The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Lothryn pressed the point, running his hand through his thick hair, the colour of wet sand. ‘They will brand us barbarians.’

  The King gave a bitter bark of a laugh. ‘Morgravians and Briavellians, you mean? They already do! I no longer care.’

  ‘And this will give them good reason to believe it, my lord. You belittle your people in this and still you will do it, won’t you, knowing they will blindly follow like sheep … as you do Rashlyn?’ He had well and truly overstepped his mark. Lothryn anticipated an explosion of wrath.

  Instead the gaze was as cold as a mountain spring in winter. Cailech’s words splintered like ice through the heat of Lothryn’s despair. ‘Leave me, Loth, before you say something else we’ll both regret. Fret not for our people’s reaction either. Rashlyn will doctor tonight’s wine and our people will feverishly celebrate with me.’

  Lothryn did not utter another word, did not trust himself to speak further to his sovereign, a man he loved fiercely. He would die for Cailech without hesitation but he had never been more horrified at a plan or more disappointed in his friend than at this moment. Something would have to be done about Rashlyn. Lothryn had never trusted the man’s intentions. Now Lothryn had good reason to wish the man of dark magics dead.

  ‘Make sure Koreldy and the girl are present at the feast tonight,’ the King’s voice carried to his turned back. Lothryn’s cheeks burned with his own anger as he heard the words and the threat couched within.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THEY GATHERED IN THE hall, a vast cave over which the fortress itself had been built and which gave it its name. This was the heart of the stronghold and right now it was in festive mood. Flaming torches lit the path down to the main arena where many dozens of trestle style tables had been set up. There was no central fireplace; instead several score of the clay ovens with their cunning flues burned small fires around the edge of the hall, keeping its guests warmed. Countless numbers of the exquisite lantern flower, peculiar to the north, had been cut and strung across the hall, high above the heads of the gathered. In the bell of each flower a tiny candle had been lit and the flames made the lanterns’ pink cups glow magnificently, scenting the air as they warmed and released their fragrant vapours. It was a truly beautiful and majestic setting. The more self-important southern realms had much to learn from these ‘barbarians’, Wyl mused yet again.

  The centre of the hall had been left vacant and right now it was filled with dancers performing a traditional reel. It was energetic and lighthearted; the music was loud, bouncing strongly off the walls and intensifying the atmosphere of the party. Dressed in brightly dyed garments, the dancers moved through their complex, fast-footed steps in time with the rhythmic beat of the great mountain drum attended by two burly tribe members.

  Cailech, seated on a dais, was resplendent in a charcoal-coloured outfit which set off his height and contrasted with his light, golden looks. He wore a linen shirt beneath his short jacket for tonight and a thin silver circlet replaced the leather thong around his head. In the elegant simplicity of his presentation he looked every inch a King. The gentleness of the lantern-light softened his angular features and permitted Wyl to glimpse an echo of the young idealist whom Romen had known previously. The King looked proud this evening and oozed the strength and charisma which made him such a persuasive leader. Cailech was in high spirits too, singing along with the music and loudly enjoying the festivity and happiness of his people.

  Wyl was seated at his right — as one might expect an honoured guest — yet he knew himself to be little more than the Mountain King’s prisoner. He noticed Elspyth, pale and quiet, further down on another table. She acknowledged his arrival with a nod but said nothing and hardly smiled. She was seated near Myrt. Lothryn was nowhere to be seen.

  The music died and the applause went wild, led by Cailech. A troupe of children filed in. They were to sing for their lord King and needed help arranging themselves so he could see all of their sweet faces. Wyl took the moment to enquire after Lothryn.

  ‘Ah. Sad it is. His wife died today birthing their child,’ Cailech whispered back, whilst still smiling for the children. Then he looked at Wyl. ‘It is a son, though — strong and proud — another warrior to wage war on the south.’ He grinned just for Wyl and there was something extra in that smile, something secretive, but Wyl had no intention of pursuing it. ‘I expect Lothryn will join us soon enough,’ the King added.

