The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  She heard Jakub’s voice. It was gentle, filled with the contrived confusion of an old man. ‘There is no woman in our monastery, son,’ he offered innocently, presumably to a soldier. ‘But by all means you’re welcome to search…’ His voice trailed off as they left the chamber again. Mercifully the men were only carrying out an initial cursory search.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ Pil whispered.

  ‘I want to see what they’re doing,’ she mouthed.

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘I promised Jakub.’

  Ylena knew he was right, just as she knew that these intruders had come for her. If they found her she might not live to enjoy her revenge. She was terrified but if they were to escape, they had to know what was happening. ‘We can’t risk running into greater danger, Pil,’ she pleaded.

  The young monk bowed his head, beaten. ‘Perhaps we can see from the small tower,’ he suggested.

  The small tower used to be a special place of prayer for brothers who chose to live for a time in what was known simply as Solitary. Part of the floor had collapsed a few years back and Jakub had declared it too dangerous so the tower had been closed. Due to lack of requests from brothers looking to spend time in Solitary, its repair had still not been attempted.

  ‘We can get there easily enough,’ Pil added cautiously, ‘and then we can access the grotto through the cheese pantry if we have to.’

  He climbed out from under the counter and motioned that all was clear. They opened the small window and wriggled out — fortunately both were slight of frame. They tiptoed across the small clearing towards the tower, then heard voices.

  ‘Quick! Someone’s coming.’

  The pair hurtled through the tower door with barely a moment to spare. Leaning back against the solid wood, they breathed hard and silently, listening to the sound of boots crunching on the small pebbles.

  The boots stopped outside the door. ‘Did you check in here?’ a voice asked.

  Ylena held her breath now, praying to Shar to keep them hidden.

  ‘Yes. It’s a ruin. No one there.’

  ‘Right. Put a bar against the door so no one gets in… or out. Then all our boys will know this one’s been checked.’

  ‘At once, sir.’

  The footsteps trailed off. Ylena looked towards the pale-faced Pil and appreciated for the first time how very young he was. He could only be fifteen, she realised, and here he was risking his life for her. She would have to put her own fear aside and be strong now, just for him.

  She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll find a way out, Pil. Trust me,’ she said, surprised at the confident tone of her voice. She wondered where all this new courage was coming from, then remembered Jakub’s words about the human spirit and hope being a powerful weapon. It’s not really hope, she told herself; there was none, with Alyd and Wyl dead. Just the need to survive and see them avenged.

  ‘Come on, lead the way,’ she encouraged.

  He gave a nervous smile and, holding on to her hand, began to ascend the narrow winding staircase. Slits in the wall let in air and Ylena felt a new fear claw at her heart.

  ‘I smell smoke, Pil.’

  He said nothing, just kept climbing. At the top he pointed out some rotten timbers. ‘Be very careful,’ he said softly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she ventured.

  ‘They were beating some of the brothers,’ he said, his eyes bright with tears. ‘I’m not sure I want to see any more.’

  Ylena swallowed hard. How could she have been so insensitive? The men could not be Legionnaires, she decided. No Legionnaire would participate in something as heinous.

  ‘Are you sure they are the King’s men?’

  ‘They carry his banner,’ the young man said.

  ‘Then Celimus must have amassed an army of paid mercenaries dressed as Legionnaires,’ she mused. ‘Wait here, I’ll look.’

  Pil did not argue. He pointed out where she must tread and she crossed the small area with ease. She reached the opening and gazed down on what was happening below.

  At her first strangled sound, Pil slumped to the floor. He did not need to see it to know that the world he loved was being smashed to pieces. Ylena’s throat closed in terror and her eyes confirmed what the wind blowing through the wall slits had told her. Fires had been lit. The monastery was burning.

  Men she recognised lay in contorted positions in the gardens, their hoes and spades dropped beside them. They had been murdered where they were working — no warning, just a sword through the belly. Others, more bloodied, had tried to escape and been hacked to death. Some had arrows protruding from their backs.

