A swirl of vague notions came to him: unpleasant notions of ugly deaths. Then they breezed away as fast as they had arrived, leaving him grasping helplessly after nothing. He delved hard in his despair but came up wanting — Romen’s memories yielded no answers this time. It was terrifying. How would he be able to keep up this pretence with so little knowledge of the man’s past and in the company of others who presumably knew it well? He retched again, this time in fear, he was sure. If he could not carry off this pretence, then Ylena and Valentyna were as good as dead and all that he treasured would be destroyed by the madman masquerading as the King of Morgravia.
‘Romen!’ Elspyth called, shocked by his actions.
‘Leave him,’ Lothryn said quietly. ‘This place, particularly the vineyards at Racklaryon, holds dark memories.’
She twisted to look at her captor. He was a man of few words and yet she sensed the kindness he worked hard to conceal with his gruff manner. It was there in his eyes now and he looked first at Romen, then at her and finally away.
‘Will you tell me?’ she asked out of earshot of Romen and was surprised when the Mountain man responded.
‘There were needless deaths here in the Razors. He holds himself responsible.’
‘And is he?’
‘Yes,’ Lothryn replied and she knew she would get nothing more from him on the subject.
‘So this is his first time back — is that why he sickens?’
‘I imagine so.’
There was no point in pursuing Romen’s past but now that she had Lothryn talking, Elspyth was not prepared to give up too easily. ‘Do you have family?’
‘I do.’
‘A wife?’ she wondered.
‘I am married. Our child should have come by now. He is late.’
‘He?’
‘She … I don’t mind.’
‘You sound worried — are you?’
‘No.’
And again the tone was final. She was impressed she had coaxed this much from him. Were they so different really? Here he is following his chief’s orders but deep down fretting over his family. Legend had it that the Mountain People ate children. As huge and imposing as Lothryn was, she guessed he would probably be the most tender of fathers.
He waved at the guard who began to raise the massive portcullis to permit entry.
‘One way out only?’ she said.
‘Only one way in, no way out,’ Lothryn replied.
The huge iron gate squealed as its chains rolled to lift it up. The horses moved through and entered a bailey. The size of this fortress was awesome. Men came towards them; some to take horses, others to escort the prisoners.
‘I will leave you now,’ Lothryn said to them once Wyl, pale and embarrassed, had caught up. Myrt had already disappeared. ‘These men will take you to chambers where you can freshen yourselves.’
Wyl nodded, said nothing.
‘I hope your wife and child are both safe,’ Elspyth called after their captor but he did not look back. Wyl looked at her with a query but she shook her head. ‘I trust you’ve got a plan to get us out of this?’ she said.
The guards were not so interested in his response and pushed them forward, deeper into Cailech’s clutch.
TWENTY-FIVE
THEY WERE SHOWN TO separate guarded chambers. The rooms were warmed by hollow clay pots, standing half as high as a man, in which small fires burned; their smoke exhausted via cunningly concealed flues. Painted frescoes adorned the whitewashed interior walls; even the ceilings were painted with vines and intricate border designs. Animal skins were laid on the floors and carved beds were decorated by woven spreads, simple and beautiful in their bright colouring. In such a forbidding place, beauty abounded and this was a surprise.
Wyl dozed briefly and woke to make full use of the fresh water and fatty soap which had been left for him. With Romen’s hair washed and neatly tied back, he scratched his new beard, wishing he could shave as well. There was not much he could do about his clothes, he decided, and so fetched a chair to the window which afforded him a breathtaking view of the pretty meadows beyond the lake. Intuition — only Romen could give him this — told him that those meadows led towards a cove with a sandy beach. Why was this significant to him? He settled back in the chair, cleared his mind as Gueryn had taught him to do in readiness for a sword fight and allowed any random thoughts or information to flow in. He cast a prayer that Shar might guide the truth to him of Romen’s dark past.
