The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  The dog returned. It carried something in its mouth but it was no creature. Knave dropped it into Fynch’s lap. It looked like a ragged thong until Fynch realised it was the bracelet Romen used to wear.

  ‘It’s a sign, Knave! He must have hidden here on the night he became Hildyth. Wyl left this deliberately, I’m sure. Perhaps he hoped you would find it, you clever dog.’

  He scratched Knave’s ears and hugged the animal close. ‘We’re going to Baelup,’ Fynch whispered to his friend. ‘I shall need a horse. Valentyna’s purse will be put to good use.’

  Wyl had collected a tiny stash of coins from a hiding spot in Crowyll, the whereabouts of which Faryl’s memory had released. She had similar hides located across both realms, he realised, so she could access money relatively swiftly. This was very little here — he would need more, much more. He took the time to write down the locations, in case Faryl’s essence and memories faded. He learned that her mind was tidy and her ways thorough. He was impressed.

  If you must be a woman, then be glad it’s this one, he reminded himself constantly.

  Faryl was not just good at her chosen work, he discovered, she was the very best. Her kills shocked him. Highly placed and influential people from so many different cities, and even realms across the ocean, had drawn their last breath as a result of her actions. She felt nothing for her victims; Faryl was cold. More than that… she was bitter. Why? This he could not tease out from where it was buried deep. It was connected with her family, he sensed, but no more would come through. Wyl left it. It might surface, as so many vague recollections of Romen’s had.

  Wyl was riding towards Morgravia, destination Baelup. It was a start. He knew that Myrren’s mother had left that town almost immediately after her family’s traumatic deaths. Lymbert had reluctantly given him details of where they had found Myrren, and Wyl had travelled to Baelup to collect the dog, Knave, as he had promised the girl. He had met the mother only briefly — they had not even swapped names. He had tried to explain that he was from Pearlis, a member of the Legion, but she had hardly paid him any attention. She was almost out of her wits, packing her belongings frantically.

  He had told her that he had promised Myrren he would pick up her pup, which the mother had been glad to hand over without further questions. Where she had gone after that he could not guess, but it was the only lead he had.

  Drawing on Faryl’s good sense he had donned a disguise. It definitely felt more comfortable to be travelling as a man and helped somewhat to ease the despair of the last couple of evenings. Until this moment, it was all he could ask of himself not to grab his blade and open his wrists.

  That bleak thought had been well and truly scrutinised the night before. He had come close, too. It had seemed the only answer when every demon came to haunt him as he slept rough beneath a hidden moon. He hated being a woman, despised the very sight of the body that had not so long ago stirred him to thoughts of lust when it belonged to Hildyth. The thought of being trapped in that body forever convinced him there was no point trying to live on.

  Somehow he had talked himself through the urge to draw blood and allow it to leak away quickly and strongly. Thoughts of Valentyna swirled in his mind and he could not do it. Valentyna, Ylena, Fynch, even Elspyth — they all needed him to stay alive.

  Remembering Elspyth inevitably led him to think on Lothryn. Wyl had given Elspyth a promise, one he knew he could not break, that he would go back to find out Lothryn’s fate. At the back of his mind too was the thought that he must recover Gueryn’s body and bring it home to Argorn.

  Argorn! His eyes watered as he remembered his father. No, he could not kill himself. The Thirsks were a proud line and he was its last son, even if the world no longer recognised him as such. He must fight on and expose the root of all this evil: Celimus.

  And so Wyl now found himself on a lonely, dusty road, a man in a woman’s body, dressed plainly as a man and carrying weapons. No one who glimpsed those would mistake him for a vulnerable lone traveller. He displayed them deliberately in order that any thief who may consider tackling him would think twice at the sight of the sword. His blades were once again close to his chest, lying uncomfortably against the breasts he had bound tightly to flatten. He had not been tempted to look at himself in the mirror amongst Faryl’s belongings. It was too much for his mind to bear right now. He preferred the discomfort of the bindings to the disarming weight and swell of his breasts when they moved freely.