  ‘How can you sound so callous over his loss?’

  ‘No loss,’ Cailech replied abruptly. ‘They were a bad match, those two. Never suited and destined to be unhappy. I told him that before he took vows with her but she was with child and he was determined to be father to it. The child died days after birth, as did the next one. She never recovered her smile — going through life as though each day was a trial for her. Loth hoped this third child might bring some joy into her life — me too for she came from excellent stock. Her father and his father before him were tribal leaders.’

  ‘So her death is a blessing, you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Koreldy. He will feel it no doubt, for he loved her in his own way. Lothryn will recover. I must help him find a mother for the boy.’

  Wyl shook his head. ‘And you, Cailech. No woman has ever touched your heart?’

  Something passed across the King’s face at this question. For a moment the man’s eyes seemed to darken …and then it disappeared.

  ‘I don’t want Loth to miss tonight’s special event,’ was the King’s only response.

  Wyl left it. It made no difference to him whether Cailech’s heart ever warmed enough to love someone. ‘What special event?’

  ‘Hush, the children are ready,’ Cailech said, turning back to the arena.

  The youngsters sang sweetly — it was a moving ballad of the plight of the Mountain People from the early ages when tribe waged war on tribe. Wyl did not pay much attention although he noticed that Cailech was rapt with the words as well as the performance; the King clearly enjoyed the young members of his people. Instead Wyl turned his focus to what lay ahead for him and how he might argue his release. He had to win Cailech’s trust again and the only way to do that was to somehow assure him that they shared the same dislike for Morgravians. The children had finished their song and were taking their applause. Cailech was on his feet and clapping loudly.

  There was a feverish quality to the crowd’s festivity, Wyl sensed. It was Romen’s sharpness which picked this up, noted the glazed look in people’s eyes, the laughter so quick and too loud. He dismissed the query as the King sat down again and looked towards him.

  Wine was poured and a course of steamed fish was served as a group of musicians struck up.

  ‘I hope you’re up to a long night of feasting … two in fact,’ Cailech said. ‘It continues on tomorrow. These fish were caught in my rivers today. Enjoy.’

  Wyl figured it was best to go along with the King’s happy mood. After the fish, a delicious press of combined meats was served, their simple flavours enlivened with herbs and spices.

  Now he decided it was time to make his first attempt. ‘Are you satisfied that I am no spy for Celimus?’

  Cailech sipped his wine, again unperturbed by a sudden question. ‘Do you have more to tell which might convince me?’

  ‘There is no love lost between Celimus and myself … this I promise you on my own life.’

  ‘And yet you worked for him, joined his ugly schemes —’

  ‘Yes! For gold, Cailech — nothing more complicated than money.’ Wyl had to lower his voice for fear of attracting attention.

  Cailech said nothing, although his gaze made Wyl feel uncomfortable as the big man weighed him up.

  ‘What do you want?’ Wyl tried a new approach. ‘How can I prove that I have no loyalties to anyone but myself?’

  ‘Oh, I believe you have gripes against Celimus. We all do,’ he said. ‘But what about you and the Queen of Briavel?’

  ‘If I can destabilise Celimus
by helping her, I will,’ he answered.

  ‘Why bother at all, Romen, if money is what drives you these days?’

  ‘Getting even,’ he replied.

  ‘Why do you care?’

  Wyl sighed. ‘Celimus goes beyond craving power. I understand that. It is in a man’s nature to want more land, more wealth, more power.’ Cailech nodded but said nothing. Wyl continued. ‘If someone doesn’t help Valentyna, then Celimus will invade Briavel. The Legion is strong and she has no experience with battle. I may be a Grenadyne but after his betrayals I would hate for him to get another yard of land, another piece of gold to add to his coffers.’

  The King considered this before speaking. ‘It would be folly for Celimus to underestimate this new Queen, however inexperienced she may be. Sometimes all it takes is passion.’