  She covered her mouth with her hands as she recognised the slumped figure of Brother Farley. He was still alive, barely, but one of his hands was missing and he was looking at the bleeding stump, bewildered. How will he measure out his powders now, she thought idiotically, knowing he would die from shock within minutes. Others still were being interrogated — in their midst was the tiny figure of Brother Jakub, rallying their spirits and trying to keep his human flock — what was left of it — from fighting back or giving offence. She could see him pleading with the strangers, begging for mercy for his men of Shar.

  He was quickly singled out, beaten and nailed to a makeshift cross. Ylena knew in that moment that if she did nothing with her life but kill Celimus, she would have achieved something worthwhile. She choked back the scream that struggled to fly from her throat and watched the perpetrators throw liquid from a flask over Jakub’s tortured body. A lit torch was flung towards the frail figure and he ignited. Now she did let out a heartfelt sob. ‘Jakub,’ she whispered.

  Pil was crying, his hands covering his ears, but she knew that the anguish in her expression had told him all he needed to know. She did not need to see any more carnage to know that these men had not come to find her — they had come to kill her. They knew she was at Rittylworth and they were persecuting its community to discover where she was hiding.

  They would not find her. The deaths of these kind, helpless men made it all the more necessary to escape and somehow expose Celimus’s treachery.

  She moved to where her young friend crouched against the wall. She pushed back her fear for his sake — he must not know how terrified she was or he would never have the courage to do what she needed of him now. She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Come, Pil. We must go.’

  ‘Where to?’ he sobbed.

  ‘To the grotto first. There is something I must fetch, and we will be safe there to make our plans.’

  ‘Is everyone dead?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was a poor answer but it was truthful. She knew it would not help their cause if she told him all she had seen. ‘We must hurry.’

  ‘We can’t get out,’ he reminded her, trying to stop his tears.

  ‘Yes, we can. We’ll go out through this window behind you — they won’t be able to see us.’

  He looked at her as though she had lost her mind.

  She stated the obvious. ‘We can’t stay here. They’ve barred us in and they might come back and search through all of these places again.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous across the roof.’

  ‘You know, Pil,’ she said as gently as she could amidst her own swirling emotions and fears, ‘you told me something important when I first came here and was too frightened to be left alone. You explained how Brother Jakub had taught you to fix your eye on the things that scare you and walk towards them — do you remember that?’

  He nodded bleakly.

  ‘Well, it was you who helped me to find myself again. You helped me to conquer my fear of what happened to me in Stoneheart.’ She knew he had only scant information about those events, but the gravity of her words was enough to convey it had been a terrifying experience.

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Truly. And so now you have to take Jakub’s advice again and stare this beast right back in its eyes and let it know you don’t fear it. And I shall do the same
.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By running across the rooftop with me and helping me to get into the grotto so we can make our escape.’

  His expression told her that he was now convinced she was mad.

  ‘Trust me,’ she begged.

  ‘Where are we escaping to?’ he asked, in some awe now of the courageous woman standing before him.

  ‘We go to Felrawthy, to convince the duke to raise an army.’

  EIGHT

  AREMYS KEPT TO HIS word. In the morning a tub was brought up and filled with steaming water and some fragrant oils he had ordered. Once again Wyl was surprised by the thoughtfulness of this stranger.

  Aremys turned at the door. ‘I’ll go out for a while. You take your time.’

  ‘What have you told them about me?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not their business. What they surmise is up to them,’ he said and winked.

  Aremys smiled at the look of dread that passed across the woman’s face when she realised what he meant. He was glad to note her bruises had benefited from the salve; even with her injuries she was striking to look at.

  ‘Lock the door behind me,’ he suggested and left.

