The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  It stretched his body into the perfect position.

  He felt her single warm palm touch his chest, not registering that it did not seem quite as oily as it should, and in truth he would later recall that he did not feel the cold tip of the blade when it first entered between his ribs in that sharp upward punching manner. He did, however, jerk and flail almost immediately as it then ascended on its killing journey. The barley pouch was flung off his eyes as the blade expertly and swiftly hit its mark his heart — puncturing it fatally.

  Wyl was strong but Hildyth was surprisingly strong too and she leaned her full weight against his prone, already weakening, dying body and looked deep into Romen’s wide, fear-filled silvery-grey eyes.

  ‘Hush, Romen. It is finally done,’ she cooed, demonically stroking his rapidly failing erection as he listened to her gentle words. ‘Let go now. Die quietly and bravely. The King of Morgravia bids you Shar’s speed.’

  The struggling had stopped, voice had left him, death was claiming him and he felt her kiss his lips as she pushed the knife harder and higher, severing tissue to be sure that Jessom’s contract was fulfilled.

  They were locked in a lovers’ silent embrace now — albeit a bloody one — as Wyl, dying, suddenly felt a terrifyingly familiar feeling. The surging sensation took over as his closed lids, accepting of death, suddenly flew open to reveal two ill-matched and alarmingly different eyes.

  Hildyth, as Romen did when this first occurred, was staring at him in shock. The convulsive pain was in her too and she had no idea of what was happening. She straightened taking a deep, agonising breath. Wyl did know what was occurring, although he could barely believe it himself … and he hated it.

  They both shared death but only one took life. Wyl felt his soul lifting, wrenching free. All that was him and Romen was torn from their body as he glimpsed the dark, angry soul of Hildyth, the assassin, crossing over in terror into the body of Romen Koreldy where it died.

  Wyl staggered back in Hildyth’s body now, dry retching and groaning. Tears streamed down his cheeks in disbelief.

  Again! It has happened again!

  He lay his burning face against the cold marble of the floor and sobbed … deep, dry heartwrenching sobs of intense grief as he curled himself into a small shape and released his pain.

  Later, when he could finally bring himself to, he looked over at the body of Romen Koreldy … him. His latest corpse. And then he looked down at himself, frightened and disoriented in the naked body of Hildyth the whore.

  No … not Hildyth, he realised.

  My name is Faryl and I am an assassin.

  He retched again.

  Finally, he had no idea of time passing, Wyl composed himself. He had to think and quickly. How long have I been in here with her? He looked towards the candles. Possibly two hours so far. Liryk would most likely give him up to four hours for this treat but perhaps only three. He looked at his hands — his female hands covered with Romen’s blood — and without thinking further jumped into the pool to cleanse himself of death.

  Dressed now in her gown, he faced Romen’s body. It looked sad and wretched, a vague look of surprise its final facial expression.

  He made his plan. It was thin, as usual, but it was all he had.

  Using Faryl’s knowledge he removed the wedged blade from Romen’s body and then, sickening though it was, sliced through the corpse’s ring finger and, wincing, pushed the blade back into the wound in the chest.

  He wrapped Romen’s finger in a small linen and hid it behind one of the largest candles, taking care to remember its precise location amongst the others. Then he threw the wine carafe onto the floor, ensuring the golden liquid spilled at the doorway and then wrenched open the door into the main corridor and began to scream. He was amazed at the high female sound which came out but he used it to full effect, for people came running from all ends of the brothel and with them ran Commander Liryk whom Wyl deliberately threw his woman’s body against.

  ‘He’s dead … murdered!’ Wyl cried.

  ‘What?’ Liryk exclaimed, unravelling himself from her arms and pushing past Hildyth into the room. He sagged against the wall, distraught at what he saw. ‘How?’ he croaked.

  Wyl began to weep hysterically. His own fragile state of mind helped him to be convincing as he broke down, speaking through sobs. Briavel’s soldiers quickly dispersed the few eager onlookers and closed the door so they could hear privately how such a tragedy had occurred. Through her cries, they pieced together that she had gone to fetch some more wine at her client’s behest and in the few minutes she was out of the chamber, someone had come in and killed Koreldy.

  ‘He had this on his eyes,’ she said reaching to pick up the pouch. ‘He would not have known it was not me coming back into the room.’

  ‘Did you see the killer?’

  ‘No, not really. I was gone only for a few moments but I did see a man running down the corridor. I thought it odd, of course, but I wasn’t really concentrating, I suppose.’

  Liryk put his arm around her. ‘Hildyth, you need to tell us everything you can remember.’

  ‘That’s it, Commander Liryk. I … I’m so sorry. I know he was your friend. I only saw the killer’s back. I dropped the wine. He was big and dark-haired but no more could I tell you. Poor Koreldy.’ Wyl knew the babbling was effective and real. He felt entirely rattled.

