The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  The old woman shrugged. ‘I cannot risk the truth. You have witnessed first hand the suffering of those they suspect as empowered. Those dark times are behind us now, thank Shar’s mercy, but still I find it easier to hide my talent than flaunt it. If people suspected I could really see into their lives, I think they would fear me for what I might tell them. They prefer the notion that fortune-telling is just some harmless fun.’

  Wyl understood. ‘Tell me what the Quickening is.’

  The widow sighed and sat back into her chair, releasing her hold on his hands. ‘That’s not as easy to explain. I cannot answer it as you wish. All I can tell you is that it has no remorse, no empathy … and you have no control over it.’

  ‘Can I rid myself of it?’

  ‘No.’ She had nothing to add.

  ‘So I will remain Romen Koreldy for the rest of my life,’ he murmured. It was not a question. He felt grief and yet in his soul he had expected nothing less.

  ‘I have no knowledge to confirm or deny it,’ she said sadly.

  Wyl stood and paced the tiny chamber. He did not trust himself to speak for a few moments.

  ‘Elspyth!’ the widow called and her niece appeared around the door, answering softly. ‘Bring the wine, my love.’

  The young woman came into the room with a tray. After setting down its contents she withdrew silently.

  ‘Drink!’ the seer ordered. ‘It will help.’

  Wyl did, gulping down the sweet wine, needing to feel its sugary warmth within him. She was right, it steadied him.

  ‘Why did Myrren do this to me?’

  ‘I imagine she saw something in you, Wyl. A need perhaps? A burning desire? Who knows? It could even be that she wanted something of you … something she wants you to achieve.’

  ‘All because of a sip of water,’ he said, laughing sadly to himself.

  ‘There would be more to it than that but what that is, I cannot guess.’

  Wyl took another couple of swallows of the wine. Mixed with the potion, it was making him feel lightheaded. He sat again.

  ‘Tell me about the dog.’

  She made a small circle of her mouth as though they had stepped onto a hallowed topic. ‘A very powerful one, that.’

  ‘He’s enchanted?’ he asked, trying to make it sound like the most reasonable assumption.

  ‘Not in himself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He is a channel for magic.’

  Wyl did not understand but pushed on. ‘What else?’

  ‘Keep him close. I told you that before. I meant it then as I do now.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘He is strange?’ Wyl wondered aloud.

  ‘No. Strange that I cannot read him. A complex child with an adept mind. He is very susceptible to magic, although he does not know it. That’s why the black dog chose him. Trust the boy. He begins to understand Knave … and you.’

  She sounded as though she was falling into a trance but Wyl pressed on. He was frightened but determined to wring every last ounce of information he could.

  ‘My sister, she —’

  ‘Is in grave danger. You think you have her hidden but he will find her.’

  Wyl was astounded. How could she know these things? He felt suddenly violent, wanted to hurl something at the wall, at her, at the stupid cottage they stood in. Ylena was safe … safe with Brother Jakub.

  Now the woman’s voice sounded dreamy. ‘Jakub cannot protect her, nor himself,’ she droned. ‘And the other woman — the Queen. She is strong but her realm is weak. It makes her vulnerable.’

  This was not a revelation to Wyl but it still terrified him to hear her say it out loud.

  ‘You must never speak of this to anyone,’ Wyl warned.

  ‘I am only a sideshow alley trader,’ the woman said, more focused now. ‘No one takes me seriously.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can help me?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Seek Myrren’s father!’ Her voice was hard. It sounded deeper all of a sudden.

  ‘The physician?’

  ‘No! He was not her real father,’ the low voice said angrily. ‘Seek the manwitch.’

  Wyl felt his world tip on its axis. This was too much. He was about to demand more about the father when she suddenly screamed out, ‘Wyl! Beware the barbarian! He knows you. He’s coming … coming for you … coming for you …’ her voice trailed to a whisper and then she seemed to pass out.

  ‘Elspyth!’ Wyl yelled.

  The woman ran into the chamber and bent down by her aunt, lifting the closed lids before rubbing the old woman’s chilled hands. ‘She forbids me to witness these meets but look what it does to her. Saps her strength. I swear it will kill her. Quick, help me with that blanket … she’s freezing.’

