The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Please, it’s important.’

  ‘Er… let me think now. It was mid north. Perhaps Rothwell?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘About three days from here. Tiny village. But I can’t be sure now, lad. Truly, I can’t remember what she said.’

  There was little choice. Fynch decided to head north to Rothwell, just in case it brought him closer to Myrren’s mother — or, more likely, Wyl — and so he filled up on a sweet pastry at Baelup’s bakery and a mug of apple juice before he set off. He was sipping at the refreshing liquid, thinking that he must purchase some dry food, when it happened.

  Onlookers watched in dismay as the small lad’s mug crashed to the floor moments before he did, his body instantly limp amongst the spilled juice. Seconds later a huge black dog entered the shop, terrifying all with its fierce growl. The beast positioned itself above the boy, guarding him.

  Then it waited, its head cocked as though listening …

  Fynch could hear the familiar voice. It was not unkind but it was insistent. Look at me, boy.

  Fynch turned his head. He saw himself prone on the floor of the baker’s shop, apple juice around him and people fussing nearby. To all intents and purposes he was dead. Above him stood Knave, still as a statue, fearsome.

  Am I dead? It was his voice — somehow he could talk with his mind.

  No, came the reply. Use your power, child. Send yourself to me.

  Fynch obeyed, finding that he was able to lock on to the voice and reel in its echoes of sound as though pulling on a rope. He willed himself along the connection, feeling insubstantial yet very much alive and aware.

  Moments later he saw a figure facing him through a fine mist. Fynch reached out to touch it, but it was as unreal as he was in this place. But as the face smiled, its warmth reached through the mist to touch him.

  Fynch surmised that the man seemed oddly short, but could not make out his age, or any features other than a suggestion of dark hair.

  Who are you? Fynch asked.

  A friend. There was caution in the voice.

  What are you?

  Wyl Thirsk knows me as the manwitch.

  Myrren’s father?

  The man nodded.

  Are you Knave as well?

  There was the brief smile again, as though congratulating the boy. In a way, he spoke softly. But he is real enough.

  What do you want with me?

  Your help, Fynch.

  How?

  The manwitch, Elysius, shook his head. Not now. Too dangerous like this. Come to me. Follow the dog. Trust him.

  But…

  Go now. Send yourself back to your body. Forget Emil. We will talk soon.

  Fynch did as he was told and woke to see the people from the baker’s shop crowded around him. Knave had disappeared. He came to his wits as if from a dream.

  ‘What happened, lad?’ someone asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten in days.’

  He heard them muttering about how tiny and skinny he was. He was used to this. Hands lifted him from the floor; others pushed food into his lap as they sat him down. People talked to him, talked over him, and worried about whether that ferocious dog might reappear.

  ‘No,’ Fynch murmured, ‘he won’t.’ He knew Knave would be waiting for him now, ready to lead him to wherever it was he had to go.

  There was no longer any need to search out Myrren’s mother. He was travelling to Elysius, where he hoped he would be reunited with Wyl — or whoever his friend might be by the time he reached the manwitch.

  ELEVEN

  IT FELT STRANGE, AND dangerous, to be entering Stoneheart again. The last time he had ridden through its magnificent gates he had been Romen, bringing back the body of Wyl Thirsk to clear his name as well as rescue his sister. He thought of Ylena now, hoping she was safe with Elspyth.

  Aremys’s horse drew up alongside. ‘I hope it was worth it,’ Wyl said bitterly. ‘Enjoy your money quickly, Aremys, because I shall hunt you down and kill you.’

  ‘I regret it,’ Aremys admitted.

  ‘Too late,’ Wyl replied. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what you’ve done.’

  ‘I —’

  But Wyl did not wait to hear what the mercenary had to say. He clicked his horse on and entered the bailey alongside Jessom.

  ‘Be easy, Leyen,’ the Chancellor said. ‘The King does not want you dead. Believe me, I had no choice but to bring you in.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  The Chancellor grimaced. ‘You achieved for him something important, something no one else could.’

  ‘Payment is thanks enough for me,’ Wyl snarled, handing his reins to the boys who had run towards the group.

