The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  She had put her trust in Wyl Thirsk. He was a good man, and she would like to talk to him in happier times about what it feels like to become someone else. Wyl was lucky, she thought, that it was the darkly handsome Romen Koreldy’s body he walked in. Imagine how it might have been if he had been killed by someone who was crippled or retarded, or someone of very lowly birth. Worse, she giggled to herself, a woman!

  She found herself approaching the high ground from which she had learned she could look down into the valley and see the monastery with its village clustered nearby. Relief that she had made it this far coursed through her and she climbed the slope with a lighter heart than when she began.

  Still smiling from the notion that Wyl could have become a woman instead of handsome Romen, she began to rehearse what he had instructed her to say to Brother Jakub. But as Elspyth crested the hill her smile died, taking with it her good mood.

  The tiny enclave of Rittylworth was in ruins, parts of it still smoking from the fires. The monastery itself looked cold and silent. It was still whole, but even from this distance she could sense it was deserted. What had happened here?

  She did not want to approach just yet, she needed time to gather her racing thoughts. She scrutinised the scene below, gathering as much information as she could. Noticing something odd in the far distance, she squinted then let out a sound of despair when she realised what it was. People… crucified. She could not tell whether they were corpses or still alive.

  Elspyth did not pause for further thought but picked up her skirts and began to run.

  As she drew closer, gasping for breath, her fears were confirmed. She could see that the village had been torched. It was desolate. There were no bodies, much to her relief, so she suspected the attack had occurred to teach the villagers some sort of lesson, perhaps as retribution for something. Presumably they had fled and would return to rebuild the village and their lives when they felt it was safe.

  Panting now as breathing became easier, she discovered that the monks had not been so fortunate. The greater lesson had clearly been taught within the grounds of the monastery, where the smell of burned flesh was cloying. The light breeze carried the stench from the host of charred corpses suspended from a hastily erected series of crosses.

  She had not realised she was weeping until a gust of wind blew the tears across her face. It was obvious that many of the monks had been set aflame and left to die in horrific pain wherever they writhed. She found herself stepping over the blackened remains of men… some boys too, and quickly averted her horrified gaze. It seemed that most had been working in the gardens or had gathered there when the raid began, for that was where the greatest number of bodies lay. Elspyth had no doubt there were more inside the monastery itself but she was not prepared to look within.

  The horror of being nailed to a cross and then burned had been saved for selected monks — the most senior perhaps. She counted six. They all appeared dead although their bodies had not yet begun the process of decay. This made her skin prickle for it meant the attackers were not that long gone.

  Needing to do something to combat her despair, but unable to face going into the holy chapel of the monastery, she sank to her knees and began praying at the feet of one of the crucified. As she murmured her pleas to Shar, the body above her croaked something. Elspyth fell backwards with fright, looking up towards that tortured hairless head with the flesh hanging off it. She stood, petrified, yet craning as close to the man’s moving lips as she could on tiptoe.

  ‘Find Ylena,’ he breathed. ‘She lives. Pil took her.’

  ‘Are you Brother Jakub?’ she asked, frantic.

  An almost imperceptible, clearly painful nod told her he was indeed Brother Jakub.

  ‘Let me help you,’ she cried, desperately looking around for a tool which might loosen the nails.

  ‘Too late,’ he croaked. She returned to look into his sightless eyes and charred flesh. ‘Tell Romen…’ he coughed, his breath rattling in his throat, ‘that this was the work of the King.’

  ‘Why would he do such a thing?’ She could see his death looming.

  ‘Thirsk… he…’ was all the monk could get out before the last agonising breath wheezed out of his throat and he died.

  Elspyth wept for his suffering and that of his brothers, all peaceful men of the cloth. She felt rage surfacing at this new King of Morgravia, understood now why Wyl’s identity must be protected. She gently eased the lids down over the staring eyes of Brother Jakub. There was nothing more she could do here, other than bear witness to the atrocity. It would stay with her forever. She touched a shaky hand to the blackened cheek of the brave monk who had stayed alive long enough to give her the information she needed, then set off. She did not know where she was headed, only that she must find the young woman being hunted by a merciless king.

