The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  A long silence followed and Pil believed Ylena had lost track of their conversation. So it made him jump when she stood and said, ‘Only Duke Donal might offer us protection.’

  ‘Then Felrawthy is where we must head, my lady.’

  He tried to sound brave despite the sense of dread he felt.

  ‘I don’t get your point, Jessom. Frankly, I like her dedication,’ Celimus said, kicking away the hand of the stablemaster who was fiddling with his stirrups. ‘Leave it!’ he scolded. The man flinched and stepped away from the beautiful roan mare the King had just mounted.

  ‘I’ll be galloping her,’ Celimus warned. ‘You’re sure her foot is fine?’

  The stablemaster nodded. ‘Yes, sire, all soreness gone. Enjoy your ride.’ He bowed and departed.

  ‘Get on with it, Chancellor!’ Celimus barked, irritated by the delay to his dawn ride. ‘Tell me what bothers you.’

  ‘It just strikes me as odd, sire, that Leyen would leave under cover of darkness.’

  ‘I would have thought most assassins craved the cloak of night.’ The sarcasm bit.

  Jessom ignored it, continued smoothly, ‘She left without Aremys. No word as to why.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘No longer at Stoneheart,’ Jessom said, deliberately brief. ‘Gone about your business, sire.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I’m just wondering what business Leyen might be about. You specifically gave instructions that they were to track down the person in question together.’

  ‘Do you not trust your own people, Jessom?’

  The Chancellor hated the cunning way Celimus always managed to turn accusation away from himself. He squinted up to where his King sat on his horse, a halo of sunshine about his head. ‘I trust no one, my King.’

  ‘Well said.’ Celimus relented: ‘I gave Leyen some additional instructions to take a message to Valentyna.’

  Jessom glanced around to check no one could overhear them. ‘I see. Did you ask that she perform this task first?’

  ‘No. It was my understanding that she would handle the business with Aremys before travelling to Briavel.’

  ‘It is strange then that she left so hurriedly and, may I say, she seemed rather disturbed after she left your dinner last night, your highness.’

  Further irritation traced across the King’s face. ‘Your point?’

  The Chancellor shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps she did not like the message to be passed on to Briavel,’ he said carefully, hoping the King would enlighten him as to his instructions to Leyen.

  But Celimus was too shrewd. ‘It bears thinking about. Do we know anything about her departure?’

  ‘Only that one of your pages, Jorn, was attending to her. He showed her out of the castle gates. He may know something.’

  The horse was restless to move, as was the King. He looked puzzled now though. ‘Jorn? Perhaps he delivered to Leyen the message I wanted her to take to Valentyna.’

  Jessom contrived an expression that suggested it pained him to divulge what he was about to explain. ‘Your majesty, my fear is that Jorn, who serves you and attended Leyen — without permission, I might add — also attended Koreldy when he was at Stoneheart.’

  That caught the King’s attention as Jessom had known it would. He let the implication hang between them, knowing the subtle mind of Celimus would bring all the strands together.

  Anger clouded the olive gaze. ‘Find the boy and throw him in the dungeon. Make sure he’s frightened enough to tell us everything by the time I get back. And I’m trusting your instinct, Jessom, that there is something to tell.’

  ‘As you wish, sire.’ Jessom bowed low as Celimus rode his mare out of the courtyard.

  SIXTEEN

  JORN COWERED IN THE cold damp cell, frightened and confused. Being grabbed by two soldiers in one of the castle glasshouses where he had been collecting some parillion fruit for the King’s breakfast had terrified him. Jorn had risen especially early to ensure that when his monarch returned hot and dusty from his morning ride he would have plenty of the refreshing juice he favoured to quench his thirst. Now Jorn mournfully remembered the precious fruit he had dropped and then stepped on in his fright when the soldiers had appeared and manhandled him so roughly towards the dungeon.

  He shivered and looked around the cell, his vision dulled from fear at what he could have done to so anger his superiors that they had locked him down here where criminals were kept.

