The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  How could he have guessed that even deeper treachery lay behind Celimus’s plotting? Not only had the King planned to win Valentyna’s hand in marriage by using the Thirsk name to gain an audience with King Valor, but he had ordered the deaths of Wyl and Valor by an assassin once the betrothal agreement had been made. More twisted yet was the dark mind of Celimus, who had contrived that the blame for King Valor’s death should fall on Wyl himself, relying on the skill of the assassin, Romen Koreldy, to kill Wyl and also on the sheer weight of numbers of the other treacherous mercenaries to then murder Koreldy. The Grenadyne knew too much; his life could not be spared.

  Celimus, however, had not reckoned on the integrity of the assassin, Koreldy. A blood pact made between Wyl Thirsk and Koreldy ensured that whichever of them survived a duel to the death would expose the King’s treachery. But little did any of them know an even darker menace lurked mysteriously within Wyl Thirsk himself; brutal and without loyalty to anything but itself. It was a gift from the Witch Myrren to Wyl for his kindness during her trial torture and it had waited patiently to wreak its havoc. When it had finally struck it was savage and shocking, forcing Wyl’s spirit out of his dying body, mortally wounded by Koreldy’s sword blow, and into Koreldy’s body instead, thereby claiming the mercenary’s life. And now Myrren’s gift had struck again and Wyl had lost Koreldy’s form and was forced to inhabit the body of the whore, Hildyth.

  Wyl surfaced from his troubled thoughts, realising that his mind was rambling over old ground. He could not change what had gone; he could only move forward now and work to protect his sister — the last of the Thirsks — and somehow thwart Celimus’s intention to control Briavel through marriage to Valentyna. But before he could do either, he had to find a means of bringing to an end this foul curse.

  The seer who had first identified the magic in Wyl had told him to seek answers from the manwitch, Myrren’s true father. And that was where Wyl had to turn his attention now — he must track down the manwitch and find the answer to the enchantment.

  In making the decision to let go of the past Wyl’s intense regret was knowing that Valentyna, whom he had loved from the moment she had first breezed in to his life when he was General Wyl Thirsk of the Morgravian Legion, had fallen in love with him as Romen Koreldy. His own feelings for her had only intensified during his time as Romen and he could never forgive himself for risking that love and allowing her to think that he had betrayed her when she had so relied on him.

  A headache was gathering. He must find out more about who he had now become before his pain and grief over his love for the Queen claimed him completely. Valentyna could never love him now, and his punishment was to love her from afar in this strange and female body. Wyl could not bring himself to look at his new body just yet, nor touch it. But he held no such reticence regarding the woman’s memories. What remained belonged to Wyl now. They were his to remember and use.

  He leaned back against a tree, exhausted, and delved. Wyl learned that he was not Hildyth the whore — that was simply a guise. He was Faryl of Coombe, a brilliant assassin, born in the midlands and familiar with places far away from Morgravia or Briavel… and riddled with secrets.

  ONE

  THE QUEEN HAD SUFFERED a sleepless night, churning over her decision to banish Romen Koreldy. Valentyna had measured the dark hours by listening to the muted noises of the guard changing before stillness claimed the night again… until the next time. The only other distraction was the distant howl of a dog — or was it a wolf? She wondered if it was caught in one of the traps laid by poachers; or, more whimsically, she decided it had lost its mate and was venting its despair. She understood such things, for the sorrowful cry served as an echo of her own loneliness.

  Valentyna asked herself the question yet again. Could she have kept the man she loved and still appeased an angry king? A king, she might add, with more than enough fighting power to overwhelm Briavel. The answer, whichever way she approached the problem, was no.

  ‘Damn duty!’ she murmured into her coverlets. She punched the feather pillow which brought no comfort this night.