He sat for a while without any thought. Still and unfocused he stared out towards something he knew was significant. It was beyond the meadows but before the sea. It evaded him, although he sensed it was tantalisingly close to revealing itself. Wyl heard a noise from below which disturbed his clutching search into Romen’s history. He leaned out of the window to see a team of men rolling wine barrels. He sat back down hard on his seat, his pulse suddenly quickened. Wine! What was it that Lothryn had said earlier? It was subtle but it was loaded with meaning and it was connected with wine. A place called Racklaryon — that was it and he had suggested that’s why Romen’s physical reaction to seeing the fortress again had been so strong. Wyl remembered now how some trace of Romen had unwillingly stirred at the naming of that place. Why was that?
Racklaryon. The name was painfully familiar but he could not say why. He leapt from his chair and summoned the guard from outside his chamber.
‘Where is Racklaryon?’ he enquired.
The guard nodded. ‘The plains are after the meadows,’ he replied abruptly.
‘Before the sea,’ Wyl added.
‘The vineyards eventually lead down to the sea, yes.’
Wyl felt his heart leap. Vineyards. He was close. ‘Am I permitted to go there?’
‘I will check,’ the man replied and left Wyl standing in his doorway. The guard then muttered quietly to another man who was passing by. ‘We wait,’ he called back to Wyl.
Wyl returned to his room to wait and soon enough the guard knocked on his door.
‘You are permitted,’ he said. ‘Then you will meet with the King.’
Wyl nodded. He needed someone to show him the way and presumed he would not be allowed to roam free. ‘Will you accompany me?’
‘Yes. I will arrange horses.’
Leading the horses away from the fortress, Wyl gave up trying to be chatty with his companion. The man’s stern countenance and monosyllabic answers to polite questions were sufficient to warn him off. So now they cantered in silence, two more men bringing up the rear.
‘I have no intention of riding away anywhere,’ Wyl reassured.
‘Orders,’ his captor said.
The ride was pleasant enough and lifted Wyl’s spirits for a while, which was perhaps why the shock was even more intense when he caught his first glimpse through some trees of the picturesque vineyards of Racklaryon.
He galloped towards it, skirting the trees, his escort following just as fast. Finally seeing the rows of resplendent vines, rolling down the plains to a sandy cove was too much even for Romen’s buried memories. The force of the sight’s terrible impact smashed through whatever thin veil had kept Romen’s recall of this time so remote from Wyl and the full tragic event exploded into his consciousness as though he was watching the horrific scene unfold once again.
Wyl jumped from his horse, all but falling to the rich earth of Racklaryon, and here, on his knees, his arms uplifted to the heavens and screaming his despair, the truth of his host’s mysterious background unleashed itself on its guest.
It felt like an age before he could compose himself and he was grateful that his escort had finally dragged him from the vineyards, forced him back on his horse and returned him to his chamber where he remained, numb, until they came for him. The men spoke only the words necessary to ask him to come with them and he appreciated that they used his own language to communicate. Their own was a guttural, bastardised version of an ancient language from lands to the north-east from where the Mountain Dwellers’ an
cestors originally came. He suspected Romen knew this language but he no longer wanted to delve into Romen’s past. What he had learned today he wished he could give back.
This new escort, like the first one, wore nothing warmer than shirts and sleeveless leather jerkins over woollen baggy pants tucked into sturdy boots, whilst he was glad of the several layers he had donned back in Yentro. He tidied himself quickly once again until he was neat and presentable for the King.
There were no stairs in this part of the fortress but gently swooping circular ramps, smoothed from the stone, ran between the floors. Wyl noted sconces burned at frequent intervals on the walls. He presumed they must remain lit constantly as only very little daylight would seep through into this vast place of cavernous halls. He soon lost his bearings. The men escorted Wyl through a wide, dark passage which ended at a great oak door. Guards were posted down this corridor and two burly men stepped aside as Wyl’s entourage arrived. One banged on the oak door and it was opened from the inside.
