The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Fynch believes, as I do, that he will take his soldiers and depart Briavel swiftly on the pretext of being summoned home on urgent matters or similar.’

  ‘And then he’ll simply propose marriage through his minions again?’ she said sarcastically but her defiance had disappeared. Wyl could tell she was warming to the idea, in spite of its thin premise.

  ‘That may well be but we will have bought ourselves more time to plan ahead. Right now we have a few days at best. Our aim is to deflect his proposal without you causing direct offence.’

  ‘You’re sure of this, Romen?’ she implored, chewing at her lip in consternation.

  ‘No,’ he said and laughed when she looked at him in shock. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. It was such a brief kiss but bold beyond belief. He was thrilled to realise that the courage came not from Romen Koreldy but was all Wyl Thirsk. And Valentyna did not flinch. ‘But I will kill him for you if you ask me to. He will not get near enough to you to intimidate. This is a state visit of pure diplomacy. Celimus will not risk it getting ugly. And neither will his advisors.’

  ‘Will he sense a ruse?’ she asked, doing her best to disguise the waver in her voice at the sensation of his kiss.

  ‘No, your majesty, for you will be bright and friendly, ever amicable and welcoming to this suitor. You will compliment him constantly and you will give him the very strong impression that you are overwhelmed by his looks, stature, wealth and pomp. His vanity is incalculable. Furthermore, he will not expect to lose, for he considers himself the finest swordsman in the land, now that Wyl Thirsk has been laid to rest.’

  ‘But you know better, is that right?’ she said, shaking her head in worry as well as amusement.

  His eyes sparked with mischief. ‘I know much better, majesty.’

  She could no longer act responsibly. His closeness, his charm and his confidence seduced her. When he spoke like this she felt safe … no longer alone. Romen would kill Celimus if she asked him to — not that she would but the notion was comforting. She dare not use the word love but this was the closest affection she had felt for any man bar her father.

  Without thinking on it for a second longer she leaned close and kissed him.

  Wyl could hardly believe it until he tasted her lips on his mouth. When she began to pull away from the fleeting, gentle kiss, his arm quickly encircled her, guiding her back so he could return her gesture and confirm that his own heart was incredibly vulnerable where she was concerned.

  She had meant the kiss as a thank you, knowing it was more than was required. But at Romen’s insistence it took on a more ardent nature, continuing until the crickets quietened their song and dusk had turned to dark.

  Love had spoken to her this night. The poisoned arrow has bitten, she thought to herself, recalling his earlier words, and Valentyna knew there would never be another man for her but this one she held close to her now.

  It was not just Fynch who noticed the change in Valentyna’s demeanour. Everyone from the maid who laid out her clothes to Commander Liryk saw that their Queen had a lightness to her step and a vague smile constantly threatening to break out. She appeared distracted, even flighty — dare they think it — even happy. Perhaps her mourning for her father had finally passed and she had decided it was time to lock away the grief and open herself up to life again, rediscovering the breezy optimism she had been known for.

  No one complained at this fresh manner in their Queen. It had a positive effect on everyone’s spirits and some even began to believe that it might be the imminent arrival of a suitor — a King, no less — which had brought about this change in their monarch. Marriage, peace, unified nations … it was a mix of possibilities which drove the Briavellians harder in their preparations for King Celimus.

  It was Fynch alone who worked it out. Without realising it, he absorbed every glance, every smile, every blink of Valentyna’s eyelashes … every minute movement when Romen was near. It took him only until noon the next day to understand what all of this information meant. Confirmation came from Wyl, whom he realised was showing all the same symptoms in the presence of Valentyna. So it is true. They have become lovers. Am I shocked? No. Was it so unexpected? Perhaps not, he decided. Valentyna is not aware of how striking she is — it was one of the reasons he liked her so much — and Wyl, now in the guise of Romen, is a dashing, irresistible man, he concluded. If I cannot help but like him, why not Valentyna? He felt more secure than he had in many moons now that his two closest friends were involved with each other. The neatness of it appealed to his tidy mind and to the child he still was.