  Coincidentally, this was the same chamber from which Myrren had been dragged by her torturers almost a decade earlier. Such information would mean little to Jorn, of course, but if he had studied the last block of stone in the wall behind the cell door he would have noted a curious inscription that might have meant something, considering his adoration of Ylena Thirsk.

  On that stone were three words: Avenge me, Wyl.

  A boy such as Fynch, susceptible to the ebb and flow of magic in a world that scorned its existence, might touch that inscription and feel the thrum of the enchantment used to make such a mark in stone.

  But even if Jorn had such talent, he was incapable right now of focusing on anything beyond his own fear. What had he done to warrant incarceration? He replayed the last few days over and again in his mind, wondering what terrible mistake he had made. He found none, of course — other than his doomed love for Ylena Thirsk. The arrival of the Chancellor did nothing to reassure him. The man’s seal of office swayed heavily on its chain as he paced slowly, waiting for the King.

  ‘Please, Chancellor Jessom, tell me what it is I have done,’ Jorn begged through the bars.

  ‘I’m sorry, my boy,’ Jessom replied, adopting an avuncular approach. ‘This is all very confusing. It goes to the highest level, Jorn. Somehow you have attracted the King’s attention… negative attention, that is.’

  ‘But Chancellor Jessom, sir, it is my pleasure to wait loyally upon the King. I would do nothing to harm him.’

  ‘Would you not?’

  The boy shook his head dumbly. Even in his terror he knew he was missing something important. It was written in the Chancellor’s heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘Ah, here is his majesty now, Jorn. Hopefully we can clear this up and you will be back at your duties by the noon bell.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Jorn said, feeling a surge of hope knife through him. ‘I’ll do anything to set things right.’

  ‘Good boy. Be easy now, your King approaches.’

  Jorn could hear the click of his sovereign’s boots against the stone of the dungeon floor. He could not make out any words but knew by the eruption of laughter that the King had made some remark which had amused the guards. The swaggering tread resumed and suddenly the tall and resplendent shape of Celimus appeared beside Jessom. His face was shining with tiny beads of perspiration. He had come straight here then from his ride, Jorn thought miserably. Whatever secret he apparently held was considered more important than the sovereign’s comfort. The King turned a predatory gaze on Jorn who quailed at the sight.

  ‘Your majesty,’ the Chancellor said, bowing low.

  Jorn, more terrified than ever, kneeled immediately. ‘Your highness,’ he whispered, ready to confess to anything.

  Celimus glanced towards Jessom, whose slight nod indicated the lad was petrified. Celimus smiled thinly. If Jorn had looked up at that moment he would have known that his life was already forfeit, but he kept his head low to the floor, hands clasping and unclasping nervously as he awaited his King’s pleasure.

  ‘Stand up, lad.’ It was the dry voice of the Chancellor.

  Jorn obeyed, but kept his head bowed. To his shame he realised that he had soiled his trousers in his fright.

  The King finally spoke. ‘Look at me, boy.’ The voice was hard.

  Jorn struggled to obey and finally lifted damp eyes towards Celimus. ‘I shall ask a few questions,’ he continued, ‘and what I require from you is complete honesty. You have nothing to fear,’ he lied.

  Jorn nodded, eyes wid
e with his intense desire to please. ‘Yes, your majesty. I promise to tell you whatever it is you need.’

  ‘Good. Now, do you recall a guest at Stoneheart who dined with me last night? She arrived with a man called Aremys and —’

  ‘Madam Leyen, yes,’ Jorn interrupted, anxious to impress his King.

  Celimus nodded. Jessom smiled briefly.

  ‘Is it true that you waited on her… without permission from either myself or your superiors?’

  Jorn frowned. ‘I did not wait on her, your majesty.’

  ‘Oh? I hear differently.’

  The boy clutched at the bars. ‘Oh no, sire. I…’ His brow creased as he recalled what had occurred. ‘I was on an urgent errand for one of your secretaries, sire, which took me that morning into the wing of the castle where Madam Leyen was accommodated. I couldn’t find the person I needed so I was in quite a hurry.’ He saw both men nod. ‘Um… Madam Leyen hailed me as I ran along the corridor.’

  ‘And what did she want?’ Celimus prompted.

