The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Wyl shrugged. ‘I hope he is.’

  Aremys eyed his companion with surprise.

  ‘I suspect death is far preferable to his probable fate at the hands of Cailech,’ Wyl answered, obvious sadness in his voice.

  Aremys did not push on that topic. ‘So Queen Valentyna thinks you’re dead?’

  Wyl smiled wryly. ‘Well, I am really. Her friendship was with Romen Koreldy. Faryl of Coombe is his murderer, not that I imagine anyone knows that yet, although the suspicion will be there.’

  ‘And the Queen knows nothing of this enchantment which has touched your life?’

  Wyl shook his head. ‘I believe Fynch has tried to talk to her about it, but Briavellians are even more closed on magic than Morgravians. It was not so long ago that we Morgravians hunted down, tortured and burned suspected witches — magic still frightens us. Briavel has never threatened its people, because they simply do not believe that such power exists. No, I don’t think she could comprehend the truth.’

  ‘I’m finding it pretty hard myself,’ Aremys admitted. ‘But I believe you — there is too much that is odd about you not to believe it.’

  He was still trying to come to terms with the fact that the person sitting before him was once the infamous Romen Koreldy from his own island.

  ‘Do you ever feel them?’ he asked.

  Wyl looked up at him. ‘Romen and Faryl?’

  ‘No, your tits.’

  At this Wyl exploded into laughter and Aremys loved seeing Faryl’s face light up in such a rare showing of pleasure.

  ‘It’s amazingly good to hear you laugh,’ the big man admitted.

  ‘None of us have had much to laugh about in recent weeks.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I did mean the others,’ Aremys admitted sheepishly.

  ‘Yes, they are always present but more as a spiritual remnant of themselves. I can tap into some of their memories, although those fade very fast, but strangely I possess their skills and much of their learned knowledge. Still, there is plenty that is lost to me. Wyl Thirsk just takes over,’ he said.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Get your arm stitched up.’

  ‘Wait. Before I turned you over to Jessom, you were headed for Baelup. What is there?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Wyl said, sighing. ‘I was trying to track down Myrren’s mother. I still will once Ylena is safe. I’m hoping the mother may lead me to where I might find out more.’

  ‘You’re hiding something,’ Aremys said. ‘Remember, all the tale — you promised.’

  Wyl nodded, struggling against his reluctance. ‘I have learned that the man Myrren’s mother was married to was not Myrren’s true father. I need to find her blood father. The old seer from Yentro I spoke of — Elspyth’s aunt — said he would tell me more about this so-called gift I’ve been given.’

  ‘Is it dangerous for you to travel to Felrawthy?’

  Wyl shrugged. ‘No more than to Baelup.’

  ‘But you’d prefer to be tracking down Myrren’s father rather than chasing across the realm for your sister who, you admit, may already be in safe hands.’

  ‘I can’t be sure about that, not with Celimus hunting her down.’

  ‘But he’s not. I am. Celimus is under the assumption that he’s sent off his agents and I suspect he will not dwell on it further for now.’

  Wyl looked puzzled. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I will go after Ylena. You go and find Myrren’s father.’

  There was a silence. Aremys knew what Wyl was thinking. ‘You can trust me. I will protect her with my life, now.’ Then unexpectedly he added, ‘I had a sister but she died in an accident. She had been left in my care, but I preferred to go hunting. Angry that I was not permitted to do so, I left Serah in what I thought was a safe place in the woods.’

  Wyl was listening intently now — so it was not just he who had secrets. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was killed. A wild pig gored her. I’m not sure it wouldn’t have killed both of us, but I have still never forgiven myself for deserting her,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure my family ever did either,’ he added quietly.

  ‘Forgive me, Aremys. That is a shocking story but I am still uncertain why you feel obliged to fight my cause,’ Wyl said.

  ‘Perhaps if I share the whole truth with you, it might be clearer,’ the mercenary replied. ‘My father is a noble. We were visiting Pearlis many years ago as a family. I would have been around ten, my sister just four summers old. Celimus was perhaps eight.’

  ‘Celimus?’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid we both have reason to hate the King of Morgravia.’

  ‘And?’ Wyl encouraged, mindful of Aremys’s blood-saturated sleeve. However, the bleeding seemed to have been staunched.