  To add to her misery, a vision of Fynch haunted her. She would never forget the way he had looked at her. He too had grown to love Romen, despite his initial misgivings about the man. In that she and her young friend were alike, and they had shared so much in the short time they had known one another. But that closeness was shattered now. Fynch was avoiding her because she had deliberately distanced herself from Romen and ordered him to be expelled from Briavel. She had cast aside the man she loved over Celimus — a man they all hated. Even a child could see that her actions made no sense. And Fynch was no ordinary child; his serious, deep-thinking manner made him special. She did not want to lose his companionship but it seemed that the day just gone had dawned solely to bring loss to her life.

  King Celimus, she realised, kicking off her blankets with irritation, would probably be close to the border by now, possibly even crossing into Morgravia. Nevertheless she had no doubt his spies would keep him updated on events in Briavel and Koreldy’s banishment would feature prominently in their missives. It suddenly occurred to her that the King, on hearing this news, might have Romen tracked down. Surely Romen would be cautious? He had been warned not to set foot into Morgravia at risk of certain execution. Failing Romen’s good sense, she trusted that her own Commander Liryk would counsel him. Hopefully they had ridden through the night and would be headed north, back from where he had come. ‘Where Cailech, King of the Mountains, awaits him,’ she whispered sorrowfully.

  The last time Valentyna had wept passionately was on the death of her father; the time before that was a decade ago when she had fallen from a horse. She considered herself resilient but heavy tears finally overtook her as she realised the enormity of her command. Romen had nowhere to go. Briavel alone represented safety. Beyond its borders to the north and west, people wanted to kill him. The south offered the ocean and to the east lay only fear in the little-known Wild. Fynch knew it too. She had seen the accusation in that final chilling glance he had given her. It spoke of betrayed friendships.

  And he was right. What was Romen thinking during that sword fight! It was clear he had meant to kill Celimus, and where would that have left Briavel but in intense danger?

  He knew how precarious her position was. What had been his intention? She had not had a chance to consider it, in truth. She had not had the luxury of thinking it through but had been forced to react swiftly in the only way possible for a monarch in her situation. She knew her decision was political but this reassurance was cold comfort.

  Her heart ached. She loved Romen and she had sent him away. Briavel no longer recognised him as friend. Romen Koreldy would not be permitted to set so much as a toe inside its borders again. If recognised, he would be captured and imprisoned. Her actions had trapped him as surely as that wolf she had heard howling in the distance. Whichever way he turned, whichever borders he finally crossed, he was as doomed as their new and fragile love.

  Valentyna twisted beneath her remaining sheet, trying to escape thoughts of his touch which brought a new kind of ache to her body. She would have given herself gladly to him that night before the tourney, but his had been the voice of calm amongst the waves of passion. It was Romen who had pulled back, Romen who had made her understand the reason for holding onto the most precious commodity for a new Queen. Virginity was wealth, he had counselled. More importantly, it was power. A virgin Queen was an irresistible magnet for appropriate suitors. Except she wanted no husband… unless it was Koreldy.

  She rubbed her tired but stubborn eyes and sat up. This would not do. Pulling on a soft robe against the chill, Valentyna moved to the window and looked out towards the dark woodland she loved so much.

  ‘It might work,’ she murmured, as an idea gathered resonance in her thoughts. She could meet him somewhere outside of Briavel’s borders, somewhere safe where they could rendezvous in secret. If only she could feel his kiss just once mor
e it would be enough, she reasoned, hardly believing it herself. She would take Fynch too. Between them they would mend friendships, renew loyalties, rekindle the flame which had burned brightly between them all. She could apologise for making the hardest of decisions, and she knew Romen already understood — his eyes had told her so when they regarded her so gently despite her harsh words. She could ask him why he had risked so much. They could set things straight between them. Perhaps she could even find a way around the expulsion order, when time had passed and life was less precarious. Perhaps there was a chance for them one day.

  ‘Where are you now, Romen?’ the Queen of Briavel whispered towards the trees, longing to see her lover one last time, not knowing that at this very moment he was just a few miles from entering her own castle’s walls.

  Far sooner than she could have imagined, Valentyna would cast her eyes upon Koreldy once more; kiss him again as she had so desired.