  Wyl agreed with the sage comment, particularly recalling how stubborn and determined Valentyna appeared to him. If any young Queen could lead an army, he reckoned, she was most likely the one to do it. ‘Still,’ he countered, keen to take the conversation away from Valentyna, ‘if my service can assist her against Celimus, I give it gladly, although my prices are higher these days.’ He added the last deliberately to keep up the pretence that deep down he cared little for either realm.

  ‘So that’s where you’re headed, Koreldy? Back to Briavel? To offer your expensive blade at high cost to the young Queen?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wyl answered, hoping this was the response the Mountain King wanted. He noticed that someone had just signalled a message to Cailech. Romen’s ever alert eyes missed little.

  ‘I see. Then all of that stored hate for Morgravia will ensure you enjoy my surprise.’ The King gave Wyl no further opportunity for discussion. Instead he rose and banged his mug loudly on the table. ‘Good people,’ he hushed them. ‘My people,’ he emphasised in a more patrician manner. ‘I have a surprise for you tonight. To honour our dead … those who had their innocent lives taken by the southerners last moon, I have asked our kitchen to prepare a special dish in commemoration.’

  He paused dramatically. Wyl felt a twinge of fear knife through him, unsure why. Perhaps because he knew this King to be unpredictable.

  Cailech continued, his smile not touching his eyes this time. ‘Enjoy something very new and different on our menu tonight.’ He banged his mug again and encouraged his people to follow suit.

  They did. The mountain drum was sounded mournfully and the crowd fell in time with its beat. Wyl had no idea what was happening and nothing from Romen’s memory yielded what this ceremony may signify. He imagined it was to present the King with a fabulous dish — someone had mentioned swan was on the menu, which in Morgravia was served only for high-ranking dignitaries and royalty. Could it be that?

  The haunting mountain horn sounded over the drums.

  ‘Watch over there,’ Cailech whispered, a savage bleakness in his voice. ‘They come.’

  Wyl followed the King’s avid stare and encountered a sight so powerfully shocking he felt immediately unsteady. He immediately looked towards Elspyth, whose hands covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

  Wheeled in on special presentation tables were people, still alive, but prepared as though they were dead animals ready for the coals. There were five of them Wyl counted slowly; four men and a woman — all naked. The woman was spread eagled on the table, hands nailed to keep them in place, feet bound and with seasonings laid over her. All but one of the men were trussed like pigs, hands and feet together and hung from poles carried in by the burliest of barbarians. The final man, his head hung low, was chained around his neck, hands and feet. He shuffled behind, a pathetic figure, a sorrowful finale to this disturbing array.

  Wyl’s chest felt suddenly heavy; he could not drag in sufficient air to breathe easily. ‘Cailech?’ he croaked but the King ignored him.

  ‘Behold!’ Cailech yelled to his people. ‘Morgravian meat for your bellies!’

  The people, whom Wyl had admired as creators of such sophisticated beauty now began to chant and hurl abuse at the victims. He then took full measure of the atmosphere in the hall. If he did not know better he would assume that the people had been drugged. His attention was caught by a man in dark robes. Small eyes, black almost, they seemed to Wyl, watched the proceedings with a hunger. His hands were clasped before him and a wild beard hid the shape of his mouth, whilst equally untamed hair swirled about the face. The man’s eyes darted between the prisoners and Cailech. Wyl saw him nod and then heard the King give the order.

  ‘Oil them up!’ Cailech roared. ‘Fan the flames!’ He swallowed the contents of his mug, banging it down and wiping his mouth, his eyes now burning with a passion Wyl could not read. ‘Take them and wait for my signal,’ the King commanded. ‘All but the chained one. He remains. Tie him at the back of my hall so I can gloat before him.’

  Wyl searched for the strange, dark man but he was already gone. However, Wyl was sure he had been orchestrating events here tonight. Who is he? Why would Cailech do his bidding?

  The tables were wheeled out and the single man, whose long, greasy hair streaked with grey covered his grimy face, was pulled roughly by his chains to the wall where he was restrained as one might a dog.

  ‘Music!’ Cailech called and a happy jig started up. He turned and then conversationally said to Wyl, ‘Swan is next. It’s our specialty, you may recall, Romen.’ The King smiled grimly, seating himself again.