  ‘How was this fellow dressed? Anything distinctive?’

  ‘No, sir. Like any other civilian of Briavel … like any other patron of this place.’

  It was only then Liryk noticed the missing finger.

  ‘Shar’s Balls!’ he said to his men. ‘This was an assassination.’

  ‘How can you know?’ Wyl stammered.

  ‘Koreldy wore a distinctive ring on that finger — he told me once it belonged to his family. It will be proof of his death to whomever ordered it.’

  Hildyth began softly weeping again. ‘Do you need me any more, sir? I’m feeling very unwell.’

  ‘No, you go home, young lady. I’ll send one of my men to escort you back. Please don’t go anywhere, though, we may need you still.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Commander Liryk, don’t spare one of your men. Perhaps someone from here can take me home,’ he whispered, mind racing — he had no idea where home was. ‘You catch the killer.’ Wyl said, moving to take the old soldier’s hand. ‘I know you liked him, sir. I did too.’

  ‘That I did. I’m very sorry it has turned out this way for him.’

  Liryk turned to one of his soldiers and asked him to fetch someone to help the young woman home. He returned quickly with a kind woman called Remy who took charge of the weeping Hildyth.

  ‘Come on, love. I’ll get you back to your rooms,’ she said and led Wyl away.

  With Remy’s consoling chatter and guiding arm, Wyl stumbled in Hildyth’s unfamiliar body back to the two rooms in Crowyll amongst the densely populated area near the market. He thanked his companion, shutting the door as soon as it was polite, then he leaned back against it, sucking air in hard to steady his mind.

  Myrren’s gift was more generous than he had first imagined. So now he was no longer Romen but Faryl. A woman! He had to get away from this town. What to do first?

  Wyl steadied his mind as Gueryn had taught him to do from childhood. He calmed the raging swirl of his thoughts, which he imagined as thickening mists, until they were still. Then he centred and looked at the problem, his strategist’s mind attacking it objectively.

  Steal my weapons back, was his first decision, then, fetch my horse. Retrieve the finger. Leave Crowyll under cloak of darkness. Where to?

  Find the manwitch, came his own reply.

  Seek answers to the Quickening.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AS I HEAD OUT on this new adventure it would be remiss of me not to make mention of the contributions from so many who offer such valuable support.

  Robin Hobb, I must single out … again. Her encouragement and involvement in my w
riting career over the last couple of years has been precious. My draft readers, Gary Havelberg and Sonya Caddy, deserve special mention for their unswerving faith as well as the precision of their valued advice and suggestions. I rely on them hugely and treasure their input. And the community at my website’s bulletin board is soundly thanked for its constant enthusiasm.

  Sincere thanks to Nicola O’Shea, senior editor at HarperCollins, who makes the critical side of editing so painless for me and to a newcomer to my work, Kim Swivel, copy editor and self confessed hair-splitter who made such a difference. Also to the rest of the hugely supportive team at HarperCollins — especially Stephanie Smith, Robyn Fritchley, Sean Cotcher and his wonderful and dedicated sales team.

  Allow me a word of gratitude here to the booksellers of Australia and New Zealand — the more of you I meet, the more I realise how important your work at the coalface is. Thanks for the brilliant support these past couple of years.

  And for any who may not believe that a stature such as Fynch’s might exist, let me assure you it does by thanking ten-year-old Justin Klimentou, who allowed me to borrow his often unbelievably slight frame for my gong boy.

  Finally, heartfelt thanks and love to Ian, who keeps the circus of our home and business life rolling in the right direction while I disappear to different worlds, and to my sons, Will and Jack, for their boundless understanding and affection.

  PRAISE FOR FIONA MCINTOSH

  BETRAYAL

  ‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’

  Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘… leaves the reader anxiously waiting to know more … Strong and interesting characters and a story which keeps the reader guessing, Betrayal is an enjoyable and fast-paced read, full of magic and destruction – who could ask for more?’

  Northern Argus

  REVENGE

  ‘as good as Sara Douglass’

  Good Reading

  ‘an exciting and inventive battle between the gods of good and evil’

  Adelaide Advertiser

  DESTINY

  ‘Slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best … Destiny ends the Trinity series … with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power.’

  Altair

  Dedication

  In blood and in memory of my own…

  for William Richards

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  WYL SLID OFF THE saddle on to unsteady feet. Too flustered to tether the horse, he trusted it to remain where he left it as he stumbled deeper into the copse and retched. The sickening need to be rid of the curse, to rip the sorcery free from its sinister grip, seemed to last an eternity. At the rim of his tortured mind Wyl acknowledged that this cold moonlit night was too beautiful for death … once again.