  Fynch watched too as Romen won hearts very quickly all over the palace. He was always ready with a jest or a smile; he was not averse to helping with any chore that needed to be done to set up the tourney; he struck up friendships with everyone from his page to the cook. Most of all Fynch took comfort in the fact that Knave seemed to overwhelmingly approve of Wyl and Valentyna being together. Fynch could not articulate how he knew this, he simply sensed it. The dog appeared to be less watchful, more playful. He did not stare at Valentyna the way he so often had. Knave gave the impression he was relaxed — nothing more than a dog who was looking forward to the next romp in the woods.

  Fynch was not fooled, of course. Knave knew things, saw things, communicated things … he was sure of that now. Did Knave cause the visions? This he did not know nor could he guess at but he was pleased the headaches were gone for now. Wyl’s arrival had put a stop to them, he presumed.

  Wyl had been in Werryl now for three days, absorbed both by Valentyna and the bustle of preparations for the King’s visit. All of the palace staff including the Briavellian Guard which was now strong in numbers, had worked tirelessly. The palace sparkled and plans for the tourney were well advanced; many hands had certainly made light work of the preparations. It was not on the grand scale of Morgravia’s annual royal tournament but it was festive and would attract a large and excited crowd which was already pouring into the city’s many inns and taverns.

  Wyl, at the Queen’s direct behest, had taken charge of all the behind-the-scenes arrangements whilst Krell handled all formal communications. The only people who heard the name Koreldy were Valentyna’s close staff and the hardworking team below stairs. For the majority of those working or visiting the palace, the tall, dark-haired man was merely a professional organiser hired especially by the Queen, rarely seen in public and never referred to by name.

  The Morgravian escort had been on Briavellian soil for two days now, and it was anticipated the King would arrive in the late afternoon of the next day. ‘Just enough time for you to see him made comfortable in his suite and then wear him out with the banquet,’ Wyl thought aloud as he lay back on the grass.

  It was just the four of them. Fynch sat cross-legged, leaning against Knave, whilst Valentyna, back in her trousers again, sat near Koreldy. Near enough that the pulse between them was palpable, Fynch decided, knowing if he was not present they would most likely be sitting much closer, touching even.

  ‘You won’t be there, of course,’ Valentyna said, looking worried.

  ‘You can do this, your majesty. You know you can. It will be all protocol. We have ensured you are surrounded by many dignitaries. The singing, dancing and special events planned for the evening will make it pass quickly. I promise you he will not have the opportunity to press his case.’

  ‘And if he does?’ she said, determined to be gloomy.

  ‘I have taken precaution,’ he answered.

  ‘You’re being evasive.’

  ‘I’m being optimistic. You just concentrate on being irresistible and charming so he can have no complaint against the hospitality of the Queen of Briavel. Let me worry about everything else.’

  She sighed, looked towards Fynch.

  ‘And even you can’t be seen, I now realise.’

  Fynch stirred from his comfy position against Knave. ‘No, your majesty. We cannot run the risk that he or one of the Morgravians ma
y recognise me.’

  ‘Romen, how are you going to disguise yourself when you duel with him?’

  ‘All taken care of. Fret not.’

  She dragged a tuft of grass from its roots and threw it at him. ‘Ooh, you can be maddening. How are you so confident?’

  ‘Soldiers get like this before battle, your majesty,’ he said, grinning and dusting the grass from his chest. He desperately wanted to roll over, push her back and kiss her, but Fynch was present.

  As if on some silent signal, Knave suddenly nudged Fynch, barking and nipping at his heels.

  ‘Game time,’ Fynch said, shrugging. ‘He’s been feeling a bit ignored with all the activity of the last two days. I’ll just give him a run through the orchard. He likes to chase a lemon in the absence of a ball.’

  Fynch stood, glanced at Wyl who winked at him, and then ran off after an hysterically happy Knave.

  ‘What was that about?’ Valentyna queried, frowning.

  ‘He knows.’

  ‘About us? How can he?’

  Wyl nodded, sitting up. ‘He’s clever, remember. He’s giving us time alone.’