  Liryk’s expression was grim; beneath it anger seethed. This should not have happened. The Queen had deliberately granted Koreldy the chance to make a new life elsewhere when she could so easily have commanded death. There was friendship between the two, possibly more if his intuition served him well. He could not blame her. Who could help but fall under Koreldy’s spell?

  The Briavellian Guard emerged from the cover of the woodland that surrounded the northern border of the palace grounds. Commander Liryk glanced to his left, where the corpse of the man he hardly knew but had comfortably called friend lay in a cart, wrapped in sacking. Combined sorrow and guilt threatened Liryk’s stern demeanour, forcing him to look back towards the castle.

  They had arrived at the famous Bridge of Werryl where past sovereigns, remembered faithfully in marble, stood proudly either side to guide visitors into the palace. He raised his hand towards the ramparts where he knew his guards had seen their fellow soldiers approaching through the light mist of dawn. The gate was up, he noticed. He grimaced; he would have to take a hard look at security again and ensure the castle remained closed to all visitors until permission was formally granted. After Valor’s sudden death everyone had been extra careful but recently he had noticed a general slackening of vigilance. With an assassin on the loose who knew what could happen. Their Queen must be better protected.

  In the courtyard he handed his horse’s reins to the stableboy and gave orders for Koreldy’s body to be taken to the chapel and laid out. Like his men, Liryk was tired. They had ridden through the night, determined to bring the body back as quickly as possible to ensure that gossip disappeared with the evidence. With no body, no sign that an assassination had occurred, the story would rage for a day and then hopefully be forgotten. The Forbidden Fruit’s women would be entertaining in that same chamber this very night, all sign of the recent bloodshed washed away. His mouth twisted at the thought. Poor Koreldy. He deserved better.

  Tired or not, the next hour would be the most difficult. Liryk suspected that no matter how he counselled her, their headstrong Queen would want to see this corpse for herself. He shook his head, resigned. Valentyna was an early riser. Best to see her immediately and get the ugly business done with.

  Liryk made his presence known to Krell, the Queen’s Chancellor and former servant to King Valor. He was a calm and solid force amongst Valentyna’s advisers and Liryk liked the man. He wondered if Krell ever slept, for the Chancellor always seemed to be available.

  ‘May I ask if it is urgent, Commander Liryk?’ Krell said, shifting papers around on his desk. ‘This is an irregular hour to be requesting an audience.’

  The soldier nodded. ‘Something unexpected. She must be told.’

  ‘Bad news?’ the Chancellor enquired. Liryk’s expression was enough to foreshadow this would not be a happy meeting.

  ‘It is, I’m afraid. Koreldy is dead.’

  The Queen’s servant looked up sharply from the orderly piles of paperwork which he dealt with daily for his monarch, sorting tasks into priorities and keeping Valentyna’s mind firmly on her duties. He understood that the woman needed space to still enjoy her youth and had single-handedly eased Valentyna into her challenging role as sovereign, allaying her fears, guiding her with informed skill, instinctively knowing what her father would have expected. In terms of administering the realm, he was a blessing to them all, a man who could rarely be ruffled. However, the expression on his normally well-guarded face was all shock at this moment. Liryk was convinced that Krell wanted to ask if he was quite sure but had checked himself.

  Liryk confirmed it anyway. ‘I’ve had him laid out in the chapel. I imagine the Queen will want to view the body.’

  ‘Indeed. She will not be persuaded otherwise,’ Krell replied. He walked around from behind his desk. ‘This is dark news, Commander. I’m sorry to hear it. In spite of the reason for his expulsion, Koreldy was a good man for Briavel and…’

  Liryk guessed that the Chancellor wanted to add that Koreldy was a good man for Valentyna as well; instead the Chancellor held his tongue and asked the Commander to wait while he sought an appointment with her majesty immediately. He left Liryk alone with his bleak thoughts and fatigue.

  When Liryk was shown into her study, he could see Valentyna had not slept well. Her eyes lacked their usual sparkle and dark smudges beneath made them appear hollow in the much too pale face. He wished once again he could escape this task and hoped Krell had forewarned her of the tidings.