  He had been tempted to hack off her hair, but had resisted, reasoning that he may well be grateful for the female disguise Faryl offered. Instead he pushed it under a wig — made by a master craftsman, he could tell — and pulled a cap down over it. He also wore a false beard, again of such quality that he knew the pieces had been purchased at high cost from craftsmen who asked no questions and accepted only gold. The beard was his greatest comfort, together with the artful hair glued to the back of his hands. In this guise, he could convince himself he was a man again.

  Wyl estimated he was now a day from the Morgravian border and a couple of days’ ride then to Baelup. The trail he was hoping to pick up was almost a decade cold and, although he had no choice but to try, he doubted he would find the scent of Myrren’s mother. The thought reminded him of Knave. He hoped the dog had sensed his death; it seemed to know when he was in trouble. If so, then perhaps Knave had already led Fynch to Crowyll and tracked down the bracelet. It would resonate in Fynch’s sharp brain and set the lad thinking. Wyl felt confident his young friend would work it out and then come looking for him. He would like both of them close by when and if he finally found the manwitch.

  He refused to allow himself to think on Valentyna beyond wondering whether she would know by now. Of course she would. Would she be grieving? He hoped so, but then again perhaps she would see it as a fitting end to a flawed relationship. He could not forget the grief in her eyes, well-masked but evident to him. The accusation of treachery was clear in that pained glance. Her public accusation of his treachery was almost more than he could bear, but borne it he had, for he loved her more than he had ever loved anyone or any thing, including himself. He would gladly die for her. Wished that he could do so now — leave this wretched existence and save her the agony of Celimus. But he could not be sure of saving himself or Valentyna. All he could do was grit his teeth and go on, holding onto hope.

  Wyl spurred his horse into a gallop. There was no time to waste in sorrowful musings.

  SIX

  ENTERING GRIMBLE TOWN WYL knew he could not stand the tight bindings around his chest for much longer. The temptation to spend the night at one of the two inns got the better of him. He quickly found stabling for his horse. The stablemaster hardly looked twice at him as he promised sweet water and fresh hay for the mare. Wyl reminded himself to stop being quite so self-conscious.

  ‘Which inn do you recommend, Master Paul?’ Wyl asked, adding some extra coin to the amount required. It was an old habit, one Gueryn had drummed into him from an early age. Pay well for whoever looks after your horse. His care might save your life one day, his mentor used to say.

  Wyl extended the creed to all areas of his life. A few extra coins, especially silver, in someone’s palm often made that person unwittingly his through the subtle bond of generosity. Thinking of Gueryn brought a wave of sadness which he blinked back fiercely.

  The stablemaster replied, ‘Well, the Four Feathers be as good an inn as you’ll find in these parts. The ale is watered only lightly and Kidger’s wife does an honest stew.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Wyl said. ‘I’ll see you on the morrow.’

  ‘That you will, sir,’ Master Paul said, already bending towards the buckets of water to wash the horse. Wyl smiled. Gueryn had been right. His horse would be fresh for tomorrow’s long ride having been rubbed down properly and well fed.

  He strolled into the town proper as late afternoon settled upon it with the stillness that often comes as the sun lowers. At this time of year, once the sun ha
d dipped low in the sky the temperature plummeted and the evenings became crisp. Wyl could feel it chilling as he cast a glance about Grimble Town’s main square. It was a neat, sleepy place, known mostly for its orchards which yielded Morgravia’s tastiest almonds and prized cherries. Come early summer the town swelled as transient workers flooded in to help with the harvest. It was also handily positioned not far from one of the main routes into Pearlis so it enjoyed valuable seasonal trade from merchants.

  Right now it was quiet, which suited Wyl. He made his way towards the Four Feathers and was relieved when Kidger paid no special notice to the bearded stranger asking for a room. Faryl had a skill in pitching her voice low enough to be acceptably manly, so it drew no attention. He understood from her memory this had taken years of practice and silently thanked her for her diligence.

  Wyl paid in advance for a night’s lodging and meals. Hearty smells wafted through from the kitchen and he suddenly realised how hungry he was. ‘That smells good. What’s on tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘The missus has got some lamb stew simmering or there’s chickens on the spit.’