  ‘Not for him, apparently,’ Jessom said, climbing down from his horse. ‘Oh, and by the way, he thinks you’re a man.’

  Jessom had requested that Aremys join him and Leyen at the audience with the King. It was clear Aremys felt uncomfortable at the summons but he simply nodded. They followed Jessom to the orangery, an area the King had claimed as his own, including the chambers surrounding it.

  It was another stab to Wyl’s heart that this part of Stoneheart, designed specifically for Ylena by her guardian, King Magnus, was now enjoyed by Celimus. Wyl held his breath as the delicate fragrance of orange drifted towards them, bringing with it a flood of memories of happier times spent here with Alyd and Ylena.

  ‘Let us hope the King is in good spirits today,’ Jessom murmured as they stepped down into the sheltered courtyard, ringed by citrus trees laden with ripening fruit, that Wyl knew so well.

  ‘My liege,’ Jessom said, bowing low.

  The King was staring out across the balustrades to the panoramic beauty of the meadows beyond. Wyl’s whole body tensed with hatred as Celimus turned towards them. He wished he had a knife. One swift throw and the cruel man before him would be taking his last gasp. Being hanged, drawn and quartered would be worth the pleasure of seeing Celimus dead.

  Wyl bowed low, hiding the look on Faryl’s face from the man he so deeply hated.

  ‘Ah, Jessom. Welcome to you and your guests.’

  The smooth resonant voice was so reminiscent of old King Magnus, yet it made Wyl’s flesh crawl.

  Celimus stepped forward, tall and graceful. He flicked an appreciative glance towards the woman but his attention was securely on Aremys. He reached out his hand for Aremys to bend over and touch to his lips, which the mercenary dutifully did.

  ‘You must be the man I have been looking forward to meeting. I wanted to thank you in person for your services. I trust we have rewarded you well?’

  Aremys looked into the olive eyes of the handsome King he had heard so much about yet until now had never seen. Confusion passed across his face. ‘My King, I…yes, the reward is ample.’ He looked towards Jessom.

  ‘Your highness,’ Jessom said softly, ‘this man is Aremys Farrow of Grenadyn. He has rid us of the Legionnaires responsible for stealing the royal monies.’

  Celimus looked sharply at Jessom. ‘Forgive me, Chancellor, I was under the distinct impression that you were bringing before me the person who relieved me of a certain mercenary who threatened the Crown.’ The King’s voice was suddenly icy. He did not appreciate being embarrassed.

  The Chancellor moved smoothly on. ‘I have, your majesty. May I introduce Leyen.’

  The olive gaze slid from Aremys to look into the face Wyl hid behind. He held that familiar gaze steadily, despite the sensation that he was being slithered over by a deadly snake. Celimus said nothing for a moment; the small silence was sizzling with intensity.

  ‘A woman?’ he finally said.

  Wyl bowed once again; he could hardly curtsy wearing these clothes. He was not so sure whether he would know how — perhaps Faryl might. These fragments flitted through his mind as the full weight of the monarch’s scrutiny rested upon him. Close enough to kill with a single stab, Wyl thought, hoping his face remained as expressionless as he was trying
to make it.

  ‘I am without words,’ Celimus admitted. ‘Once again you surprise me, Jessom.’

  ‘Your highness, I am your servant in all things,’ Jessom oozed.

  Then came what Wyl had been dreading. He blinked as he saw the hand of the King rise. He could not, would not kiss that hand. He would sooner die than swear allegiance to this King. Wyl bent over and reached for the hand, then exploded into a coughing fit. Celimus snatched back his hand and glared towards Jessom, who appeared equally alarmed.

  It was Aremys who rescued Wyl. ‘Your highness, forgive us. We have been riding hard for a couple of days without adequate food or water,’ he lied. ‘Leyen suffered a vicious attack at the hands of those same men whose corpses I sent you, your majesty. That is how we came to meet. She is in need of rest and attention.’

  It was a long speech for Aremys. Perhaps a bit too long to be convincing, Wyl thought. Despite his misgivings about the man he was grateful for his intervention at this moment.