Cailech was obviously a cautious leader.
Inside, the large room lost all the austerity of what had gone before. Massive windows allowed maximum light and overlooked a picturesque scene of the lake which was home to thousands of water birds. Snowcapped mountains in the background stepped jaggedly down towards the valley and its pastures over which the fortress hung.
Huge pines lined the slopes. Spring flowers were bursting into bloom everywhere. Wyl found himself entranced by the spectacular panorama and was tempted to squint against the blaze of light and colour as he emerged from the dark of the corridor.
The chamber he stood in was enormous.
A familiar voice greeted him now from one of its many nooks. ‘Romen Koreldy. Tsk, tsk. I told you what I’d do to you if you ever set foot on my path again.’
Wyl turned to his right where Cailech, King of the Mountain Dwellers, stood relaxed by a huge open fire, its stone mantelpiece intricately carved with beasts and birds. A bare hint of a grin played around the man’s mouth. The King’s light-coloured hair was long and loose, carelessly held back from his oblong face by a leather thong tied around his head. He wore no beard but Wyl imagined he could grow one with ease. He did not bother with a shirt but wore only his leather jerkin over his skin which was burnished from sun and wind. His arms were thickly muscled ending in large, blunt hands.
The King held one out now, palm down, in the mountain way.
Wyl stepped forward and intuitively placed his own, palm up, against the calloused hand which dwarfed his. As he did so, he bent over that large hand to show his respect for this self-proclaimed royal.
‘To tell the truth, my lord Cailech, I did not deliberately set foot on your path. You had me stolen from Morgravia.’
Hard, unreadable pale-green eyes held Wyl as he straightened. For a moment he worried that the man may see him for the impostor he was.
‘Why were you so far north, Romen?’ The voice was pleasant enough but the question was pointed. Cailech knew no other way.
Romen had warned Wyl not to trifle with this man. He gambled. ‘That’s a rather long story.’
‘Share it with me. I’m in no hurry and you are certainly going nowhere.’ Cailech glanced towards his men who then withdrew, although Wyl noted they remained in the chamber itself.
They sat. Wine was immediately served.
‘Hungry?’ his host asked.
Wyl shook his head, recalling how violently he had emptied himself earlier. ‘But I will gladly take wine with you, my lord.’ He slipped into a topic he was familiar with and which came naturally to him. He had seen the wine barrels, noticed the vine designs in his chamber and on various items — Wyl felt he could risk this conversation as a polite opener. ‘Has the harvest been generous?’
‘Bountiful last year and this year shaping up to be just as good. This is some of our finest from the plains of Racklaryon.’
Wyl flinched at the naming of this place. He looked over the rim of his goblet at the strong features which regarded him. His father had cautioned so many times about the threat from the north and how Morgravia should never underestimate its King. Wyl could appreciate that now, staring into the face set in an expression that seemed carved from the same granite as the mountains he called home.
Wyl sensed he must not show any further proof that the word disturbed him. ‘How old are you anyway, Cailech?’ he asked, falling back on Romen’s nonchalance which had saved Koreldy so many times.
‘Odd question,’ the man replied, showing a smile which Wyl noted touched his eyes and changed his demeanour into one of pure amusement. ‘I would hazard that you and I are around the same age.’
Wyl nodded, estimating much the same of thirty-five or so summers. ‘You have achieved so much for one still relatively young.’
Cailech snorted. ‘I don’t feel young.’
‘Tell me how it all came about … how you united the tribes.’
‘I thought we were discussing you. Anyway you would have heard it from others during your last stay, I’m sure.’
‘I’d like to hear it from you,’ Wyl said carefully.
‘Why?’
‘You said you were in no hurry and you have never told me much about yourself,’ Wyl gambled again, all but holding his breath.
Cailech sipped, watchful, obviously carefully considering Wyl’s question.