  Wyl did as asked and together they wrapped the birdlike frame of the old woman in a thick woollen shawl.

  ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘I hope so. She went too far that time. Tried to see too much. She’ll sleep now for many hours,’ Elspyth answered matter of factly. ‘She will give nothing more to you,’ she added and it sounded like a challenge.

  Wyl swallowed. The widow had already told him plenty and none of it pleasing.

  ‘She’s the real thing, a seer,’ he said, nodding and just a little awed by the tiny woman wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.

  ‘And if you ever mention it outside of this room, I’ll come after you, Koreldy,’ Elspyth whispered. ‘Remember, it was you who pursued her.’

  He felt suddenly dizzy. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk that wine on the medicine,’ he said, reaching to steady himself on something.

  Elspyth grabbed him. ‘Let’s get you some air,’ she suggested, eager for him to be gone.

  As they stepped outside beneath a darkening afternoon sky, Wyl’s world went painfully blank for the second time in a few days. The club hit him so hard, he did not even have time to react … did not even hear Elspyth scream. It mattered little, for her cry was cut off as quickly as it arrived in her throat. The man’s punch clipped her jaw so hard, she was unconscious before she hit the ground next to the prone body of Romen Koreldy.

  ‘Take them both,’ Lothryn said, regretting his companion’s blow to the woman. ‘We ride immediately for the fortress.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  CELIMUS WAS BORED OF the woman and her fawning manner, as well as her parents’ smiles and knowing looks. Did they think he might make their daughter a permanent arrangement in his life? Fools! She was nothing more than an amusement. And now the novelty had dissipated for him.

  He pushed her aside. ‘Leave me,’ he commanded and ignored her pout. ‘Now!’ he yelled when she did not move immediately and it gave him pleasure to see the fright flit across her face as she gathered her clothes and fled.

  Soon enough, Jessom arrived — a man Celimus had appointed to the newly created position of Chancellor. The middle-aged man had appeared at Stoneheart a few weeks previous, presenting his credentials for employment to the King. Celimus cared nothing for Jessom’s background — which was suspect — only for his willingness to serve, and he had already proved himself to have a slippery mind with a propensity for intrigue. He was perfect for Celimus.

  ‘Shall I have her things sent back to her family home, sire?’ Jessom asked, laying down a tray of sweet pastries and the King’s favourite juice of the parillion fruit. It was chilled, just as he liked it. ‘I took the liberty of telling the servant I’d bring your breakfast,’ he said by way of explanation, now busying himself with tying back the curtains on the King’s bed.

  Celimus was flattered that Jessom had so quickly understood his needs so well. ‘Please. She is tedious and is no longer permitted visitation rights.’

  ‘As you wish, sire. I will see you shortly in your study, majesty,’ the Chancellor said, walking towards the door.

  ‘No wait. Tell me, what news from Briavel?’ Celimus asked, expecting none. He rose and pulled on a ro
be which Jessom held out for him.

  ‘No change, your majesty. Our second messenger has returned with the same courteous words. Her majesty, Queen Valentyna, graciously thanks his majesty, King Celimus … la la la.’

  Celimus almost laughed. Jessom really did have his measure. He knew when he could take liberties and at other times when to play the grovelling courtier.

  ‘What is her plan, do you think, Jessom?’

  ‘My opinion only, sire, is that she wishes to hold you at bay.’

  ‘Are my advances that distasteful?’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ he said, handing his King a cup of the juice.

  Celimus walked towards the window and sipped thoughtfully. ‘Why? She has met me only once and she was merely an infant.’

  ‘It is my guess that the dearly departed General might have something to do with her attitude, sire.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe so. According to my sources, Thirsk won her father’s permission.’

  ‘But he did not win hers, your majesty,’ Jessom cautioned.

  ‘Because he did not discuss it with her,’ Celimus countered.

  ‘Perhaps he should have, sire,’ Jessom said, bowing politely and offering the King a plate of the treats.

