The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Liryk’s voice spoke on. As though from a distance, she heard him talking about a place called the Forbidden Fruit. It sounded like no establishment she would ever visit and yet she would like to. She wished she could see such things, understand them better. Apparently Romen had gone with a woman there. She knew what this meant but she tried to ignore it. She wanted to believe that the bathing and smoothing had been an innocent activity to ease the tension of that strange and joyless day. But it was more than that — she could read as much in the way Liryk told of it.

  She heard the name Hildyth. A hateful name. She despised the woman, a stranger she had never met nor ever would. A whore. Romen’s whore.

  She imagined the stranger laughing with him, unself-conscious at being naked with this handsome man. The whore would feel his fingers on her body, his tongue, his lips… Valentyna tried to convince herself, as these visions raged, that Romen had used the whore because he could not have his true love, his Queen. His Queen had banished him, had marked him as no friend of hers, or of Briavel’s. He had to bury his grief somewhere and he had chosen to do so at the Forbidden Fruit, sheathing himself within a woman called Hildyth. Was this what Liryk was so hesitant to tell her — that Romen had spent the night with a paid woman, she thought bitterly.

  It seemed not. There was more to this tale. As he continued, her throat caught… and then began to close as though it meant to stop her breathing. Liryk was speaking of a knife, of a fingerless hand.

  She looked up suddenly, as though the picture he was describing had only now become clear. The Commander stopped speaking, disturbed by the change in her manner.

  ‘I… Liryk… I don’t understand.’ There was a tremor in her voice and she hated it. Hated it almost as much as she hated Hildyth for taking pleasure in Romen’s body when he was meant for a Queen.

  It broke every protocol but Liryk did not care — the Queen of Briavel, loved by all since a little girl, needed comfort. He moved to sit beside her and put his arm around his young sovereign, pulled her to his broad chest as a dear uncle might. She allowed him to because she was scared. She had heard the words but did not believe them. She would need him to say them again.

  He spoke in a near whisper this time, his lips close to her hair which smelled of fresh lavender. ‘Your highness,’ he said gently, ‘Romen Koreldy was murdered last night. We have nothing more than the whore’s description of a man she saw running down the hall. Understandably she was distraught, so the details are somewhat vague…’ He stopped, not sure of what else to say.

  As he pulled away the Queen’s gaze was locked on his face but her expression suggested her mind was far away. ‘Dead?’ she said, as though testing the word on her tongue. He nodded.

  Valentyna moved fast, leaping to her feet, grabbing her Commander’s shirt in her fists. ‘Romen’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, my Queen. He was murdered,’ Liryk answered as gently as he could.

  He was relieved when the door clicked softly open and Krell entered, carrying a mug of steaming liquid. Liryk caught a waft of dramona. It was a wise choice. The medicine was strong and would help with the shock.

  Valentyna became aware of Krell and his presence helped her to compose herself. She released her grip on Liryk and felt for the chair behind her to sit down again. She realised she was wringing her hands and clasped them firmly together until she had regained control of them. The Queen took a long, deep breath. She remained silent for a moment or two longer and then lifted her chin, fixing with a steady dark blue gaze the man whose news had just stuck a blade into her heart. There was some pleasing symmetry to that notion, she thought bitterly, for if her ears had heard correctly, a blade in the heart was the manner in which Romen had died.

  ‘Commander Liryk, you will tell me everything once again so I understand thoroughly the events which unfolded last night.’ The Queen’s words fell like ice crystals now. They matched the wintry expression which had frozen her lovely face. She was not to be argued with.

  And so for the third time that morning Liryk told his sad tale, this time sparing her no detail. He delivered his report in the detached military manner he knew best, devoid of emotion and embellishment.

  ‘It was only later that we discovered his ring finger had been removed,’ he concluded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A trophy perhaps, although I do believe, your highness, that this was an assassination. People who kill for money must provide proof of the death before they are paid in full. It is my belief that Koreldy was murdered by someone’s order.’

  ‘Whose order?’

  One name hung silently between them. Neither dared speak it. If they did it would become truth, and the repercussions should they act upon that truth were too daunting to contemplate.

  Instead Liryk chose a safer path. ‘We have no firm evidence as to who perpetrated this.’

  ‘Other than the blade,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, highness. Other than the weapon.’

  Krell took this moment to offer the Queen the mug of medicine. ‘Drink it all, your majesty,’ he whispered before taking his leave.

  Valentyna smelled the dramona, knew its intention and put it aside. They would not sedate her. ‘Did Koreldy say anything to you before he died?’

  The Commander nodded. ‘He told me that he did not kill your father. He wished you had given him a sign that you knew him to be innocent of all accusations levelled at him.’

  Valentyna’s newly calmed expression faltered at the words. She knew Liryk had not meant to drive a further wedge of pain into her. She expected him to be truthful, after all. What she did not suspect was that his honesty carried only to a certain point. Liryk had told Koreldy that he would not do anything to dissuade the Queen from marriage with Celimus, even though Koreldy had begged him to. He held his tongue now. For Briavel’s sake, the marriage should go ahead.