  Wyl did, then for the second time in as many days slid with extraordinary relief into the comforting warmth of the tub. He gingerly touched the spots that hurt, avoiding them as best he could, scrubbed himself clean of the violators with the flannel and soap paste provided. It was the strangest of sensations — a woman’s sex felt completely different from the other side, so to speak. He did not have the courage to explore further, and those parts felt raw anyway. Another time, he decided, embarrassed.

  Wyl knew he could never feel the depth of despair a real woman might in a similar situation — he was still a man in his thoughts and emotions. Nevertheless he would never forget how physically vulnerable he had felt as Faryl against a group of lusty men without a skerrick of pity amongst them. He was glad Rostyr was dead. Justice had been done, thanks to Aremys — and indeed to Jessom. The threads that remained of Faryl certainly approved.

  He wondered what penance had been meted out by Celimus before the tax thieves were discovered. Knowing the King as he did, he had no doubt that he would be seeking information on the thefts in far less subtle ways than his Chancellor.

  He would not have to wait too long to learn the answer.

  Wyl had taken care with his hair, brushing it until it shone before tying it back in Faryl’s way as best he could. He was alarmed to see the extent of the bruises on his face — they would attract unwanted attention. On the positive side, however, although he pained in several places he knew his body was intact, with no bones broken.

  Aremys returned to find Faryl much refreshed and wrapped in one of his huge shirts which she had dug into his saddlebags for. He swallowed at the sight of her. She really was an exciting-looking woman. He had never been one to fall for the breathily-spoken, pretty sort who looked as though they may break if squeezed in a hug. Nor did he find more obviously flirtatious women desirable — they were confident of their bodies and used their sexual attractiveness as a weapon. If he was honest, he had never truly fallen for anyone — unless he counted Elly from the farm next door when he was a young lad. But then Elly had been more tomboy than girl, which was probably why she still won through as his favourite. Elly could run faster, shoot arrows further and skin a rabbit quicker than he ever could. She had called him Bear too, and like Faryl wasn’t conventionally pretty. She had a laugh, though, which could fill his heart and a wit that could cut anyone down to size.

  Wyl felt instantly self-conscious at the way Aremys was staring. ‘I thought I’d travel as myself today,’ he said defensively.

  The man nodded, approving, but remained just inside the doorway. He said nothing. An awkward silence stretched between them, neither knowing how best to handle the situation.

  Wyl shrugged, touched a hand to a bruise on his face. ‘You’ve been extremely kind to a stranger. I’m not sure how to say appropriate thanks, but consider it said and meant.’

  Aremys found his voice. ‘I’ve been back to the Four Feathers, picked up your things for you. I didn’t think you’d care to go back just now.’

  ‘Ah… I’m further in your debt then. Thank you.’

  The mercenary took a step into the room and made a gesture to say it was no trouble. Struggling for something else to say as his mind raced to consider his next move, Wyl politely enquired as to whether there were any outstanding monies due at the inn he’d been staying at.

  ‘No. You had prepaid everything. A woman after my own heart,’ Aremys admitted. ‘I always prepay… er, just in case I need to leave swiftly.’

  It was Wyl’s turn to nod. ‘Well,’ Wyl said, with an exaggerated brightness, ‘time I left you to your own business. You’ve done more than enough for me.’

  Aremys nodded. ‘Where are you headed?’

  Wyl cringed; they had moved to small talk. ‘Oh, a little town a few days’ ride from here.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Er… no, well… in a way. I’m trying to track down a friend’s mother.’ It was easier to stick close to the truth, Wyl decided. ‘And you?’ he added, hating how polite they both suddenly sounded.

  ‘Nowhere really, now that I’ve finished my job for Jessom. I’m at a loose end you could say.’ Aremys laced his large fingers together, undid them, put them behind his back, then hung them at his sides again. This happened in a blink but Wyl saw it all. It was time to go.

  ‘I hope our paths cross again,’ Wyl said, stepping forward to take the large hand in his. ‘I’m grateful to you, Aremys,’ he added, looking into the man’s expressive eyes. ‘Shar keep you safe.’

