pursue it. Valentyna, in truth, was all but irrelevant to an arranged marriage if he could pull it off.

  ‘Sire,’ Wyl said, steeling himself, ‘did Celimus give you any indication of why I am here?’

  ‘The messenger merely advised me to expect a delegation from Celimus. I have to tell you, Thirsk, I am not in the habit of being told to expect anyone in my own realm, least of all a Morgravian.’ He noted Wyl nod and continued. ‘Your new King’s choice of words were a trifle condescending, to say the least, which is why I have insisted on seeing you alone. I trust it gave some offence?’

  ‘It did, thank you, sire,’ Wyl said, daring a grin.

  Valor joined him. ‘Good. And I’ll tell you this: it’s purely on the strength of who your father is that I have even permitted entry for you and your companion.’

  Wyl nodded again. ‘I think my King counted on this occurring, sire.’

  ‘And what else did he count on?’

  ‘Your majesty?’

  Valor leaned forward, his silver hair a halo about him. ‘Why are you here, Wyl? What is it your King wants of Briavel, son?’

  Wyl felt annoyed for giving such a dim impression of himself. He decided to be direct — the soldier’s way. ‘Your daughter, sire. He wants Valentyna.’

  The King started, first at the shock of his words and then at the woman’s voice which came suddenly from a secret door behind them.

  ‘Who wants me?’ she said.

  Wyl jumped up from his seat, also startled by the arrival of the striking woman, covered in dust and dressed in riding clothes … men’s riding clothes.

  Valor sighed. ‘My dear, why do you continue to use that secret entrance into my chambers? You know it annoys me.’

  ‘Because it is secret, darling Father, and because it annoys you and has done since I was a little girl,’ came the amused voice. She walked across the chamber on long, lean legs and planted a dusty kiss on the old man’s cheek. ‘You must be the envoy,’ she said, turning to Wyl and eyeing him from her considerable height. ‘A bit short for a politician, aren’t you?’ she said, deliberately facetiously. ‘Aren’t they normally bred to be tall and imposing in order to intimidate?’

  ‘Valentyna, hush! This is Wyl Thirsk. He is no less than General of the Morgravian Legion. Do him honour please,’ the King admonished but not without some private amusement between the two of them.

  Wyl felt himself blush. She appraised him again and after a simple bow, finally held out her hand for him to kiss. It smelled of leather and horse.

  He bowed and as neither of the familiar scents offended him he gladly kissed her hand. ‘Your highness,’ he said, feeling unbalanced by the dark blue gaze which impaled him from high.

  ‘Apologies, General Thirsk, princesses will have their jests,’ she said, leaving her hand in his. ‘Forgiv
e me. I shall clean up and then I shall remind you of the conversation you were having before I arrived.’ She grinned at Wyl from a generous mouth. ‘By the way, Father, dear old Norma birthed the most beautiful black colt this morning. I’m still delirious with happiness he is alive and suckling. He almost didn’t make it, you recall?’

  Her father nodded. ‘Yes, my dear, and I suppose you were there amongst all the drama?’

  She hugged him. ‘I delivered him in the early hours. I want him too — I’ve already named him because I was first to touch him. He’s called Adamant. Thank you, Father.’ She said all of this in a contrived rush to befuddle.

  ‘Valentyna, he is a prize stallion, you can’t —’

  His daughter had strode away and closed the secret door leaving him mid-sentence.

  ‘I think she can, sire,’ Wyl said, gulping.

  ‘That girl will be the death of me,’ Valor admitted, shaking his head ruefully. ‘But she’s irresistible. Come, Wyl. She’ll be back quicker than you can imagine. Not one for taking long over her toilet or the usual primping of other women, you understand.’

  Wyl nodded, not understanding at all, considering his sister took several hours to prepare even for a day without visitors. He still felt as though he needed to catch his breath from the whirl that was Valentyna but he forced himself to find his previous train of thought.

  ‘Celimus wishes your daughter’s hand in marriage, sire.’

  ‘I gather,’ Valor said, appreciating his guest’s brevity. He refreshed their glasses. ‘I imagined it was something like that. Let us not speak of this yet, then. Valentyna must hear it too.’

  Wyl was surprised but was happy to relax by the fire and let the delicious wine work its own particular magic whilst they waited.

  ‘Tell me, Wyl, why Celimus sends you with mercenaries as escort and, more importantly, why you accept that?’