  Elspyth trudged in something of a stupor for more than a day, only realising as she heard the haunting call of an owl that dusk was darkening to night. She was exhausted. Since leaving the smouldering village of Rittylworth she had met no travellers along the narrow roads through Morgravia’s mid-north. Her mind too numb to think, she had put one foot in front of the other to gain as much distance between herself and death as she could. It had been many solitary hours.

  She shivered now in the chill night air as darkness finally registered in her blurred thoughts. She burrowed into a small hollow beneath a bush for safety and collapsed there, not so much from fatigue as from the emotional trauma of the morning. She was convinced the smell of burned flesh still clung to her, and she could not forget the fire-torn voice of Brother Jakub courageously using his last breath of life to tell her what had happened. Elspyth wept quietly into the silence.

  Inevitably, her despair led her to think on Lothryn again. Would she ever see him again? Deep down she believed that the man she loved still lived. Despite all her fears for him, something within begged her to believe that he was alive and so she must remain strong for him. And as firmly as she believed this, Elspyth instinctively trusted that Wyl Thirsk, now walking as Romen Koreldy, was the only person who might be able to restore Lothryn to her. Why this seemed so she could not say, except that her aunt had taught her to trust her instincts. Nothing had been the same since that day in Pearlis when Wyl Thirsk had entered the tent of her aunt, the Widow Ilyk, and terrified her. Her aunt. Elspyth laughed bitterly. What had become of her ageing relative? Was she dead? Injured?

  She could so easily have returned home when she and Wyl had parted company, but here she was, heading who knew where after a woman she had never met.

  Rittylworth had been torched because of the Thirsk name. Holy men of peace, of love, had lost their lives because of the Thirsk name. Even Lothryn had suffered because of…

  No, she must not follow that line of thought. She must not blame the Thirsks or she would never survive this.

  Elspyth sniffed. She dug in her cloak pocket and found some nuts and dried fruit which her travelling friends had provided. There was some hard biscuit too, but she decided to keep that for the morning when hunger always seemed at its sharpest. She chewed without interest in what she ate, considering her path now. She must make some decisions — good ones, and quickly.

  Brother Jakub said Ylena had escaped. The girl would be on foot presumably, so not that far away from Rittylworth herself. Elspyth wondered about this lad the older man had mentioned, Pil. She presumed he was a monk as well. Either way, Ylena would be confused, frightened, disoriented. The thought brought a sad smile to her face. Much like myself, she admitted, realising that she was also penniless, having used all her money to buy Wyl a horse in Deakyn. They had assumed she would soon meet up with Ylena and have access to funds again, but now she had no coin nor means of getting any.

  She shook her head clear of the doubts, swallowed the last of the fruit and nuts and settled down to sleep. But her thoughts drifted back to her journey and where she must go. She could not know in which direction Ylena had fled, so she had to
choose the path that best served her promise to Wyl. She had in her possession a letter for the Duke of Felrawthy from Wyl — that was where she should head next. But for now she was alone and defenceless, which meant she would need to find a new method of transport. Perhaps she could link up with another group of travellers heading east, find some temporary work to pay for food and lodging along the way?

  Well, it was a plan. Something to wake up to the next morning. The owl hooted again, reminding Elspyth that her kind should be asleep whilst the creatures of the night went about their business. She wriggled into the least uncomfortable position she could find and cast her last conscious thought towards Lothryn, wherever he was.

  Elspyth dreamed.

  Lothryn was calling to her. Crying for her, in fact. He was in pain. Drowning in all-encompassing, mind-altering pain. It seemed to her that he could sense her presence as strongly as she sensed his. Why there was pain and who was inflicting it she could not tell. There was darkness. Anger too. She felt bitterness raging about Lothryn; it was not his own, but she could not see him or the person experiencing the emotion. Something else too … something powerful. Magic … swirling around her … It knew she was there but it could not touch her.