  Celimus waved them away for now. ‘True. But that is not relevant, surely?’ The man shrugged and Celimus noted Jessom clearly had more to say but was holding his tongue. ‘Speak freely.’

  ‘Well, this young woman is now a Queen, sire … and there is no King or husband to advise her. No parent to demand things of her. She is the highest ranking decision-maker in the realm. I would suggest that Valentyna may well make up her own mind about whom she entertains as a suitor.’

  ‘But she does not know me,’ Celimus bleated.

  ‘Ah, there you have it, my King,’ Jessom said.

  It was a deliberately cryptic statement and the man idly adjusted something on the mantelpiece, waiting for the obvious response.

  Celimus knew his servant waited. He considered this sudden appreciation of the older man’s views, wishing he felt less dependent on them. ‘Explain what you mean by this, Jessom.’

  ‘Only this, sire. Perhaps you should no longer rely on third parties. Go to Briavel, my lord. Let her see you for herself. A woman needs to be wooed, your majesty. Make her feel special … desired … loved.’

  Jessom had warmed to his subject; suddenly he was the teacher guiding the student. ‘This is no bedmate, your majesty. This is an equal. She is the reigning monarch of the land you want to rule. You need to make a very direct approach yourself. I dare a woman to ignore your looks or your charm, sire. Use them well. If you want Valentyna to marry you, ask her yourself. Tempt her with your honeyed words and your dazzling gifts. Bring all the pomp and ceremony of Morgravia to Briavel. Allow her to see your strength and how her own realm can only benefit from the sacred union of marriage between these two great nations.’ He paused only long enough to take a breath. ‘She wants peace, your majesty. Be sure of it. I suspect Valentyna is already well advised that there is only one way to secure it. But she is playing the coquettish virgin, sire. You must woo this woman properly.’

  Celimus was stunned. He regarded the man carefully. Jessom was right. It was no longer time for missives and messengers. He, King of Morgravia, must take direct action.

  Jessom pressed his point. ‘Word from the north, sire, is that the Mountain Dwellers are getting more bold. I suggest Cailech is flexing his muscles for his first raid out of the Razors.’

  ‘You really believe this?’

  The man nodded. Celimus knew it was likely. Apart from the reports back from his northern guard led by the Duke of Felrawthy, his own father had warned him of the dire need to shore up defences on the northern border. Weeks before his death Magnus had firmly counselled his son that Briavel should no longer be the Morgravian focus. ‘A new threat emerges,’ he had warned. ‘Cailech grows restless in his mountain fortress.’

  Celimus had already known this, of course, but it had suited him to have his father believe he had no idea of the politics of Morgravia and beyond. In truth, it enraged him that to think that Cailech might have delusions of building an empire. A barbarian! What next?!

  Furthermore, the ease with which Cailech and his Mountain men scuttled into and out of Morgravia infuriated him. Part of Gueryn’s mission had been to discover the paths they were using — a dangerous task with a high probability of failure. It had been Celimus’s intention all along that Gueryn’s party be caught. In fact, his recent order to the Duke of Felrawthy to kill any Mountain folk found on the wrong side of the border — including those who might have stumbled across accidentally — had been a deliberate ploy to increase the ire of the Mountain King. Felrawthy and the Legion had baulked at killing innocent women and children, so Celimus had hired mercenaries to carry out the public executions.

  After learning of the cruelty inflicted on his people, Celimus was sure Cailech would retaliate equally brutally should any Morgravian be discovered in the Razors. All had gone to plan and Celimus had been thrilled to receive a rumour that Gueryn and his spies had indeed been captured and were almost certainly meat for the mountain wolves by now. He was also captivated by the idea that if Cailech’s fury could be so manipulated by something as simple as killing off some of his Mountain sluts and brats, how easy it might be to provoke the hot-tempered King into waging war on Morgravia — or, better still, Briavel.