‘There really isn’t much to tell,’ the King finally said. ‘We were a rabble. A horde of scavengers who would just as soon fight over a neighbour’s goat than look to the bigger prey of neighbouring kingdoms and fight over something worth winning.’
‘Such as?’
‘Land, horses, wealth.’
‘Go on.’
‘We were never going to amount to anything more than vandals whose best success might be raiding another tribe’s region. I suppose I had a vision.’
‘How old were you when you had this vision?’
The King tapped his goblet in thought now. ‘I could see it clearly from childhood. As soon as I was considered old enough to wield weapons and join the raiding parties, I began preaching that vision. At every opportunity I’d beg my father, the leader of our tribe, to call talks. After a raid, whether we were successful or not, he would sit with his counterpart and they would discuss what I suppose could be called terms of war. It became infectious and my father and I would travel into different tribes as the mediators for such talks. As my voice deepened into a man’s, I think they began to pay more attention to me. For this, you see, was only the beginning of my vision. My plan was always to unite the tribes into one race, one leader, one aim.’ He realised he sounded like he was preaching the vision and shrugged suddenly. ‘All history. This fortress took almost two decades of my life to build.’
‘I was impressed all those years ago, your majesty. I’m even more astounded by its simple beauty now.’
‘Thank you,’ the King said. ‘And Racklaryon? How was your ride?’
This time he did not hesitate. ‘Painful.’
‘I expect it was,’ Cailech replied carefully, then switched topics as smoothly as his wine slipped down Wyl’s throat. ‘We are wondering why Morgravia would use you to spy on us.’
Wyl baulked and the surprise showed on his face. ‘I am not spying for Morgravia, your majesty. I would sooner join you in cutting its King’s throat.’
It was Cailech’s turn to be surprised. ‘Is that so?’
‘He has done me many wrongs. That’s why I was in the north.’
Cailech raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Well, Romen. It’s your turn. I shall have your story about this trip so close to our border.’
Wyl took a careful breath of relief. This was something he could speak about without fear of error.
After an opportunity to wash and neaten her appearance, Elspyth enjoyed a most acceptable meal of warm bread and a thinly sliced meat she did not recognise. As she finished off the light but nonetheless deliciously buttery wine, there was a knock at the door. She took a deep
breath and crossed the room, brushing crumbs from her clothes. She was pleased to see it was Lothryn who had come for her.
‘How is your wife?’ she asked before he said anything.
Lothryn’s expression did not change but she would never know how much her gentle mannered enquiry meant to him. ‘As well as can be expected. She began her pains before our arrival. She’s still going.’
Elspyth could sense the anxiety which he did his best to disguise. ‘Not long then before you can celebrate your son’s arrival,’ she said brightly.
‘Haldor willing,’ he replied softly, calling on the Mountain god.
‘Have I been summoned?’
‘Not yet. I thought you should see how barbaric we really are.’
She frowned, not sure what this meant.
‘Shall we take a walk?’ he offered.
This took her by surprise but she quickly rearranged her expression to a smile. ‘Oh, I’d like that.’ Elspyth was relieved his comments meant nothing more sinister.
He showed her through sections of the fortress and Elspyth admitted to being delighted by the beautiful decoration on the walls and ceilings, on the timbers and in their fabrics.
‘You are a most artistic people,’ she observed and meant it. ‘More talented than us Morgravians,’ she lamented.
‘Skills passed down through generations over centuries,’ he explained, not showing it but pleased by her compliment. Outside he guided her past the busy kitchens.
‘There’s a feast in the making,’ he added, which explained the frenetic activity.
They continued beyond the stables and into the orchards and vegetable gardens. These were vast and a small army of people were busy tending to them. Lothryn left her momentarily to pick some late apples. He returned munching on a red one and offered her a green one. ‘I don’t care for the green fruit. They give me bellyache,’ he grinned. Elspyth smiled and took the apple. They strolled in silence as they ate.
The Quickening Page 33