  Did she scream or was that Lothryn again?

  Lothryn! she called into the pain.

  His voice, barely audible, thick with agony. Tell Wyl I will wait, he whispered. I am no longer as he would expect.

  Elspyth did scream now, shrieking Lothryn’s name into the darkness and its foul magic again and again, but her lover was gone. Their bond was viciously snapped, as if the power-wielder cut through the point where their minds had touched.

  She awoke, still crying out, as dawn crept through a heavy mist that had settled about her during the night. Initially Elspyth panicked in the blindness, waving her arms and fighting the foggy swirls, but as her vision cleared slightly she was reassured of where she was, and her aloneness. Shallow breaths came rapidly; she needed to slow them. Painfully she stood from her uncomfortable hollow and sucked in deep gasps of air, filling her lungs and expelling it as slowly as she dared.

  Tears streamed down her face as a new fear of what had become of Lothryn gripped her. Was he talking to her from the dead? Had he spoken at all or had she just experienced a nightmare of sorts? She forced herself to be practical even though she felt more fatigued now than before her distressing sleep. She wiped her eyes, relieved herself, then sat down to slowly consume the hard biscuit and think on what had happened. She was not hungry but the process of chewing and swallowing would help ease her alarm, she hoped, and so she forced herself to eat. Lothryn had made them eat when they were fleeing for their lives in the Razors. None of them had felt hungry, yet he had insisted and he had been right. She took the same advice now and nourished herself.

  Elspyth had never felt more alone in her lonely life than at this moment. Lothryn’s words, real or imagined, were all she had to cling to now. She must succeed in her task if Wyl Thirsk was to keep his promise.

  She stood, brushed away the crumbs and patted at her unruly hair. She knew she looked a fright but no longer cared. Lothryn was suffering. He had spoken from life not death — she knew it and trusted her weak sensitivity to magic, even though she could not wield it herself. Magic was strong in her maternal line but not strong in her. Somehow it had avoided her with its riches, but she knew enough to understand that Lothryn had truly reached her. The means he had employed were irrelevant. She had heard his voice: he needed help.

  Setting her jaw in a way her aunt would recognise as the stubborn manner of her forebears, Elspyth began to walk, heading east towards Felrawthy.

  TEN

  WHILE ELSPYTH WAS RUNNING down a lonely hill towards desolation, Fynch was entering the town of Baelup. He had made speedy progress from Crowyll out of Briavel and into Morgravia courtesy of a man in a hurry to make a delivery to Pearlis. Fynch had done him a good turn and the man had offered the boy a lift to his destination.

  It was Knave who had done the good deed, in fact, frightening off a couple of thieves who were nosing about the man’s cart whilst it was briefly unattended. Fynch had noticed their interest and, realising their actions were furtive, had sent Knave in. When the huge dog sounded his ferocious bark the men scurried away, understandably terrified.

  The scene had brought to Fynch’s face one of his rare smiles. As he was patting Knave in congratulation for his performance, the owner of the cart had returned. He too looked anxiously at the dog. Fynch explained what had occurred and the man’s face lit up.

  ‘Travel with me,’ he had said. ‘I’ll pay you.’

  Fynch was taken aback. ‘Why?’

  ‘This is the second time this has happened. Two months ago I lost half my goods to thieves. I suspect it is not the last time either, and it’s more than my life is worth not to get this delivery to Lady Bench of Pearlis.’

  ‘And how can I possibly help you?’ Fynch asked, amused, thinking of how slight he was. Then it dawned on him. ‘Oh, I see. My dog.’

  ‘Precisely,’ the man said. ‘You do have control of it, don’t you?’ he added, nervously.

  ‘Only when he wants me to. But fret not, he will not attack you.’