  People began to talk loudly and laugh with one another as though what had just occurred was a perfectly normal interlude to any mountain feast. But Wyl’s original curious thought — that these folk were drugged — took on high possibility for him. Just watching them dance the jig, it struck him that their energies were too frantic, too out of kilter with one another.

  Wyl, still unable to talk coherently, looked over to find Lothryn had finally joined Elspyth and Myrt. Obviously he had not missed the proceedings, for his face was a mask of undisguised contempt. Meanwhile, the shock of what she had just witnessed was etched on Elspyth’s face.

  Wyl cleared his throat, his nerves still betraying him. ‘Cailech,’ he said softly, ‘who are those people?’

  ‘Morgravians. You should be rejoicing with me rather than preparing to hurl up your fish.’

  Wyl had to clench his fists beneath the table to remain calm. Morgravians! The horror of it.

  He had to know more, forced his voice to be steady. ‘Soldiers?’

  Cailech nodded, chewing on bread. ‘The woman is their whore.’

  ‘How did you …’

  ‘Fergys Thirsk was always shoring up the border patrols and now Celimus takes the offensive, sending in parties of spies, perhaps with the intention of becoming raiding parties.’ He scoffed. ‘They think they know the mountains … they know nothing! The fools we captured were peasants, not even soldiers. We can infiltrate their borders in numbers any time I care to give the command.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘Perhaps. Who knows the whims of the barbarians who eat the flesh of their own kind,’ he said, loathing in his voice.

  Wyl knew Cailech was referring to the stories which surrounded the Mountain People. He had heard that same one himself … and believed it all those years ago. Now, being amongst them it was plainly obvious these were not the always-fornicating, cannibalistic, aggressive and essentially backward people such popular myth would have Morgravians believe.

  ‘Why are you doing this? To prove a point?’

  ‘Precisely!’ Cailech said low and angry. ‘Celimus has ordered the killing of any Mountain People on sight. He is not choosy about whether they are children either. They slaughtered a dozen innocents not so long ago. At least I restrict my capture to soldiers!’

  Wyl had not heard of this new law from Celimus but it rang true; nothing should really surprise him. ‘Cailech, most people in the southern, more populated regions of Morgravia would not even know what a Mountain Dweller looked like, or even that you personally exist,’ he tried to reason
.

  ‘Well, Morgravia’s King seems to be taking us seriously enough. I have lost almost a score of lives since he took the throne, too many of them children, Romen, who accidentally crossed an invisible line. Children!’ He was just short of shouting now and his people began to look up and wonder what might be making their King so anxious.

  Wyl moved quickly. He could not risk Cailech’s blood boiling up. Romen’s memories told him the man became unpredictably dangerous if his temper was stirred. ‘Hush, my lord. You will make your people anxious. This is a celebration, is it not?’

  The King gulped his wine, forced himself to remain silent as he calmed down.

  Wyl filled the pause amongst the swirling noise of the festivities. ‘Truly, you don’t mean to eat those folk.’

  The King remained silent.

  ‘Cailech, you said yourself these people are peasants, not soldiers! You cannot punish them thus — even in war there are protocols to be observed. It is Celimus who is guilty; these people are innocents!’ Wyl noticed there was pleading in his voice … and so did the King who turned his intimidating gaze upon him now.

  ‘And the people I lost were not?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘It is implied.’

  ‘I beg forgiveness. It was not my intent. Soldiers at least deserve an honourable death. The woman doesn’t deserve to lose her life at all.’

  ‘For a Grenadyne you seem very concerned about Morgravian lives.’

  ‘As I grow older, I am concerned for all life.’ A woman with a lovely voice began to sing a soft, haunting ballad and Wyl was relieved that it seemed to calm the listeners.

  ‘But I thought you killed without remorse, for money?’ Cailech asked, looking back towards the woman.

  ‘I don’t have to like it, though,’ Wyl replied, and at this the King finally smiled, genuinely amused. Wyl felt relief.