  Both sounded delicious. ‘I’ll have stew.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Kidger replied. ‘The girls will be serving from dusk.’

  Wyl nodded and gratefully made his way to his room. He sank on to the bed with such pleasure it might have been down-filled and covered with fine linen rather than worn sheets over a horsehair mattress. Nevertheless the bed and the room were clean and a pleasant draught of air came from the open window. He had meant to undress straightaway. Instead he dozed off, the bindings forgotten as sleep claimed him. A loud clatter of pans beneath his window woke him abruptly less than an hour later and the pain across his chest reminded him the bindings were still in place. He ordered a bath to be brought up and filled.

  ‘The bathhouse in town is very reasonable, sir,’ said the somewhat sullen girl who took his request.

  Wyl realised she did not fancy hauling up a tub or the water. He grinned through the beard, hoping it looked friendly. ‘I know, but I don’t feel like leaving my room. Here.’ He handed her two crowns, an exorbitant sum in her small world.

  ‘Oh, sir! I…’

  ‘Please. And bring my water quickly.’

  She grinned, tucking the money beneath her blouse. ‘At once, sir.’

  Impressive, Wyl thought. If he ever allowed himself to be seen as Faryl, he must remember that trick.

  True to the girl’s word, hot water was soon steaming in the tub and she sent up soap as well as scented oil. He thanked the two lads who had dragged up the pails and the tub. Obviously the serving girl had coin enough now to pay for lackeys.

  When the door closed and he was finally alone, Wyl stripped down. He struggled to untie the lengths of torn sheeting which held his breasts flat, and when they eventually loosened he sighed with relief at the wondrous sensation of being free again. He refused to look down at himself. Instead, he poured a few drops of the musky oil into the tub to soften the water, then, after checking the latch was firmly on the door once again, he climbed in, immersing his body as much as he could, averting his eyes from the smoothly muscled yet clearly feminine legs which bent at well-shaped knees.

  Wyl had thought to have a flask of wine sent up as well and he sampled it now, glad he had paid that little bit extra to Kidger, for the first swallow told him it was of an acceptable quality. He closed his eyes, blanked his mind and focused on nothing but the soothing sensation of the water warming his tired, unfamiliar body. He soaked the beard and eyebrows then pulled them away from his face, the glue dissolving as Faryl’s memory had told him it would. Wyl placed them on a nearby chair next to the wig; these were valuable possessions to him now.

  Unpinning his hair he let it fall loose, marvelling at its heaviness as it dropped, its ends curling into the water. Wyl ran his hands through it to push it off his face. Gone was his own coarse red hair; gone was Romen’s smoothly combed plait. Instead he boasted these lustrous locks of a curious darkly golden hue. He touched them, unable to resist, and was rewarded by the feel of their soft texture. He remembered the sensation of Faryl’s hair against his body when she bent over him, seemingly to begin his smoothing; in reality, to end his life with the punching of the blade into his heart. Wyl shuddered from the memory of that powerful and shocking sensation, and then the equally terrifying tearing away from Romen’s body as his spirit moved into his killer’s flesh.

  His eyes remained fixed on the wall opposite, where a small dresser stood. He knew that on the other side of the chamber was a table with a mirror, which he had ignored and intended to go on ignoring. He had no desire to see himself as a woman. Feeling his hair with wonder was as close as he wanted to get to knowing this strange new body.

  Again he closed his eyes and his thoughts roamed to Myrren’s mother and the knowledge that she had betrayed her husband. Had Myrren’s father known he was raising another man’s child? That question led him to consider Lothryn’s sadness at giving up his newborn son to Cailech, even though the babe was not truly his but had been sired by the King. Cailech had reclaimed him now to nurture and raise as his heir. Wyl shook his head and worried again at how Cailech would have dealt with brave Lothryn. He knew the King of the Mountains was too vengeful to simply kill his once-loyal second, his best friend.