  ‘Him or Knave? The dog started it,’ she said playfully.

  He looked at her and saw behind her merriment; she was fighting against her intuition that Knave was much more than an ordinary hound. ‘Both, I suspect.’

  ‘Well, then, we should not waste the time they’ve given us. As it is I shall have to do without your lips on mine for the next two days.’

  As she laid her head against his chest Wyl remembered Fynch’s vision of her and Celimus. He buried his face in her thick, dark hair and pushed the vile thought from his mind.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  CELIMUS HAD NEVER FELT more sure of himself. Here he was, riding through Briavel, enemy territory, and he was being welcomed as a saviour.

  His dream of himself as the all-conquering emperor of the southern lands was beginning to seem as if it could become a reality. The journey through Morgravia had proved an unprecedented success. On Jessom’s suggestion, prior to setting out he had announced a significant reduction in taxes for the next four moons as part of his coronation festival. It had worked beautifully. The people had greeted him with smiles on their faces and food in their bellies. He had even tossed silver coins into the crowds of well-wishers who lined the road into Briavel and bade him bring back a Queen.

  At each stop, ale and free food had been made available to all who came to welcome their new King. The generosity was seductive. As Jessom rightly pointed out, people must view him as benevolent so that when the hard decisions needed to be made — when taxes needed to be raised — they would be less likely to revolt, understanding that their good King would not do this to them without reason.

  ‘You have captured their hearts, my King,’ Jessom flattered as they rode side by side on fine horses. ‘They adore you.’

  When Jessom was elevated to the new role of King’s Counsel, no one in any position of prestige could understand why Celimus had chosen an unknown outsider — someone so new to the palace — for the role.

  Celimus smiled. He too was impressed. This trip through the counties was inspired; he felt elated at the spectacle he imagined he must present to the commoners. Jessom had cautioned him against using that word, ‘commoners’, suggesting ‘subjects’, ‘civilians’, even ‘my people’ were far more endearing alternatives. Privately, Celimus considered them all peasants who should be grateful to have so magnificent a monarch to cringe before. He could tell they were excited at the prospect of their King marrying young and to the neighbouring realm’s Queen. It was the perfect match in their estimation, bringing unification and peace to the region at last.

  Pah! he thought, peace and unification be damned. Power alone is what this is about. Power and wealth. When I have Briavel cowed and under my control, I shall look north and deal with the hoodlum who dares to cross my borders and offer death threats to my soldiers.

  Celimus conveniently overlooked the fact that Cailech’s aggression had been entirely in retaliation for the execution of his own people, or the fact that Celimus himself had hoped that one Morgravian party in particular might be captured and killed.

  Cailech will eat his words. No, Cailech will eat humble pie before me, Celimus told himself. I shall see him trapped and cornered. I, Celimus, will be hailed Emperor.

  Celimus continued to amuse himself with notions of his grandeur and majesty all the way from the fertile plains of Morgravia to the lush meadows of Briavel. It only waned as he felt the first tension of being on enemy soil.

  ‘Do you think we brought enough reinforcement?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes, sire. Five score from the Legion is more than enough to make a firm statement of who is the greater power here. I gather in the last war Briavel lost thousands of her young men. Your father punished Valor the previous time they battled.’

  ‘My father was a soft touch — him and that other ageing idiot, Fergys Thirsk!’ The King hawked and spat. ‘Any other soldier worth their salt would have completely demoralised the enemy by inflicting a far greater death toll. As I understand it, Briavel was reeling, her throat exposed just waiting for Morgravia to rip it out … and still, still my father showed compassion.’ He made a sound of disgust. ‘The only good thing to come of that battle was the death of Thirsk, may Shar see his soul rot in hell.’

  Jessom, realising this was a sore subject, smoothed the King’s ruffled emotions with honeyed words. ‘Nevertheless, your majesty, they were humbled and have not recovered. They are in no position to threaten us. If anything, you are their future, their salvation … you will bring peace and prosperity to two lands which have known countless eruptions of war.’