  ‘Advice, sire.’

  Jessom smirked. ‘What sort of advice, boy?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t find out until later that evening because she could tell how much of a rush I was in to be about my duties. I left straightaway having exchanged only a handful of words with her, sire. She was a stranger to me.’

  Celimus was not so easily deterred. ‘And later?’

  ‘Yes, later, sire, I did go back to her chamber as she asked me to. I felt obliged, your majesty, because she was your personal guest and had no one attending her.’

  The King held on to his patience. ‘And?’

  ‘She wanted advice on her gown.’

  There was an awkward silence before Celimus said, an edge of threat to his tone, ‘You jest, of course?’

  ‘No, sire,’ Jorn beseeched. ‘I would never do that, my King. Madam Leyen wanted to make the right impression on you, your majesty, for the supper she was sharing. She had no garments of her own and was in a borrowed gown. She sought my approval.’

  ‘A lad’s approval?’ Jessom’s voice was thick with disgust.

  Jorn made to shrug, then caught himself and turned it into an obeisance. ‘It is the truth, sire. Perhaps she thought I might be of use as I had mentioned that I worked for you as a messenger.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Celimus said, his own disbelief evident. ‘You expect us to accept that this… this… approval was all she asked of you?’

  Jorn bobbed frantically. ‘My lord King, that is all she asked of me.’ He saw the King’s hand turn to a fist as the famous anger was stoked. ‘I did go back that night, of course,’ he blurted.

  ‘Ah, and why did you do that?’

  ‘To deliver a parchment one of your secretaries bade me take to her. I was told it was urgent, King’s business.’

  A glance passed between his captors and it was then that Jorn realised where this strange conversation was leading. He had always counted himself as sharp; he made good use of that skill now to make the leap in his mind that it was not him they were after but Leyen. And even she was not the true prey — it was to whom she was loyal that they were most interested in. They were after Ylena Thirsk. Beautiful, sorrowful, tortured Ylena. He would rather die than betray her. And yet betrayal was precisely what they sought from him. He could see it now as clear as daylight. They wanted him to tell them where Madam Leyen was travelling to in such a hurry. They wanted to hurt his beloved Lady Ylena still more.

  Well he was only a messenger and thus nothing in the eyes of the King, but he, Jorn, had made a promise to a beautiful woman and she had returned his loyalty with her promise that she would send for him. Any day now he would escape Stoneheart and travel to Argorn where Ylena would welcome him and allow him to serve her as he so dearly wished.

  They would not find out her secrets through his lips, Jorn thought. He was not a fiery person; he rarely allowed anything to get under his skin sufficiently to make him cross and his naturally sunny personality helped him to defuse many situations where another’s temper might flare. But now a spark of anger had erupted within him and it was fuelled by the accusation in his monarch’s expression and the Chancellor’s carefully contrived look of sympathy.

  The anger took hold and from that moment nothing — not even his fear of the King’s reprisal — would provoke him to release Ylena’s name to them or her whereabouts. He cared nothing for Leyen but to reveal her direction was to betray Ylena Thirsk and he would never do that.

  ‘Well?’ the King demanded.

  Jorn spoke with assurance. ‘I gave Madam Leyen the parchment and returned her gown, as requested, to Lady Bench’s household, your majesty.’

  ‘Leyen left that night, you liar, and you know it!’ Celimus spat through the bars.

  ‘I have no reason to lie to you, my lord King. I was coming to that,’ Jorn said, pleased he had not flinched at the King’s hostility despite the sudden watery feel to his knees. He grasped at the little composure left to him, ignored the damp reminder of his fear and gilded the truth. ‘She told me she was leaving. I know not why, sire. She asked me if I would accompany her to the stables because she did not know her way around Stoneheart. It was not my place to question her actions, my King. I am a simple messenger, whose duty is to serve you and your esteemed guests.’

  ‘And so you did,’ Celimus said, slyly now.

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Did she mention where she was going?’

  Jorn paused to think how to answer this. ‘No,’ he said truthfully.

  ‘That’s odd, boy, because the guard on duty last night recalls you mentioning the Duchy of Felrawthy.’