  Lothryn’s certain suffering prompted thoughts of Elspyth and his promise to her that he would return to the Razors to find the man she loved. He wondered where she was and how she would get on with Ylena, and his spirits plummeted further as he thought of these two women travelling alone — frightened, despairing at the loss of loved ones, their happy lives shattered because of him. He could not even protect them; instead he needed them to be courageous and fend for themselves until he could return to them. He sent a silent plea to Shar to watch over them.

  The act of prayer put him in a sombre mood. He finished his soak swiftly, deliberately ignoring the chance to soap himself. He could not bring himself, just now, to touch the body he resided in. Wyl stood to reach the towel. The tub rocked on its uneven base and, in that moment of alarm that he may tip it all over, Wyl caught sight of his naked body in the mirror. The shock was complete.

  He fought back the surge as his gorge rose and opened his eyes again. Reflected was the image of a striking woman. She was not exquisitely pretty like Ylena or classically beautiful as Valentyna; instead Faryl possessed something else which was hard to describe. It blossomed from confidence. He noticed the arrogant twitch of a smile on the neat, clearly defined lips. The eyes were feline and sensual in an oval face that was tanned lightly from the sun. Her hair, he mused, was probably her vanity. If not, she would have cut it short for it was an encumbrance to her trade. Digging into her rapidly fading essence he realised that Faryl needed her hair to feel feminine, to remind herself she was a woman, because she spent so much of her life posing as different men as well as following a brutal profession. The body itself was a marvel to his eyes. Curvy but strong. She ran to keep herself fit apparently, favouring hills for her exercise for they tested her stamina but also gave her cover. He nodded. She would make an excellent soldier of the Legion with her rigorous fitness routines and high level of fighting skills. She favoured the blade but was handy with a sword and skilled with a bow.

  Feeling foolish he smiled at himself in the mirror, and was rewarded by a relaxing of Faryl’s normally intense look into a softness he had not glimpsed previously. She rarely used this expression, he realised, just as Fynch rarely lost his sober look, but her neglect was for different reasons. Fynch was just a serious sort whereas Faryl, Wyl now knew, had little to smile about. He tried to find specific memories, but the source of her grim outlook on life was still hidden from him. He must be patient. It would yield itself eventually. He stared at the smile on the face looking back at him. It touched the feline eyes, sparking them into girlish michievousness. Despite hating Faryl for what she had done to him, Wyl wished he could have glimpsed that smile when
she was alive. Any man could fall head over heels for it.

  Many minutes had passed; he was almost dry in fact. Then, as he stood there feeling like a peeping Tom stealing a look at a naked woman, he uncovered the disturbing memories. Wyl flinched as buried hurts emerged from Faryl’s youthful years. Her elder brothers — twins — had raped her regularly, as had her father. The younger boys — she had five brothers in all — knew of the rapes but were too scared of their burly elders to do anything about it, except, after the vile couplings were done, to help her to the brook nearby to wash herself clean. Her youngest brother, just ten, would cry as he dabbed at her bruises with witch-hazel spirit and she would weep at having to share this atrocity.

  Wyl’s heart lurched as he learned that Faryl’s mother also knew of the rapes, but was helpless to prevent them so cowed and battered was she by her brutish husband. And so the abuses continued, until Faryl took her life into her own hands and killed her father. She stuck a blade into his stretched throat as he lay above her, taking his pleasure with his only daughter. She had relished his blood gushing over her; it was cathartic. Then she had pushed his corpse from between her legs and walked to the brook, as she had done on so many previous occasions. This time she was not weeping and she was not scared. Naked, she took her time bathing and cleaning herself.

  Her twin brothers had come then, trembling in fury and fright. She had defiantly raised her catlike eyes to the handsome, perverted pair. ‘Watch your backs, boys,’ she had threatened. ‘One day I’ll be coming for you.’

  Her calmness and the demonic look in her eyes had stilled their tongues and rattled their minds. Neither moved, too shocked by the sight of the bloodied corpse in the empty stable.

  ‘I’m leaving now,’ she had said, climbing out of the water and, not even bothering to dry herself, pulling on some clothes. ‘You’re evil, both of you. I hope Shar finds a way to take you soon.’