  Celimus felt soothed by the encouraging words and noted with pleasure that the Briavellians were already gathering to greet him — it had occurred to him they may revolt but such a notion was unfounded. He saw nothing but smiling faces and cheering people. So Valor’s death had never been fully laid at his own feet then. People would have their suspicions, he knew this. But Valentyna’s advisors were obviously playing a clever game.

  Better yet, reports back from various messengers confirmed that the Queen of Briavel was not the plump, frumpy sort he remembered from childhood but a slender, gracious woman … some went so far as to describe her as a rare beauty. Romen was right, then. That at least would make the task of siring an heir on her less distasteful.

  Producing an heir, whose birthright would straddle both realms, was his paramount wish just now. It consumed him. If he was going to risk all out war with Cailech and the Mountain Dwellers, then he must secure the throne of Morgravia and better still, ensure it was irrevocably linked with Briavel. His son would rule both realms — there would be strength, wealth and men to call upon. There were moments when he almost wished his father were alive to hear of his grand plan so he could show the stupid old fool what a truly great King could achieve.

  ‘How much longer?’ he asked.

  ‘Riders have been sent ahead, majesty. The palace will already know your arrival is imminent. I would hazard a guess of two hours at most.’

  The King relaxed. Not long then. He would drink in the fine scenery, accept the well wishes from the crowd and arrive ready to greet his new bride with the appropriate amount of discretion and flattery.

  As if reading his thoughts, Jessom interrupted them. ‘There is a huge banquet planned for tonight, I’m told, sire.’

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, your majesty. Briavel is turning on its finest for you. It is a high compliment which you must accept and attend.’

  ‘I could use a long sleep after all this riding.’

  ‘I understand, sire. And you will certainly enjoy some rest, for sure. However, they wish to honour you with this.’

  ‘And the formal talks?’

  Jessom took a breath. He hoped the King would hold his temper. ‘After the tourney, sire,’ he replied evenly.

  Celimus turne
d in the saddle and glared at his advisor. ‘You jest?’

  ‘No, sire. I was only informed of it this morning. Queen Valentyna has heard of your prowess and wishes to highlight your skills with a tournament in your honour. In her letter she outlined how much the people of Briavel would feel privileged to witness your skills, and how fitting it would be for her lesser subjects to be able to see their Queen and her suitor together on such a social occasion.’ He hoped he had chosen the right words of appeasement, even though Valentyna had expressed nothing of the sort, other than to say that the tourney was being presented in his honour.

  Celimus no longer bristled. Predictably, he lifted his chin. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I should let them see what a lucky woman she is to have snared the attentions of the Morgravian King.’

  Jessom offered a conspiratorial chuckle. ‘Yes, my lord, and a chance to reinforce our prowess too, my King. War will seem an even more undesirable choice when they see how brilliantly our monarch fights. The Legion too will put on an exhibition.’

  ‘Yes, good. I should be told these things in advance, though, Jessom.’

  It was a gentle rebuke but a rebuke nonetheless. Jessom bowed his head. ‘As you wish, sire. I simply like to keep much of the frippery from you.’

  ‘And the marriage proposal?’

  ‘You are free of duties, as is her majesty, for that afternoon following the tourney. It would be an appropriate time to make her aware of your, er … shall we say, affections? Formal talks will occur late that afternoon. It is my intention we sign all papers and exchange seals before supper, your majesty.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Celimus said. ‘Well, carry on. I think I shall ride ahead alone now, Jessom.’

  ‘Of course, sire. Let them see your full majesty,’ he said, smiling benignly as the King cantered towards the front of the column, though the contrived brightness of that smile did not touch his eyes.

  Valentyna looked magnificent. Even Liryk, used to her natural beauty, took a deep breath on seeing how their Queen presented herself this afternoon. Her cheeks were flushed from her morning’s ride and matched the close-fitting dusky rose pink gown she had chosen to wear. The richness of the colour set off her smooth, polished skin and loosely clasped raven hair to perfection, whilst its softness of hue complemented the lightly rouged full lips and gentle smile she wore as she waited on the steps of the grand palace.