  Valentyna drew on every ounce of her courage to remain composed and not crumple. That would come later. Right now she had to learn everything she could about why Romen had died.

  ‘The whore…’

  ‘Hildyth?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, irritated to hear the name again. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She asked if she could leave after she had told us everything she could. She was very upset, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Did it not occur to you, Commander, that the whore might have been involved? She could have allowed the killer entry? Could even have killed Koreldy herself?’

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  ‘And?’

  She watched the colour rise in her chief of security. ‘She could not have killed Koreldy because he would have been too strong for her. You know what an artful fighter he was. As for her being involved — yes, it had occurred to me, but I decided she was innocent.’

  ‘Why?’

  There it was again — the hesitancy, a flush of red at the neck. ‘I have met her before, highness. She did not strike me either as violent or anything more than a young woman trying to make the best of her situation.’

  ‘I see,’ said Valentyna, understanding perfectly. Romen Koreldy was not the first of her acquaintances to lie with this woman. Clearly Liryk had intimate knowledge of Whore Hildyth. ‘I want soldiers sent immediately to bring this woman to the castle for questioning. Can I leave that with you?’

  Liryk nodded, embarrassed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where is Romen now?’ she asked, just managing to keep her voice steady as she said his name.

  ‘In the chapel, your highness.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander Liryk. I know you must be extremely tired. Please take your rest. We shall speak again when you are refreshed. I apologise for having kept you so long…’ and then her voice softened ‘…and for losing myself there for a few moments. It was a shock.’

  She watched Liryk’s relief at her words. Perhaps her cool detachment had unsettled him, although was this not the very quality a Queen must exhibit? She could not be prey to shrieking hysterics but
must control her own emotions and deal calmly with any situation.

  ‘I understand fully, your majesty. In truth, I don’t believe I have come to terms with it myself yet.’

  ‘He died as a result of a blade through the heart, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘Driven into his chest with expert precision. The killer knew what he was doing.’

  ‘So it would have been quick?’

  ‘Dead before Koreldy even realised he’d been struck,’ he assured her, although not quite believing it himself.

  She nodded that he may depart and he stood and bowed gladly, flooded with relief that his ugly task was done.

  TWO

  KNAVE KNEW. THE DOG had woken him in the night with a howl so sorrowful it hurt Fynch to hear it. They had been sleeping rough in the woods because Fynch could not bear to be in the castle after all that happened. Most of all, he could not face the Queen. She had done something so unexpected that he had been unable to disguise his feelings over her actions — not that he had any right to disapprove of someone so above him in status. They were friends, though. Friends did not cast each other aside. She needed Romen — why could she not see that?

  It was true that he too had been wary of Romen originally; how could he not be? It was Fynch who had overheard King Celimus plotting with Koreldy to assassinate Wyl Thirsk. But it was also Fynch who had noticed the curious attachment Wyl’s dog, Knave, had shown for Koreldy when they had tracked him back to Pearlis. Fynch had been shocked to see the mercenary with Ylena and to hear that he had brought Wyl’s corpse back to Stoneheart for the formal burial it was due. It was he alone who had worked out that something very strange had occurred, something magical.

  Fynch believed in magic and so did not suffer from the same wariness of it as most Morgravians, or dismiss it like the Briavellians. His suspicion that Wyl Thirsk was somehow still amongst them had been gradually confirmed: firstly by Knave’s affection for a stranger, and secondly by Koreldy’s uncharacteristic actions regarding Ylena and his desire to clear the Thirsk family name. Fynch’s intuition was rewarded when Koreldy had admitted to being Wyl Thirsk, and told him of the Quickening, the frightening phenomenon that had given him life and taken that of the real Romen Koreldy.

  But Wyl had forbidden Fynch from sharing this knowledge with Valentyna, which was why the Queen’s decision to banish Koreldy had been so painful for the boy. He loved Valentyna and wished he could tell her the truth outright, but he knew it would be in vain. How could anyone, especially one who could not conceive of sorcery, believe such a tale?

  He had hoped to see Romen before the guards escorted him from Werryl — that way he could have heard Wyl’s plans, however thin they may be. But it had not been permitted. Knave had wanted to follow Wyl’s trace, but Fynch had exerted his own authority for once and told his companion they should wait. They needed to plan their next move. The boy sensed that the dog would always find its master, and they could catch up with Wyl later. Now he needed time to ‘tidy his mind’, as he liked to think of it, to consider all options. So the woods had become their hiding place.

  Fynch had expected to spend a few days there, but outside events began to have their own crushing impact.

  No amount of shooshing or cajoling had quieted Knave’s howling during the night. It was a strange sound, filled with despair. The dog was closed to him, so he could not work out what was troubling him, and neither did Knave want to be touched or spoken to. So Fynch had tossed and turned all night, trying to shut out the terrible keening. He had finally fallen asleep, only to be roused again by the dog at first light. The boy sleepily obeyed the beast’s wish to be followed. Clearly Knave had an objective.