  The dark eyes regarded him with what looked like sadness. ‘I’ve fetched your horse as well.’

  Wyl grinned briefly. ‘Whatever made you do that?’ he asked, bemused.

  Aremys noted how the small smile made such a difference to Faryl’s bearing. It touched her eyes and changed her serious, often sad visage into something light and lovely. He shook his head to suggest he was a little baffled himself. ‘Well, I figured you may ride out as yourself and thus would not want to confront the stablemaster as Faryl demanding Thom Bentwood’s horse.’

  He decided to come clean. ‘But… I also thought we might leave together. There is only one road, and I’m guessing you’re headed towards Pearlis rather than away from it — is that right?’

  ‘Why, yes I am,’ Wyl replied, taken aback at the suggestion and not able to think of a reason to contradict it.

  ‘We could ride together for a while, then?’

  It was time to be direct. ‘Aremys, you don’t need to worry about me. Contrary to how it seems, I can fend for myself.’

  ‘I’m not worried about you. I can see from the tautness of your body and by the weapons you carry that you are not one to trifle with.’

  ‘You went through my things?’ Wyl’s voice was suddenly harsh.

  ‘I could hardly miss them, Faryl. I told you, I gathered up your stuff.’

  ‘It seems there is nothing I can hide from you! What else did you look through?’

  ‘I give you my word I wasn’t prying.’

  ‘You’re a mercenary, Aremys. I’m not sure your word is worth much.’

  Wyl could see he had struck hard. It was not necessary and surely undeserved. Why was he so touchy? This man had probably saved his life.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m edgy today, please forgive me. It’s just the aftermath of what happened, I’m sure. I have a long ride ahead and should get going. I really do owe you thanks rather than criticism.’

  ‘It’s forgotten.’

  Wanting to salvage something for Aremys’s sake, Wyl capitulated. ‘Look, I don’t mind if we ride out together. I just want you to know that I’ll be fine.’

  Aremys nodded. ‘Good,’ was all he said.

  It was not ideal, but it was only as far as the outskirts of Pearlis and then Wyl could branch off. ‘Let me jus
t climb into some clothes,’ he said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me throwing on one of your shirts?’

  ‘Not at all. I don’t mind you rifling through my stuff one bit,’ Aremys replied, with just a hint of sarcasm.

  Their departure from the inn was uneventful and Wyl had to admit he felt infinitely more comfortable physically — if not emotionally — travelling as Faryl, without the painful bindings and irritating hairy disguise. He was dressed simply in loose tan trousers, soft boots and a warm jacket over a shirt.

  ‘You still look like a man,’ Aremys said, but it was meant kindly. He watched Faryl climb on to her mare with practised ease. He could tell she was as comfortable in the saddle as she was drawing the weapon he had watched her strap on earlier. She had let him hold the knives — he had never seen such beautiful craftsmanship.

  ‘Is your throw as exquisite as your blades?’ he had asked facetiously back in the inn.

  His answer had been a knife whooshing past his cheek, narrowly missing his ear and pinning some of his hair to a wooden beam. The speed and fluidity of her throw had left him stunned.

  ‘Sorry… that was a bit theatrical of me,’ Wyl admitted, stifling the grin of satisfaction that Romen’s skill had stayed with him.

  If Aremys had needed any further convincing that this woman could, for the most part, look after herself, that had done the trick.

  As they rode through a particularly pretty patch of Morgravia’s southern rural region Wyl felt himself relaxing for the first time in many days. They had been travelling in companionable silence for a long way now, which contributed to his peace.

  Aremys finally broke it with a question. ‘May I ask where you learned to throw a knife with such deadly accuracy?’

  Wyl had expected the query far sooner, was ready for it. ‘When you grow up with a host of brothers, you learn such skills.’

  ‘I have six brothers. None of us learned how to throw a knife.’