The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  As it turned out, they spent six uneventful and tranquil days travelling mostly across country, avoiding humanity as much as possible. It was a blessing for Ylena who was not easily re-emerging from the darkness of her mind into the sunlight of Morgravia’s spring. She certainly smiled more often and conversations lengthened but then Wyl knew how much she used to smile and talk. The old Ylena was lost on that terrible day of blood and death. She did not seem to feel awkward on the fourth night, however, when a chill descended and Wyl suggested she sleep close to him. Snuggling up against Romen she felt safe, she told him. They ate sparingly but well, supplementing their supplies with whatever nuts and wild fruits they could gather.

  Wyl realised one late afternoon that Romen was in fact as deadly with a knife as he had been warned when the mercenary was alive. He found the knife in the bottom of their sack and once again thanked the lucky stars which had guided Jorn to them. A rabbit was soon roasting over their campfire after a swift and accurate flick of the blade.

  On the seventh afternoon Wyl trusted what was left to him of Romen and re-emerged onto a road. This was not so frequently used as the road to Renkyn but he felt instantly familiar with it. They followed it for another four miles or so and as they crested a small hill they looked down into a picturesque valley in which nestled a series of squat stone buildings set some distance apart from what appeared to be a village. Ylena squinted to get a better look at the small houses dotted here and there.

  ‘That’s Rittylworth,’ he said, relieved.

  ‘It is a serene place,’ Ylena admitted.

  ‘Somewhere for you to enjoy some peace, my lady.’

  She nodded and they moved on. Monks busy tending the gardens around the monastery straightened their backs from their toil. Someone waved and one, they noticed, yelled something and then disappeared into the building. He returned dragging an older man, and a broad smile stretched across Romen’s face.

  ‘Someone you know?’ Ylena asked.

  ‘Er … yes,’ Wyl replied, confused. Romen obviously knew and liked this man but he could not dig the old monk’s name from his host’s memory.

  The monk grinned back, clearly pleased when they walked their horses into the compound. ‘I knew you would return one day, Romen Koreldy.’

  Romen jumped down and the men embraced. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Brother Jakub promised we’d not seen the last of you, Romen,’ a breathless young man said.

  Jakub! Wyl thought, wanting to hug the enthusiastic young monk for giving him the name he sought. ‘Jakub, I want you to meet someone very precious to me.’ He helped Ylena down from her horse. ‘This is the Lady Ylena Thirsk of Argorn.’ Wyl deliberately said nothing of her being Lady Donal just yet. Ylena either did not notice or she trusted him to make whatever decisions were required.

  ‘Welcome, my lady,’ Brother Jakub said, bowing along with all the other monks.

  Ylena curtsied. ‘Thank you, brothers.’

  The young monk who had first spotted them offered to take their horses. ‘I see they haven’t shaved your pate yet then,’ Wyl said, desperately trying to uncover names and why these people were special to Romen. It was of no use. Romen’s memory was too clouded now.

  ‘Not long now,’ the young man grinned. ‘I’m counting the days.’

  ‘Pil will be ordained in four months. He deserves it,’ Jakub said gently with an indulgent smile that Wyl seemed to recognise now.

  ‘Come, let us offer you some refreshment,’ Jakub said, taking Ylena’s arm.

  ‘I think what my lady would appreciate most of all is a bath,’ Romen suggested.

  ‘Of course!’ Jakub looked chastened that he hadn’t thought of that when they clearly had dust on their faces from days on the road. He introduced Ylena to a young lad, asking that she follow him and assuring her of privacy. ‘We will freshen your travelling clothes, my lady, and then perhaps later you may care to join us for a hearty meal.’

  Ylena could not help herself. She kissed the older man’s cheek and her thanks were sincere.

  Wyl grinned at her. ‘Enjoy. See you very soon, little one.’

  ‘Thank you for this, Romen … for all that you’ve done.’ She kissed him too and Wyl had to stop himself from hugging her back.