  His cunning mind began to wrap itself around this notion. If such a thing could be achieved, he could contrive for Morgravia to come to Briavel’s rescue, causing Briavel to be hugely indebted to its neighbour. Celimus had no doubt that not only was his Legion more than capable of successfully punishing any army Cailech cared to bring across the border but also of crushing Briavel in its current weakened state. And he would have demolished two monarchs in one clever plan, removing the need for marriage at all. However, there was no harm in a contingency plan and he would be wise to keep the union with Briavel and its subsequent takeover foremost in his mind.

  The sound of Jessom clearing his throat drew the King from his plotting. ‘I shall make a state visit to Briavel,’ he said firmly, ‘but I will not take the Legion. Let’s keep it more informal. We don’t want to terrify the Queen. Instead we must further bolster the supervision of the northern border.’

  Jessom nodded and Celimus hated himself for feeling pride at the man’s acknowledgement. ‘You make a wise judgement, sire,’ Jessom said. ‘Would you like me to make preparations for Briavel?’

  Celimus was glad to be back in charge. ‘Yes, go ahead. Keep me posted. I wish to be on our way as soon as possible.’

  ‘I shall need a few days, sire.’

  ‘As you see fit,’ the King said, waving his hand casually as though it were of no further consequence to him.

  As Jessom bowed to take his leave, there was a knock at the door. It was one of the King’s many secretaries. He whispered something to Jessom who closed the door.

  ‘The front gate has a delivery for you, sire.’

  ‘So? Send it up?’

  ‘I gather it is somewhat grisly, my King. They preferred me to seek your permission on this.’

  ‘Grisly?’

  ‘A box carrying a head, sire, I gather,’ Jessom replied as easily as someone else might have said a box of pastries.

  ‘Whose?’ Celimus was pulling off his robe and grabbing for clothes.

  ‘That I can’t tell you, your majesty.’

  Celimus shook his head absently. His mind was racing. ‘I wish to see this head.’

  ‘As you command, my King. I shall come with you.’

  The box was brought to the King’s private garden which Magnus had previously cared for so passionately. Celimus rarely bothered with it but, knowing the value of doing what was seen to be right, he commanded a team of gardeners take care of the old King’s handiwork.

  The box was placed down in front of him by an embarrassed senior member of the guard.

&nbs
p; ‘Who?’ Celimus demanded.

  The man licked his lips. ‘Sire, my apologies. I do not know this man.’

  ‘Is there any correspondence with this delivery?’ Jessom asked, enunciating his words as though speaking to an imbecile.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ the guard said, deliberately addressing his King rather than the newcomer most already despised. ‘We thought it best not to tamper with the package once we realised what it contained.’

  ‘Very good,’ Celimus said, no longer caring. ‘Let me see this head, then.’

  The sacks were opened and the man gingerly reached in. He lifted out the head of Jerico.

  Celimus felt his stomach twist with a knife of hate. Romen had escaped, then. He would be a dangerous foe out there, now that he knew of Celimus’s betrayal. He realised all eyes were upon him and was glad he had kept Jerico’s presence as much his secret as possible. He suspected Jessom was not as ignorant as he pretended, though.

  ‘Check again for any note,’ Jessom ordered.

  The man looked inside the box. There was nothing else.

  Celimus forced himself to shrug very casually. ‘And no one has any idea who this is?’ he demanded.

  The two other members of the guard who had accompanied the box shook their heads fearfully.

  ‘Well, this unfortunate fellow is not known to our King. I suggest this is a prank. Get rid of it. Burn it,’ Jessom ordered. ‘Your majesty, I shall personally make enquiries about this insult.’

  Celimus had already turned to walk away, anger rising, his parillion juice curdling in his stomach. Out of earshot he stopped as they crossed a courtyard.

  ‘Jessom. That was the head of an assassin I sent off to deal with a renegade — a dangerous one. The renegade’s name is Romen Koreldy.’

  Jessom had suspected the King knew very well whose head he had just clapped eyes on, although he himself did not recognise the man. That was annoying but he was glad Celimus was conspiring with him now. ‘You have mentioned Koreldy to me before, sire.’

  ‘Yes, he departed just before you joined us. I want Koreldy dead, Jessom. I am making you personally responsible for this special task. Hire who you need, pay what you will. Just kill him and do it quickly. Are you up to this duty?’