  She was wearing a satin robe and had obviously come in a hurry straight from her chambers, not caring about her state of dress, but then Valentyna had never been one for vanity. He had known this fine young woman since she was newborn and she had always treated him as a kindly uncle — she still did, in fact. He noticed she managed to muster a smile for him, rising above the concerns that had troubled her slumber.

  ‘I am glad to have you back, Commander Liryk,’ she said formally. She crossed the room and took both his hands in her own, falling into her usual, less regal manner. ‘Now, ease my worry,’ she said. ‘Tell me it all went smoothly.’

  Liryk glanced towards Krell who was passing behind her majesty with some papers. The Chancellor shook his head slightly and Liryk felt the weight of his task settle like a stone in his throat. Krell was following protocol — he had left the bad news entirely for Liryk to deliver.

  Valentyna was searching his face, a confused smile on her lips now. ‘What is it? Krell tells me you have news which cannot wait. I presume you wish to report that Romen Koreldy was seen safely to a border. But which border? I must know,’ she said, her words coming out in a rush.

  Liryk’s eyes came back to rest sadly upon her own. ‘May we sit, your highness?’

  ‘Oh, of course, how remiss of me. You’ve obviously been riding through the night to be back here so fast.’ She gestured towards one of the comfy armchairs. ‘Please.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He sat slowly, taking every last moment he could before he had to share his tidings with this lovely young Queen. So much grief around her. He wished Krell had remained in the room, but knew the man had done the right thing once again and given them privacy.

  Valentyna sat in the chair opposite.

  ‘You look very pale, your highness.’ He blurted his thoughts aloud.

  She nodded. ‘You know me too well. I did sleep badly. I’ve anguished over yesterday’s decision, Liryk. It was the appropriate action to take for Morgravia’s King and the dutiful thing for Briavel. But oh, it was a poor decision for me personally. I miss Koreldy more than most would realise.’

  Liryk was shocked. He sensed the friendship had run deep but had no idea it had progressed so far and so quickly. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, risking her further confusion whilst he gathered up his anguished thoughts.

  ‘My apologies, sir. I should not burden you with affairs of my heart,’ Valentyna said to fill the awkward pause, sorry that she had spoken as she had.

  She noticed the sad expression on Liryk’s face when he opened his eyes and sat forward again. He
even took her hand, held it gently but firmly in his large, gnarled soldier’s hands. He sighed heavily and when he said, ‘Your majesty,’ as though his shoulders carried the very weight of the realm, her intuition told her she did not want to hear whatever it was he had to report. She had to bite her lip to prevent herself from begging him to say no more.

  He began to speak, his tone measured, his words carefully chosen. Valentyna looked at Liryk’s hands covering hers, trying to shut out the voice, concentrating on the gingery hair there which made her think of Wyl Thirsk of all people. Poor lovely Wyl Thirsk with his thatch of orange hair and freckles. She recalled the way he had blushed whenever her eyes glanced towards his, and that his smile, so hard to win, was bright and joyful when it came. He should never have died. He had fought courageously for a realm which was not even his own, in order to save the life of his enemy. She had liked him the instant they met; had felt a connection to him somehow, which was hard to shake. The young man entered her mind at the oddest of times to this day and there were moments — not that she would admit openly to it — when Fynch’s suggestion that Wyl Thirsk was still amongst them rang true with her.

  It was an odd situation. Normally she did not take to people so readily; she was wary of folk by nature and downright suspicious of strangers from Morgravia. But Wyl was not what she had expected. He was forthright and humble. Just a little in awe of her father, which she had appreciated because it showed respect — even between enemies. And her father had liked him and, more importantly, had trusted him. That much was obvious. She recalled how Romen had told her that Wyl had fallen desperately in love with her on that first meeting. How shocked she had been and, strange though it sounded, how flattered. There had been something special about Wyl Thirsk. Despite his lack of stature, about which she had gently poked fun at him, he had a strong presence… and there had been a chemistry of sorts between them. Valentyna recalled how he had not felt ashamed to weep in front of her and her father, or accept her comfort for the loss of his friend and fear for his sister. She had loved that about him.