  ‘I see,’ Celimus said, not really seeing at all as Wyl continued to struggle with his contrived cough. ‘I have noted the injuries to your face, Leyen, and we will provide the attention you require. Jessom, see to it.’

  The Chancellor bobbed his head in agreement.

  The King continued, his irritation evident. ‘Let us meet later then, when both of you have had sufficient time to recuperate.’

  ‘Thank you, your highness,’ Jessom said, embarrassed.

  ‘Have them join me for a private supper tonight. I have things I wish to speak of to these people.’ He spoke to Jessom as though neither Aremys or Wyl were there. Grateful to be ignored they bowed and followed the Chancellor out of the courtyard.

  ‘Not an auspicious beginning,’ Jessom spat as they moved out of earshot.

  ‘My apologies,’ Wyl lied. ‘I really don’t feel well.’

  ‘Be brighter by tonight, Leyen,’ Jessom warned. ‘It will not go well with you if you displease the King a second time. He is unpredictable,’ he added, in case neither of them were taking his advice seriously enough. ‘Now follow me.’

  Aremys was housed away from Wyl, in a separate wing close to the Legion’s quarters. That suited Wyl; he had no desire for any further dealings with the man, beyond those which were absolutely necessary, such as the evening repast with the King. His own accommodations were sparse but comfortable. To his good fortune, he saw the page, Jorn, racing by, a worried look on his face. Wyl hailed him.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Jorn enquired, clearly in a hurry but just as keen not to offend one of the King’s guests.

  Wyl wished he could tell this lad the truth. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Jorn, madam. How may I serve you?’

  ‘You seem to be a little rushed just now.’

  ‘I am happy to help in any way I can,’ the lad replied. He had grown up quickly at Stoneheart, it seemed, for the sparkle in his eye and his eager manner had gone, replaced by polite language, a cautious approach and a demeanour that suggested anything but happiness.

  ‘Well, I was going to ask your advice, but may I request that you come by later when you are not quite so harried?’

  Jorn looked surprised. ‘Have you no lady assigned to assist you?’

  ‘It seems not, but then I require such advice as only a young man such as yourself can provide.’

  Now Jorn looked worried. ‘In that case, madam, I shall return as soon as my immediate duties to his highness are complete.’

  ‘You work for the King?’

  ‘I am one of his personal messengers.’

  ‘Thank you, Jorn. I look forward to seeing you when you can spare a minute.’

  The lad bowed and hurried away. Wyl returned to his room to ponder this information. Jorn had personal access to the King’s dealings; he may prove himself the ally the youngster had so badly wanted to be when Wyl, as Romen, was fleeing Stoneheart with Ylena. What to tell him, though? It needed further thought. For now his immediate problem was what to wear for dinner tonight — every woman’s dilemma. Wyl scowled, hating that he should be concerned with such things.

  He had nothing appropriate, obviously. He would have to speak with Jessom. In the meantime a bath was very necessary and he made his way, grimacing, to the women’s bathing pavilion.

  Wyl had no idea what to do when he arrived there. He was entering a mysterious world which had never been even remotely available to him previously. To begin with, the atmosphere was hushed and tranquil in the special gardens that housed the pavilion. Outside the men’s building it was normally raucous with young men jostling and jockeying with each other. Here the women entered and exited sedately, in quiet conversation with one another. They seemed to move in pairs, he noted, whereas the men tended to wander in as a boisterous herd. As General, he and his officers had a special area they could retire to for more peaceful bathing. Nonetheless, they tended to form what was essentially a smaller gang of the soldiers and were just as noisy and energetic. He hoped that Faryl’s femininity would help guide him through this ordeal as she had surely visited bathhouses in the past, although there was no advice surfacing at present. Whilst he was thinking about all of this he had not realised that he was lurking at the entrance of the pavilion.

  ‘Are you all right?’ a voice asked.

  It was a middle-aged woman, one he recognised.

  ‘Er… this is my first time at Stoneheart. I’m a little daunted. It’s very beautiful.’

  And it was. The pavilion was delicate in design and decorated with beautiful glasswork of brilliant colours.

  ‘Don’t be, my dear,’ the woman said. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you the ropes.’ She linked her arm in Wyl’s. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Leyen.’