  They slipped into the castle grounds, waving to the guards and getting a familiar raised hand back. Knave was making for the main courtyard. The reason why became all too clear with the arrival of Commander Liryk and the Guard.

  The boy and the dog had watched the soldiers enter the bailey. Liryk looked grave and weary. They saw him hand the reins to the stableboy and heard him give an order to his men, although Fynch had not been able to make out the words.

  As Liryk left the courtyard and entered the castle, Fynch noticed that Knave was no longer at his side. Instead the dog was moaning by the cart which had rolled in after Liryk. He watched as the men struggled to lift something out of the cart, and felt a claw around his throat, squeezing tight and hard. Instinctively he knew they were carrying the corpse of Romen Koreldy. His heart felt as though it had cracked in two.

  Distraught, he followed the soldiers into the cool chapel with its exquisite carved whitestone and simple yet sophisticated structure whereby six slim, smooth pillars somehow held up the entire building. The ceiling was frescoed with mythic scenes depicting the glory of Briavel. But none of its beauty impacted on the silent handful who entered its glorious space this morning.

  Fynch felt relieved to be granted permission to be present. He stood, rigid with despair, next to the body, disturbed by its pallor. Romen had been browned from the sun; he should not be this ghostly. A guard, sensitive to the friendship which had existed between the dead man and this child, gently explained that a great deal of blood had drained from the body at the time of death which would account for its pale appearance. Fynch was not so sure he had needed to hear the reasoning, but he whispered his thanks all the same and was glad when the man stepped away.

  The soldiers, all known to him, murmured their sympathies. One even apologised for not keeping Romen safe. Fynch wanted to cry out that Koreldy could take care of himself, but he had obviously been duped then murdered. Instead he accepted their commiserations silently and, relieved, watched them gradually depart.

  He and Knave were alone at last with their friend and he felt it would be all right now if he cried. He reached out and smoothed back a few stray hairs from Romen’s face. Wyl had adopted Koreldy’s fastidiousness and would not like his hair to look so scruffy. Those who had dealt with the body in Crowyll had done their best, mercifully wiping away most traces of blood and putting him in a fresh shirt. Still, he was hardly tidy and he would hate to be seen so dishevelled. Fynch kissed his friend’s forehead before laying his own head on Romen’s cool chest and allowing his sorrow to echo through the chapel.

  The dog sniffed the body long and carefully. Presumably satisfied that his master no longer breathed, he lay at Fynch’s feet. Knave was patient. It was as though he understood that it was Fynch’s turn now to grieve.

  Valentyna felt her composure slip as she stepped quietly into the chapel, flanked by Krell and Liryk who had insisted on accompanying her. On seeing the child draped over the corpse, she felt the sickening lurch of a cry rushing into her throat. It was real; death was here. Krell’s guiding hand — a gentle, well-timed touch steering her down the short aisle — rescued her. She fought the grief back and was able once again to view the poignant scene before her.

  Fynch looked so small, so vulnerable. She desperately wanted to hold him in her arms, to cling to the living. Instead, as she silently drew up beside him, she risked taking his hand. She knew she chanced a rebuke, for who could blame a youngster for not keeping his emotions in check? She was relieved when he did not pull away from her touch but straightened and stepped back from the corpse to stand next to her. Valentyna looked down into the tear-stained face and was rewarded by a watery smile. It was enough.

  ‘We lost him,’ he whispered, his voice leaden with sorrow.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, now finally finding the courage to look fully upon the body of the man she had loved.

  Neither Krell nor Liryk stirred, and Fynch and Knave too stood like statues, whilst Valentyna stared at Romen, seeing nothing for the moment other than how handsome he was in such stillness.

  ‘May I?’ she asked, pointing tentatively towards his shirt.

  Liryk’s sad eyes blinked. He nodded gently, knowing what she wished to see.

  ‘He’s so pale,’ she whispered.

  ‘There
was a lot of blood lost,’ Fynch replied, his voice coming as though from far away.

  She felt herself lurch inwardly again as a picture of Romen’s body spewing forth its lifeblood swam into her mind. Undoing the shirt buttons she revealed his chest, no longer warm and filled with love for her. Valentyna needed to see the ugly wound where the blade had been expertly driven into his flesh to puncture his heart, all of its love draining out on to the floor of a brothel while a whore called Hildyth shrieked as she watched him die. Or had she killed him? The nagging thought would not leave her.

  Knowing looks passed between the two men as the Queen lingered over the corpse. ‘Your highness,’ Krell uttered, after clearing his throat lightly. ‘Do not torture yourself any further.’

  ‘But I must. I sent this man to his death.’

  ‘No, your highness!’ Liryk spoke up. ‘You gave him his life… and a chance to make a new one. King Celimus would surely have had him killed.’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ Fynch muttered to himself, but they all heard it.

  Valentyna tore her gaze from Romen and turned to Fynch. ‘Tell us what you think.’

  She and Liryk held their breath. If even the youngster was thinking it, then surely their unspoken yet shared conclusion could not be far off the mark.

  ‘Celimus wanted Romen dead. Now he is,’ Fynch said tonelessly.