  Ylena left with the eager Pil trailing her and the youngster, and Wyl turned to Jakub. ‘I need your help,’ was all he said. Directness was best here, he figured.

  ‘I suspected as much. Come, let’s walk.’

  Wyl found himself guided to a beautiful herb garden arranged in concentric circles with a sun dial at its heart. As he and Jakub settled themselves on a bench beneath a huge old lemon tree, a tray with jug and mugs was delivered. Its bearer left without a word.

  ‘Our latest vintage is superb, Romen. See for yourself,’ Jakub said, handing Wyl a cup.

  They drank in companionable silence for a few moments and Wyl appreciated not only the delicious wine but the chance to gather his thoughts, although his nerves were on edge. He prayed to Shar to guide him now. What was left of Romen’s recall was yielding little to him of this place, except its intense familiarity.

  ‘She has the look of one who has suffered terribly,’ Jakub finally said.

  He heard Romen sigh. ‘Too much and too recently,’ Wyl admitted.

  ‘At whose hands?’

  ‘At his majesty’s pleasure. The new King.’

  ‘I see. And how are you involved with him?’

  ‘A long story, Jakub. Suffice to say if we meet again, we’ll be holding blades at each other’s throats.’

  ‘Ah. And how is the Lady Ylena involved in this intrigue?’

  ‘She is the sister of someone who begged me to help her as he died. He is a man I respected.’

  The family name of Ylena suddenly fell into place in Jakub’s mind.

  ‘This is the sister of Wyl Thirsk?’ He spoke with some awe.

  Wyl nodded sadly. ‘Fergys Thirsk would turn in his grave if he knew of what she has suffered at the hands of the Morgravian Crown.’

  ‘And you can’t tell me more?’

  Wyl decided to trust the old monk. ‘Only that we carry a sack and in it is the head of Ylena’s recent husband, Captain Alyd Donal.’

  ‘Of Felrawthy?’ he said, eyes wide.

  Again Wyl nodded. ‘I need you to keep it for me. Have it preserved. One day I’ll come back and claim it … do the right thing. You must never reveal to Ylena that the head is still here. She believes I’m taking it directly to his ancestral home. I can’t, of course, the Duke will immediately rise up. I cannot risk this … not yet.’

  ‘Romen, what has occurred?’ Jakub whispered.

  Wyl felt suddenly guilty for bringing his troubles to this peaceful place. Already he had told Jakub enough to incriminate him should Celimus trace them to Rittylworth. He hoped he had covered their tracks well enough. ‘Murder, deceit, betrayal. Celimus will throw Morgravia into perilous times. He chases the crown of Briavel, pays lip service to marriage with Queen Valentyna, but a toad has more sincerity than this newly crowned King.’ Wyl stopped for fear of saying too much.

  ‘And you and Ylena?’

  Wyl looked at Jakub, surprised, and then he understood. ‘Friends only. My bond is with the brother.’

  ‘A brother and sister. Are you seeking redemption, Romen?’

  ‘No!’ Wyl said, far too abruptly, wondering at his own vehemence and what was couched in Jakub’s words.

  ‘You protest too strongly. There is no shame in it, my son. Shar will bless you for it.’

  Wyl was too confused to pursue this conversation which suggested secrets from Romen’s past. He should find out more but in trying he might also reveal himself to be an impostor. It was too dangerous. ‘I gave a blood promise, Jakub. She is in mortal danger.’

  ‘What is it you wish of us?’ the older man asked, sensibly leaving alone whatever topic underpinned his previous comments.

  ‘Your protection. No one knows we ar
e here — well, only one but he is a mere valet. I have covered our tracks well. Our trail goes cold at Farnswyth and none of the villagers of Rittylworth have seen us.’

  ‘We offer it gladly to the Lady Ylena. Does she know?’

