The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘You never fail to surprise me, Romen. It’s probably why I let you go on living.’

  ‘I am grateful for your indulgence, my lord,’ Wyl said gravely, lifting his cup to the King. ‘May I speak with the prisoner?’ He was relieved that Cailech had not answered his question about eating the prisoners. Perhaps it was all plain theatre — something to stir the blood of his people.

  ‘Go ahead. He’s tough that one. We’ve tried breaking him but his spirit is strong.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Cailech shrugged. ‘Who cares. Someone of rank by the way he spoke up on behalf of the others … and accepted their pain.’

  It was a cryptic statement. Wyl left it. ‘What is your plan for him?’ he asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.

  ‘Rashlyn suggests we cook him bit by bit. We’ll cut off his hands and feet first and slice off fresh bits of meat from his sorry carcass each day. And perhaps I can take a leaf from your book, Koreldy. I shall send his head — baked, of course — to Celimus, so he can no longer perpetrate a lie that we eat our enemies. He will know it as truth!’

  Wyl ignored the rhetoric. ‘Who is Rashlyn?’

  ‘My barshi. He advises, you could say.’

  The word barshi meant nothing to Wyl. He stored it away to check with Lothryn, though, and he had a very good idea whom the barshi was. ‘Was tonight his idea?’

  Cailech ignored him. Wyl had no doubt that Cailech was a ruthless ruler but he sensed he was too intelligent to lower himself to this horrific deed without being influenced in some way. Obviously this Rashlyn fellow wielded some power with the King. He turned away from the table, bowing to Cailech as a stuffed, roasted and artfully re-feathered swan was presented at the royal table to much applause. Trying to regain some composure as he left, Wyl paused by Lothryn to offer his condolences on the loss of his wife.

  The Mountain man only nodded before moving on to the matter at hand. ‘I’m sorry you bore witness to this dark deed tonight.’

  ‘You don’t agree obviously.’

  ‘I don’t believe the King is even speaking to me after I had my say about it.’

  Wyl nodded. ‘Was that man with the beard and long hair Rashlyn?’

  ‘Yes. He’s very dangerous.’

  ‘I gather this is his doing.’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Where’s Elspyth?’ Wyl asked noticing she was not present.

  ‘I think Cailech’s surprise was too much for her.’

  ‘His course of action is unwise,’ Wyl said, knowing Lothryn to be a reasonable man.

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you, but I have said all I can on the subject. He is determined to retaliate in this contemptuous manner. You know what Cailech is like. We have lost many lives recently and, in spite of anything I advise, he is immovable. He is also wrong, of course. This will simply provoke more killing of our own people but he is proud and he is hurting over the children who died. They killed them for sport, you know … Mountain Dwellers are less than animals in Morgravian eyes.’

  Wyl sighed. It seemed impossible that men under his command would perpetrate such horror. Except they aren’t under my command, he reminded himself. Madness reigns in the mountains and madness reigns in Morgravia — he could only imagine the handpicked officers in charge of the north. He looked towards the pathetic, chained figure squatting naked against the wall. Something was nagging at his mind; something he knew he should pay attention to but his thoughts were too fractured.

  ‘Would you keep an eye on Elspyth? She truly doesn’t deserve to be a part of all this.’

  Lothryn nodded, suddenly silent again and Wyl thanked him, walking now towards the Morgravian, whose head was hung between his knees. He was a tall man, Wyl could tell. Slim and hard-muscled, the man was clearly one who had trained hard. As he drew close, again Wyl felt the nudge against his mind. What is it? What are my thoughts trying to provoke?

  Now he could smell the grimy, unwashed soldier. It reminded him of how he had found Ylena and anger surged. He wondered how much punishment this man had taken upon himself to protect the others. Wyl made to bend down to talk with the man but a guard prevented him.

  ‘It’s all right, Borc,’ a voice came from behind. It was Lothryn.

  ‘Cailech’s leaving nothing to chance, then,’ Wyl said, a hard edge to his voice at being trailed by Lothryn.

  ‘He never does, Romen. You should know that.’