  Jorn had never given a better performance in his short life. His expression remained impassive even though inside he flared with hate for the man on watch last night. He had given him much coin to keep his mouth closed. ‘That’s right, sire, I think I might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Why?’ Celimus approached the prison bars as a hunter might, closing in for the kill.

  ‘Because that’s where I understood Madam Leyen comes from, sire,’ he lied.

  Celimus looked at Jessom, who blinked slowly. ‘I have no information on Leyen’s history, sire,’ he admitted, somewhat abashed. ‘She told us Rittylworth, but she is a mystery and likes to keep it that way. She is usually in disguise, even for our meetings.’

  ‘For all we know she could have been in disguise at supper,’ the King growled, not realising how close to the truth he was. ‘When did she share this information with you?’ Celimus demanded of Jorn.

  The lad shook his head, seemingly confused. ‘She must have said it in passing for otherwise I can’t imagine how I would know such a thing. I am sorry, sire, that I don’t remember our brief conversations more clearly. I do not think she told me where exactly she was going — I merely presumed it was to her home,’ Jorn replied smoothly. Forgive me, Shar, he beseeched inwardly.

  The handsome eyes of the King regarded Jorn intently now. His gaze was direct and intimidating and Jorn felt his resolve crack slightly, but he rallied his courage, resisting the temptation to blurt out everything he knew — which, in truth, was little enough — of Leyen and her intentions. He instinctively cast his own eyes down — and this was his final undoing. If Jorn had held his sovereign’s cold, compelling look, his unpredictable King might have erred towards leniency in this instance.

  Instead Celimus swung towards cruelty, where he felt comfortable. He could tell the youth knew very little and it was unlikely a secretive and highly qualified assassin would share with him her thoughts or intentions, yet it nagged at Celimus that he was being beguiled somehow. As a result he reacted as only one so insensitive to others’ suffering could.

  ‘He lies. Wheel him!’

  Jorn’s ear rang with the hammer of his own heartbeat. He slid towards the floor, dazed with shock at the King’s words. He noticed three words scratched into the stone by the cell door before he lost consciousness.

  ‘My King, please…�
�� Jessom attempted, alarmed at the idea of the needless torture.

  ‘Do not even think to contradict me, Chancellor,’ Celimus warned, his voice hard, eyes glittering. ‘I want him wheeled. He’s not strong enough to resist the pain. I will know whether Leyen is true to my cause or not.’

  Jessom knew Leyen was true to no one but herself yet this was not an occasion to test his majesty’s temper. He nodded in acquiescence, keeping his head bowed so he heard rather than saw the King’s swaggering departure.

  The Chancellor motioned to the dungeon master. Once the man had listened to his grave words, Jessom turned back to Jorn. ‘I am sorry, lad,’ he said, and meant it.

  But Jorn did not hear the apology nor did he feel the rough hands that grabbed his limp body and removed him to a part of Stoneheart he had never seen before — and had never expected to.

  It was a genuine surprise to the skilled team of torturers Celimus had assembled that the youngster lasted as long as he did. Many a battle-hardened soldier facing the same honour had begged for the mercy of the sword or simply died from the shock.

  First the boy’s joints were smashed by a man who asked no questions but simply went about his gruesome business with quiet expertise. Normally he would prolong the session, taking his time at placing the wooden block beneath the sweating shrieking victims before allowing his heavy mallet to descend with its punishment. But the man sensed this young lad was not deserving of the extended version and he pleased the other two torturers by doing his job swiftly.

  The second stage was the pulverising of Jorn’s skeleton beneath the vast iron wheel. The men rolled it over his body slowly, not because they wanted to increase his suffering but because the wheel was so enormously heavy it took some doing to get it rolling. As it turned the men openly marvelled at the young fellow’s capacity to withstand what was regarded by most in the profession as the most intolerable pain a person could suffer.

  Jorn was embarrassingly brave to the end and they felt ashamed to be visiting such punishment on a youth. Uncharacteristically, they winced at the loud popping and cracking of the lad’s bones until the weight reached his chest and finally stopped his faint erratic heartbeat.