  ‘That she will remain here for a while? Yes. I know she will be happy and she does understand the danger of returning to Argorn. I have already counselled her on this. She needs time to recover from the atrocities she has experienced. Beware, Jakub, there are moments when she strikes me as unstable. Travelling with her, I saw flashes of more than just anger at what she has been through.’ He could hardly say he was so familiar with this woman that he could tell something had changed deep at her core. Instead he had to rely on Jakub accepting his friend’s sensitive intuition. ‘I sense she could unravel entirely if she suffers further shock. She needs to be protected — from all stresses not just the King.’

  The old man nodded as if to say it would be done. ‘And you, Romen. Where now for you?’

  ‘I am chasing down an old woman I met recently at Pearlis, a fairground fortune teller. I have a message for her from her family,’ Wyl lied. He did not want to share his plan to travel to Briavel; the old monk would not approve. He moved on hurriedly, hating himself for being so unfaithful to this good man. ‘Then Felrawthy to return Captain Donal to his family — although I cannot predict when that will be.’

  Jakub’s rheumy eyes studied Romen’s and Wyl squirmed under the scrutiny. If only he knew more of Romen’s background. Instead he just nodded. ‘I will send word.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Jakub said. ‘Just remember, my boy, you cannot outrun your demons. They will catch you. Best face them.’

  Wyl was astounded by this comment and could do little more than reach for his cup and swallow a deep draught.

  ‘What’s different about you?’ Jakub wondered aloud.

  ‘Beats me,’ Wyl offered, just a little too quickly.

  The old man sensibly held his tongue, though his eyes, expressive as always, said plenty. ‘We will preserve and keep the head in the secret grotto beneath the monastery which I’m sure you remember,’ he said and winked. Wyl had no idea what the innuendo meant. ‘It will be safe.’

  NINETEEN

  FYNCH AND KNAVE MADE it back to Briavel on foot, after several days of travelling. The horse had gone lame not far from Sharptyn across the border. Fynch had left the majority of the money Romen had given him with his sister, but the small portion he carried with him allowed him to pay the stableman at the village to take care of the horse until he could return for it. Fynch had no idea when that might be but he was not prepared to sell the beast for it had been a gift from Valentyna. To avoid any questions about why a commonfolk child should be riding a horse and carrying a purse, Fynch told the stableman that he was taking the beast back to Briavel for a merchant and the coin had been provided for the horse’s care. The man had shrugged, uninterested, merely handing over the bronze disk he would need to reclaim the horse.

  A family of tinkers gave the boy and his dog a ride out of Sharptyn, but Fynch could tell that Knave made his hosts nervous and after half a day’s ride he had thanked them and struck out on foot into open country.

  The morning they arrived, Valentyna was on the battlements and speaking with Liryk, head of the Briavel Guard — a good man, loyal to her father. The soldier inwardly marvelled at the Queen’s composure and once again considered how unlike most women she was. It did not seem to matter to her that at this moment her hair was being torn from whatever clasp was supposed to hold it back and was now whipping about her face as though loving the freedom in this brisk breeze. He recalled his fears for her, which he now realised were unfounded. Valentyna was self-assured and comfortable in her role. He had to remind himself that she had been roaming around the palace battlements since she was old enough to talk and, since the incident in Tallinor when Magnus’s son had broken her doll, had preferred the games of men rather than the more genteel pursuits expected of women.

  He was not alone in his admiration. All of the Guard were in awe of how well she masked her grief. Everyone, not just in the castle, but in Briavel itself knew how Valor had doted on his daughter … and likewise how she had revered her father. She was every bit a worthy successor despite not being a son. In fact most people forgot she was a woman until she attended some special formal event and was forced to take on a more gracious appearance. Then she became breathtaking — a far cry from the tomboy they were used to. And now she was their Queen and Liryk wondered whose duty it might be to remind her that the sovereign was to be protected at all costs. She would no longer enjoy the freedom of riding the moors, disappearing on hunting trips, spending nights in the woods.

  He heard the cry go up from the watchtower and waited for news. The runner came soon enough. Liryk excused himself from the Queen.