  Wyl nodded, his fury mingling with despair and a small surge of wisdom advising him against responding to that comment. He ignored the guard and squatted. The overpowering smell of the soldier almost made him stand up again but he reached out his hand and lifted the head to look into the ruined face of a man he knew all too well.

  ‘Gueryn!’

  ‘Is that you, my boy? Is it you, Wyl?’ the man croaked, clearly in some sort of stupor and blind because his eyelids had been sewn together.

  ‘You know him?’ Lothryn asked, surprise evident.

  Wyl had no ability to respond to either Lothryn or, more importantly, Gueryn. He had called him Wyl. He could not bear to see the state of his mentor — this brave man of Argorn — so loyal to Morgravia, so dedicated to the Thirsk family.

  ‘Wyl?’ the battered man asked again and then hung his head into its same cowed position.

  ‘He’s always asking for someone called Wyl. Must be his son,’ the guard commented. ‘Wish we’d got him too.’

  His malicious laugh was poorly timed. Wyl moved fast. In a blink the guard’s throat was beneath the large hands of Romen Koreldy and being crushed. The man’s flailing limbs managed to send one server’s tray of roast swan high into the air before it came crashing down onto the stone floor making quite a commotion. Wyl was grabbed from behind and a more powerful strength than he owned fortunately prevented him from doing any further damage.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Lothryn exclaimed, pinioning Wyl’s arms.

  It was too late. Cailech had leapt from the dais and arrived quickly at the scene. ‘By Haldor’s hairy arse! What happens here?’ he roared.

  The cavernous hall had become silent, save the sound of the serving woman moaning over her tray of swan meat which she diligently picked up from the ground. Lothryn suggested to her she move on.

  ‘Koreldy!’ Cailech yelled, forcing Wyl to look at him. ‘You would assault one of my men in my own fortress?’

  ‘I took offence at something he said, my lord,’ Wyl replied, his mind racing, knowing he would need a watertight reason for this latest act.

  ‘He knows the prisoner,’ Borc croaked.

  Cailech’s jaw was working furiously. ‘Out!’ he said and Wyl was manhandled by Lothryn, away from earshot of curious bystanders.

  They left Borc coughing and massaging his bruised throat.

  ‘Who is he?’ the King demanded.

  ‘His name is Gueryn le Gant,’ Wyl said, glad to be away from his old friend as he began to wield Romen’s inimitable skill at spinning a web of lies. ‘He is originally from Grenadyn. I grew up with him.’ Gueryn was only about ten years older than Koreldy, Wyl realised. He would have to be careful.

  ‘Then what in Haldor’s Name was he doing wearing Morgravian colours?’

  Wyl’s gaze flicked to Lothryn who stood expressionless behind his King. There would be no help from that quarter. He played for time instead. ‘I can’t answer that until I’ve spoken with him. I haven’t seen him in years,’ he lied.

  ‘Fetch him,’ Cailech said over his shoulder and Lothryn obeyed.

  Wyl realised that Romen’s normally easy smile failed him now. And Cailech knew it too as he took a threatening step forward.

  ‘If I find out you’re lying, Koreldy, it will be for the last time. You will suffer the same fate as your naked friend here.’

  Gueryn was dragged shivering before the King. Perhaps he anticipated more beatings, Wyl supposed, as the brighter torchlight showed up livid bruising over most of his body. Lothryn’s expression showed that he d
id not agree with his sovereign’s brutal taste for revenge. Wyl assumed the sewn eyelids was Rashlyn at work again.

  Wyl turned at a disturbance behind them: Elspyth was trying to break through the guards. When Cailech enquired with a single glance, Lothryn whispered something brief.

  ‘Allow it. She can help.’

  Elspyth was permitted to join them. She averted her gaze from the prisoner and glared at Cailech instead.

  ‘Ah, Elspyth. I did warn you tonight’s festivities may not be to your liking. Now you can assist us please. Would you address this wretch here and ask him a question on my behalf? It occurs to me he may respond to a woman’s voice — we should have thought of that before, Loth, eh?’ He grinned but his deputy did not respond.

  Elspyth turned and caught a strange expression on Romen’s face. There was pain there and she was not sure what he wanted from her in this moment.