  ‘Thanks be to Shar,’ the man replied with relief. ‘Is it a deal?’

  ‘I need to get to Baelup.’

  ‘Perfect. I can take you there as soon as I’ve made my delivery,’ the man had said. ‘Please… I have food for the journey and my intention is to drive the horses hard to Grimble Town, changing them there. We shall be in Baelup sooner than you can pick your nose. What do you say?’

  Fynch liked the man and his amusing manner. He knew Hildyth’s trail was cooling with each day he spent on foot and he could make up valuable time if he took the man’s offer. ‘All right.’

  They had experienced no further robbery attempts and it had turned out that the man, Master Rilk, was a tailor, one of the best in Briavel, although modesty prevented him from claiming that he was in fact the most popular of all tailors with the nobles. Word had spread and now various Morgravian dignitaries were securing his services. Lady Bench was the most notable to date, and she had paid him a veritable fortune to tailor her daughter’s latest dancing gown. She had insisted, however, that Master Rilk personally deliver the gown just in case it required last-minute adjustments.

  Rilk made pleasant, intelligent company for Fynch, and he in turn thoroughly enjoyed the serious lad, who was knowledgeable in the ways of the Morgravian court and seemed to know many of its nobles. Fynch had gladly passed on their names and dress tendencies, his attention to detail impressing the tailor. Master Rilk had plans to expand his business dealings in the Morgravian capital so this inside information was a blessing.

  They had parted company at Baelup as friends, with a promise to meet again some time. Fynch had refused payment. He had been fed and watered well, as had Knave, at Rilk’s expense, plus they had travelled swiftly and safely to their destination.

  After they had waved goodbye, Knave made himself scarce and Fynch walked into the main square, wondering where to begin. Several hours later, having passed himself off as a distant member of the family bringing news of his own mother’s passing, he had established that Myrren’s mother, Emil, had left Baelup soon after learning of her daughter’s ugly death. With her husband dead and her daughter burned as a witch, people had sympathised with her fears for her own life.

  The blacksmith was the most helpful. He seemed to have known the family well, but claimed to have no idea where she had fled to.

  ‘I can’t offer much more help. I know a young fellow came here to see her the day after Myrren’s death. He was with a tall chap, but I don’t think the older one went in with him to see Emil.’

  ‘Was the youngster’s name Thirsk?’ Fynch asked.

  ‘I don’t know, lad. I just saw him arrive and leave with the pup. I gather Myrren had asked him to take her dog. He was there barely minutes.’

  ‘Can you r
emember anything about him?’

  ‘Red hair. Does that help?’

  Fynch grinned. ‘It does. He was probably accompanied by a man called Gueryn. How did you come to meet them?’

  ‘My missus and I were helping Emil pack her things, as I recall,’ the man said, scratching his head. ‘She was in a tearing hurry to leave. And once she had news of Myrren’s end, she could only think of fleeing the house, the town, everything she knew. Shame. It was the second time in her life she’d done that. Myrren had funny eyes, you see, and those Witch Stalkers were after her. Poor mite — she deserved better. She was a lovely girl and a good daughter. The old man just dropped dead in front of the Stalkers. His heart gave out; he had feared such a thing for so many years.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Fynch said. ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Well, after the bad news from Pearlis, Emil was only too happy to hand the pup over to this red-headed chappie, for she had no idea what to do with it anyway. Apparently the lad had shown Myrren some kindness at the time of her torture and she had wanted to give him a gift in return.’

  If only you knew, Fynch thought.

  ‘And then Emil left,’ the man concluded. ‘She never said anything more about the dog or its new owner. We didn’t hear her conversation with him either, although I tell you it was only moments long. Emil could hardly string two sensible words together at the time.’

  Fynch nodded in sympathy. ‘She gave no mention of where she might have been headed?’

  The man pulled a face. ‘Wait now… I do recall her saying something about a sister. Where was it?’