  Returning, he smiled. ‘The boy and his dog are back, your majesty.’

  ‘Fynch!’ she exclaimed and turned to leave. ‘Excuse me, Liryk. Perhaps we could finish our discussion later?’

  He bowed his agreement and Valentyna departed, issuing orders that the visitors were to be brought to her immediately at the Bridge — a small walkway between two of Werryl’s shorter towers. It was one of Valentyna’s favourite haunts as a child because there she could hide from her nursemaids and later her tutors, as well as anyone else who would attempt to force womanly pastimes upon her. It was still a special place for her now. A haven where she could cast her thoughts aloud to the wind.

  ‘Your majesty!’ said a familiar voice and she saw Fynch coming towards her, although Knave was faster and at her heels within a bound or two, stretching up to lick her gleefully.

  ‘You wretch, Knave,’ she said, laughing and wiping away his salutation.

  Fynch was more reserved in his greeting but Valentyna was having none of it — they had been through much together. As soon as he was done bowing, she scooped the little boy into her arms and hugged him fiercely.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d return to me. I’ve been so worried for you.’

  ‘No need. Not with Knave close by, your majesty. Did it all go all right?’ he ventured awkwardly.

  Valentyna knew he referred to her father’s burial. ‘I coped. It was very private for good reason, which helped.’ She took his hand. ‘Sit with me at this bench and tell me everything.’

  His face became serious. ‘No good news, majesty.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I must know all that you do.’

  He told her everything, watching her become crestfallen and then anxious as his story drew to a close.

  ‘So you were right, he did not betray us and now he’s dead,’ she said, looking out across the moors.

  Fynch shook his head. ‘I never doubted it, majesty. Wyl Thirsk stayed true to the end. He and the mercenary, Romen Koreldy, fought side by side to protect your father.’

  Her eyes watered at the mention but she refused to cry any more over her situation. The King was dead. No tears would bring him back. She was now the Queen and had been groomed for this for all of her life. She would not let Briavel down. Crying had no place in her life.

  ‘And you trust this Koreldy?’

  Fynch shrugged. ‘I … I don’t know what to think, your majesty. I am trying to work only with the facts. He carried Wyl’s body back to Morgravia in what was clearly open defiance of Celimus. I have no doubt he walked back into direct danger by returning to Morgravia and I can only wonder at how he survived. He assured me he told enough of the Legion his story so that Thirsk’s name could not be darkened by any of Celimus’s lies. I saw Wyl’s sister with my own eyes. She was willingly in the care of Romen.’ He paused and then added carefully, ‘But more than anything, your majesty, I trust Knave.’

  She turned from looking out towards the moors to stare at the boy beside her. Her brow creased in query.

  Fynch continued. ‘You know how I’ve told you about Knave’s strange behaviour towards others.’

  She nodded.

/>   He took a deep breath. ‘Well, I now truly believe that this dog only trusts those who are true to Wyl.’

  Valentyna wanted to smile; she felt the urge to ruffle the lad’s hair and tell him all would be fine, as one did a child. But something stopped her. Something about Fynch forced her to pay attention and treat him as one should an adult. His ability to gather and interpret information had astounded her in their brief time together. And it was Fynch who had kept her from falling apart in those early hours. He had acted with a maturity beyond his years, standing up to her to make her realise the danger should she rush back to the palace before her safety could be assured. This little boy, a Morgravian no less, had gone to the palace alone to discover whether it was safe for her to return, and had found the courage to face her men — who, no doubt, had been disbelieving and perhaps even derisive of his claim that he had Valentyna in a secure place. She recalled now how he had found her again, this time with her guards in tow, and urged her to come out of hiding. He had held her hand as she — Queen now — emerged to face her Commander, Liryk, and counselled her to remain strong despite her grief. ‘Briavel needs to see its Queen as a tower, even though she might feel like crumbling,’ he had whispered. She had not forgotten those brief yet inspirational words of encouragement.