  ‘Talk to him softly,’ Cailech guided. ‘Ask him who Romen Koreldy is?’ he added, looking slyly towards Wyl. There was both menace and warning in his glance.

  She looked towards the trembling man. It was not fear that made him shake. As far as she could tell he was sickening and little wonder looking at his battered body. Elspyth’s heart ached for this brave soldier who had obviously kept his secrets to himself. If he stood to his full height he would be a tall man and no doubt proud, she thought. Tears welled to see his eyelids so cruelly sewn shut. They had bled and the blood had crusted. Sores had erupted around the punctured skin. Death might be a kinder blow. She pushed that thought aside, realising the three men were watching her.

  ‘What is his name?’ she asked, turning to Wyl.

  Cailech did not permit Romen to answer, which she considered strange. They had seemed friendly enough an hour before — now suddenly there was a cloying tension between the pair.

  ‘His name is Gueryn,’ Lothryn answered, directing a ghost of a smile towards her from which she took courage.

  ‘Gueryn, can you hear me?’ she asked.

  Immediately Gueryn turned sightless eyes towards Elspyth. He nodded.

  Cailech’s expression turned into one of grim pleasure. At last, the man would reveal something … all it needed was a woman’s touch.

  ‘My name is Elspyth, Gueryn. I am Morgravian, from the town of Yentro.’

  A single tear oozed between the stitches of his lids as he recognised the lilt of her accent and Wyl’s heart broke. It was just too much for him to bear. ‘As one, Gueryn!’ He yelled the Thirsk family motto with all of his heart.

  He should have anticipated it but he was so intent on reaching Gueryn’s blurry mind that Cailech’s fist connected unimpeded with Romen’s fragile ribs, which fractured again under such direct pressure. Wyl doubled and then fell over on his knees, pain engulfing him in a haze of sharp, fragmented lights. He slumped in a corner, breathing with difficulty, desperately hoping nothing was punctured. He did notice that Gueryn stood just a little straighter, a fraction taller; his mouth had found that firm line he remembered seeing as a child when Gueryn was displeased with him. Screaming out the family motto had achieved something far more important than a smashed rib.

  It had happened so fast, Elspyth had not even the chance to scream.

  ‘Make a sound, young woman, and I will do the same to you,’ Cailech whispered.

  ‘It’s all you’re good for then, my lord,’ Elspyth rounded on him. ‘Hurting women. Torturing people. You had me fooled for a while but I see you are a barbarian in the truest sense of the word. You have no compassion, no empathy for your fellow man. Kill me if you must. I will not do your dirty work. I am Morgravian and proud of it. I will not bow to the Mountain race. I would sooner die than forsake my fellow countryman. Trust me when I say that I distrust my King but I love my people. I wish you and your tribe no harm but I will not allow you to torment me or my people any further. I will not join you in persecuting this man or humbling the mercenary. You can find out for yourself in your own barbaric way what you want to know.’

  Elspyth’s long speech took everyone by surprise, which was probably why she was allowed to have her full say. Her eyes blazed with passion and fury; her chest rose high with her heavy breathing. If Wyl had had the strength he would have cheered for Elspyth’s fiery monologue. He felt sure the King would strike her too after such high insult.

  Instead Cailech sneered. ‘Take all three to the dungeon, Loth. They can share the same fate over the roasting coals. We shall have to do it tomorrow. Frankly, I’ve lost my appetite for tonight.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  AN OBSERVER MIGHT BE forgiven for assuming that the King of the Mountains was alone, brooding by a fire he neither needed nor appreciated for its comfort or light. Beside him a cup of warmed wine stood untouched.

  Cailech was angry. In fact still angry from Lothryn questioning his actions prior to the feast. He loved Lothryn. He would never have a more loyal subject nor as close a friend. But it seemed they no longer shared the same vision. Lothryn was content with what had been achieved. Cailech knew his friend’s advice would be to just live life happily now and reign well. Look after the people. Flourish amongst the mountains of their homeland. He could almost hear Lothryn saying it.