  He believed he could taste the taint of the magic which had claimed his body hours earlier. Wyl did not want to remember it, but it was so fresh, so horrific in his mind, that he could not expel it. Commander Liryk of Briavel had smiled when the man called Romen Koreldy, newly banished from the realm, had suggested the Forbidden Fruit for their overnight stay before leaving for whichever border he chose. Liryk had understood that the mercenary wanted to drown his sorrows in the soft and welcoming embrace of a whore in the region’s well-known brothel. And he had smiled even wider when Romen had accepted the offer of the woman Hildyth. The commander had enjoyed her on a previous occasion and knew there would be no better place for his grieving companion to lose himself for a few hours.

  Wyl Thirsk, trapped in Koreldy’s body, had felt the same… until the whore buried a stiletto deep in his heart, in an attempt to take his life. Except she did not. Romen’s body released its trapped guest so it could travel into the assassin’s and claim her life instead.

  It was not a new experience for Wyl. He had felt that same wrenching sense of despair once before, and even now could hardly believe it had happened again. He was dry-retching now; knew he must force himself to stop. He looked at his hands — his smooth woman’s hands — gripping the tree he leaned against and angrily rubbed them on the rough bark to force himself to accept that he was living, not dreaming this nightmare.

  Don’t think about who you’ve become. Remember who you are, he reminded himself. Remember who you are!

  ‘I am Wyl Thirsk, son of Fergys Thirsk of Argorn,’ he croaked with his new and strange voice. He hated its feminine pitch. ‘I am Wyl Thirsk, General of the Morgravian Legion.’

  ‘I am alive,’ he said, his voice becoming stronger and steadier, his mind accepting, his spirit resolute.

  He repeated his mantra until the nausea finally subsided and his cramping muscles stopped answering the call to expel the enchantment. It was not possible anyway, he knew. Myrren’s gift was his to keep, unless he could find a way to stop it.

  Wyl Thirsk raised his head to the starry skies and screamed his despair. It was a cry without hope. He knew all too well that no shaking of fists nor howling to the heavens could bring to an end the dark enchantment which doomed him to cheat death. Whoever might try to take his life, the curse that was Myrren’s gift would ensure that he claimed their life instead. Wyl did not know if it would ever end, only that he could not rest until he had found the key to unlock the mystery.

  A wave of sadness crashed over him as he remembered Romen Koreldy, his first victim. Now Romen’s body was dead too. Wyl felt gutted to have lost the comfort of that vessel which had welcomed him, sheathed him, given him succour and life. At first so strange, it had become familiar — Romen’s essence had lived on with Wyl whilst Wyl’s true body was mortifying in a tomb. The two of them had become one… and now perhaps they must consider themselves three with this woman who embodied them. She was their shield; they were her secret.

  Wyl limped to the narrow brook nearby. The water glinted in the silvery light and he threw himself down at its edge and cleansed his mouth of the taint. Lying there, he succumbed to tears; deep heartfelt sobs that shuddered through his new, womanly body. But the grief belonged only to Wyl Thirsk.

  I live, he told himself again, fumbling in his pockets for the piece of linen that held the key to his life for the time being. Wrapped within it lay the bloodied ring finger of Romen Koreldy of Grenadyn, noble, mercenary and the lover of Queen Valentyna of Briavel. Wyl had retrieved it from the chamber at the Forbidden Fruit … and now he would use it. Wyl calmed his thoughts, drawing on his skills as a strategist to think through what he must do. He would send Koreldy’s finger to Celimus, the treach
erous King of Morgravia, to convince him that Romen Koreldy was dead and confirm that the mysterious assassin had succeeded where others had failed. And in doing so, he would allow Morgravia’s sovereign, the betrayer, to live within a false cocoon of safety.

  Wyl knew that the neighbouring realm of Briavel was Celimus’s main concern now, and his plans to wed its Queen, Valentyna, would be occupying his time. In his disguise as Romen, Wyl had aided Valentyna to hinder those marriage plans through diplomatic strategy, but Wyl knew she could not do so with ease again. He understood all too well what a tightrope of politics she was treading. Her own nobles and counsellors were pressing for the marriage and the peace and prosperity it would bring to Briavel. In fact, both realms were clamouring for a royal wedding, captivated by the romantic notion that the joining of their sovereigns would create harmony, and possibly an heir who would once and for all unite the realms.

  It made perfect political and strategic sense. When Celimus had first broached the subject with him, Wyl could hardly believe the far-sighted plan this young king had devised to force the two warring realms to set aside their history of hate once and for all. He had even agreed to help shape such a union, until his inner sense warned him that Celimus’s intentions were not as straightforward as they at first seemed. His decision not to support the King’s wishes led to the slaughter of his best friend, Alyd Donal, and the imprisonment and degradation of his own sister, Ylena. It was with the knowledge that Ylena’s life lay in his hands that Wyl had agreed to travel into Briavel, escorted by a band of mercenaries, to win its princess for the King of Morgravia.