  ‘Pretty. Not from Pearlis or around here then obviously?’

  ‘No.’ Wyl’s mind raced. He had not thought about what background to give. He wanted no link to Faryl whatsoever. ‘Er, I’m from a small village to the mid-north.’

  ‘Oh yes? Which one?’ She was not going to be put off easily he realised.

  ‘Rittylworth.’ It was the first name that came into his head.

  ‘Shar’s mercy. That poor place,’ the woman said, her voice suddenly grave.

  ‘Pardon?’

  But his companion was distracted by a group of women hailing her. They sound like a gaggle of geese, Wyl thought, amazed by the laughter and sudden bursts of separate conversations that ensued.

  ‘I won’t desert you,’ his new friend said, looking back and winking. ‘Take a towel and a robe. We undress over there,’ she added. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  There was nothing for it; he had to follow her instructions or risk curiosity. Everyone seemed to be moving in the same direction. He chose an elegantly shuttered cubicle for modesty but most of the women just stripped off in the communal area. It was terrifying. Wyl felt way out of his depth now. He was going to have to walk naked to the baths.

  He looked down at his full breasts and felt the familiar urge to gag at the sight. But it was the fear of discovery that troubled him most. He took several long, shuddering breaths. You’re Leyen, he berated himself. No one bar Aremys knows any different, and he knows nothing other than a name. They see only a woman’s body. Now —

  ‘Leyen?’ It was his friend knocking. ‘Are you in there?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m just coming,’ he said as lightly as he could and reached for courage. He opened the door and stepped out, his gaze on the floor.

  ‘My, but you’re a modest one,’ she said and chortled softly. ‘Oh, my dear, with a body like yours you have nothing to fear here — other than all-consuming jealousy. I don’t believe there is a flatter belly nor tauter thighs amongst us. Now come, let me show you around.’

  ‘I don’t know your name, I’m sorry,’ Wyl lied, still not risking a glance towards the naked woman who walked beside him arm in arm, her doughy flesh touching his own.

  ‘Oh, how remiss of me,’ she chuckled
. ‘I am Lady Bench. But, please, as we have now strolled naked together, you must call me Helyn.’ She smiled warmly and Wyl blushed.

  ‘Thank you, Helyn,’ he said, knowing he must do his best to start acting like a woman and less like an impostor.

  He looked up at last and was rewarded with a sight any other man would give a limb for: fifty or sixty naked women, bathing, luxuriating, talking, some taking a smooth, others just being oiled. The atmosphere was serene yet playful — he wondered how they achieved that. His companion answered his thoughts.

  ‘Welcome to the ladies pavilion, Leyen,’ Helyn said. ‘All we do is gossip,’ she added. ‘We’re all talking about each other, of course… but carefully.’ She winked again. Her mood was infectious and Wyl liked her.

  The bath was hotter than he had expected as he stepped into the gently bubbling water. He could see a magnificent mosaic on the floor, similar in design to what he recalled from the men’s pavilion. This building was more palatial though, with more glass, more light, paler marble, artworks adorning the walls, and smoothing tables made comfortable with cushions. Everything just a little more luxurious, a little softer, than the men enjoyed.

  The chatter here was subdued — probably because of its needing to be kept ‘just between us’ he thought, and grinned to himself. So this is what Ylena used to get up to.

  ‘Ah, you must share the joke. Nothing is private here, Leyen,’ Helyn admonished in gentle fun. ‘Follow me — over here is my favourite spot,’ she said. The noblewoman gestured for Wyl to join her on a special seat built into the wall which allowed them to comfortably submerge themselves in the water’s warmth whilst still being in a position to talk with ease. Steam was rising off the surface of the water. Wyl commented on it for conversation as they settled themselves, and to keep his eyes occupied rather than lecherous as they seemed determined to be.

  ‘They keep the temperature of the water warmer in the ladies’ pavilion than in the men’s, I’m told. Apparently we women prefer it that way, to steam our skin and keep our complexions healthy.’ She levelled an enquiring gaze upon Wyl. ‘So, Leyen, who are you?’