  But Cailech wanted more. He was ambitious still. Although he was now in his fourth decade, none of the fire in his belly had dimmed. Without knowing they shared a similar dream, he and Celimus could imagine a sprawling empire beyond their own realm’s borders. Cailech’s would ideally have stretched from the north throughout the south of the continent spreading east and west to encompass the pompous Morgravians and the naive Briavellians, who paid scant attention to their northern border. Neither realm had ever been more vulnerable. Both had young heirs recently taken to their thrones. It was good sense that Celimus would make an offer of marriage to Valentyna and she would accept, binding their nations, combining their armies’ strengths.

  Rashlyn was right. If Cailech wanted to claim some of the fertile, easy-to-farm lands south of the Razors and if he wanted some of his people to migrate towards an easier lifestyle in a softer climate, then he must make his move swiftly. Do I want this? he asked himself. Do I really want our people to soften? If he was honest — which he was not on this occasion — then he would admit what he truly wanted was to humiliate and dominate the new King of Morgravia. Celimus was a menace to everyone’s peace and prosperity and Cailech knew that if this southern King got his way and married Valentyna then he would not be content until he had tamed the people of the far north. Celimus too was ambitious by all reports and not a coward. Inexperienced but certainly avaricious and of a mind to build his own empire; have his own son sit across not just the southern realms but perhaps the Mountain throne as well.

  Into his ruminations came Koreldy, who had made such a curiosity of himself, beseeching indulgence on behalf of the Morgravian prisoners. These were the people he could not give a fig about supposedly. And then the business of offering his services to Valentyna.

  ‘All very generous and righteous,’ the King muttered to himself. ‘But what are you hiding, Koreldy?’

  Cailech was convinced Koreldy was not telling him the truth. The man struck him as different. He granted many years had passed since they had seen each other but there were very real inconsistencies in this new Koreldy — not subtle at all. The old Romen was selfish to the point of distraction and tremendously self-assured. The death of his sister had exacted its toll but the character remained the same. The Romen he now met was far less arrogant. The swaggering personality was there but there was a hesitancy now, even a remoteness which Cailech could not fathom. Besides — and this was the greatest curiosity of all — Koreldy had not even challenged him to a game of agrolo and no amount of maturity would change that competitive streak between the two for this game of skill played on a board with stones for pieces. When they were younger men Cailech had taught Romen the game and he had embraced it with a fierce passion. It took high concentration and an inclination to take risks — only t
hose prepared to lose everything they wagered stood the true chance of winning.

  Romen was a man who liked to win at everything and he would not have forgotten their last encounter when Cailech had trounced him. Won his whole purse, damn it, even his lands back home in Grenadyn! Not that they were ever claimed.

  No, the King mused. Koreldy had either undergone some extraordinary change in character or they were dealing with an impostor. He had not realised he had voiced this thought aloud.

  ‘Not an impostor, my King,’ a voice spoke from the shadows. ‘I have searched him. This is Koreldy.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘How can it be otherwise? Are you suggesting a glamour?’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘No. A glamour requires immense skill, Cailech,’ the voice said, no longer quite so subservient. ‘Who do you imagine could wield such talent?’

  The King shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘An impossible one. There is only one other person I know who might possess such ability and he is dead.’

  ‘Elysius.’

  A dark shape melted out of the shadows now and Rashlyn’s face was lit from the glow of the fire. ‘Who else,’ he said with finality. ‘And you forget that I am as familiar with Koreldy as you.’

  ‘You never really knew him, though, did you?’

  ‘No. I observed him from a distance. I would know if this was not the same man in the flesh.’

  ‘Is it the same man, Rashlyn? I agree with you that I too would know him if he was outwardly different. There is something else, though. But I do not possess your sentience — I cannot determine it,’ he said, frustrated.

  ‘I sense nothing except that he will bring trouble, my King.’

  ‘He can do nothing. He is locked in my dungeon.’

  ‘And Lothryn, Cailech? Can you trust him?’

  Cailech looked at his barshi for the first time since they had spoken. It was a fierce glare and said much.

  ‘Forgive, my lord,’ the sorcerer said and bowed contritely to take his leave.