  ‘My father and brothers were invited to hunt with the royal party. My mother, bless her, was asked to bathe with the court ladies. None of us had seen such resplendence as Stoneheart offered so she asked me to look after Serah for a couple of hours. Play with her, she said. Keep her safe.’ Aremys looked to the sky and grunted. ‘As soon as mother’s back was turned I took Serah to the woods where I wanted to be. I was furious that I couldn’t go on the hunt and blamed Serah. Along came Celimus and his friends. They told me they were going to beat sticks in the woods higher up where the wild pigs roamed to see if they couldn’t coax out their own game to hunt.’ Aremys shook his head. ‘It was stupid but we were just boys, eager to be grown-up and keen for our fathers’ respect. It didn’t occur to me that Serah wasn’t safe. I joined the prince and his friends and, suffice to say, we did flush out a pig and made him angry enough to stampede straight into Serah’s path.’

  ‘Shar’s wrath, man! And Celimus doesn’t know who you are?’

  Aremys shook his head. ‘I wasn’t important enough to remember, and besides, at that age my parents called me Remy. He hasn’t made the connection. I spent years planning how I would kill him. I blamed him, you see. By the time I was old enough to do it, I realised the folly of youth. I was not going to kill the heir to Morgravia and I am certainly not going to kill its new King. Instead I bleed him of the money he loves so much.’

  It all fell into place now for Wyl. ‘You!’

  Aremys looked abashed. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘You told them where the taxes would be coming from,’ Wyl stammered. ‘You guided Rostyr and his men.’

  ‘It’s true. And I shall continue to find ways to make the King’s life difficult, whilst simultaneously helping myself to his coffers by doing some of his dirty work.’

  ‘But those seven men?’

  ‘All deserved to die. They were corrupt.’

  Wyl could barely mask the sarcasm. ‘A selective assassin.’

  ‘You could say.’

  Wyl smiled grimly. ‘Well, I am not so forgiving as you, Aremys. I aim to bring about the downfall of Celimus.’

  Aremys grinned back. ‘And I will help you. I hate him as much as you do. Do you believe my loyalty now?’

  Wyl nodded. ‘Let’s get you sewn up and then go find my sister. Together.’

  NINETEEN

  THE DONAL ESTATE WAS a series of elegant buildings running off the main two-storey house. It sprawled within a glen, protected on all sides by picturesque hills and flanked by a small forest in the north.

  The family had a long and close history with the Crown and a reputation as fearless defenders of the north. In days gone by many Briavellian Kings had thought to storm Morgravia through its north but had met solid, seemingly tireless resistance from Felrawthy. Like the Thirsks to the south, this family boasted an impeccable bloodline of warriors.

  Although it was not a family known for its fertility, once Jeryb assumed the mantle as duke he had no intention of following in the tradition of siring a single heir only. His lovely wife had given him one son but he had always hoped for a large brood of children.

  It had become a joke in the early days of their marriage. ‘It just takes practice, my love,’ Jeryb would say, a spa
rkle in his eye.

  The young Aleda would smile forthrightly back and reply that they would just have to practise each evening then until they became really good at it.

  And the twins, Daryn and Jorge, followed this rigorous routine with young Alyd arriving as a special surprise five years later, by which time Aleda had suggested to the man who loved her so much to practise a little less.

  ‘For I think we have the hang of it now,’ she had declared, to Jeryb’s high amusement.

  Jeryb had fought alongside his trusted leader, Fergys Thirsk. Not only had their two wives found enjoyment in each other’s company whenever they met, but the two heads of the families knew they could trust one another — and in a battle, trust was the most precious of commodities.

  Fergys relied entirely on Jeryb to hold the north against the increasing agitation from the Mountain People. He knew of no noble more loyal to the Crown. Although Jeryb rarely managed to travel south except for highly formal occasions, his relationship with King Magnus was strong. Once, over a warm ale on a frigid night on yet another battlefield, with the smell of blood in their nostrils, they had talked of how their sons would hold the realm as strongly as they had over the years.

  Now General Thirsk’s daughter was about to experience the generous hospitality that Jeryb Donal had always been pleased to offer her father. Ylena clung to the waist of the kind, bright-eyed man who reminded her too much of someone she had loved. She had not bothered with the more elegant side-saddle position but had lifted her skirts carefully to sit astride the horse. Pil had helped her rearrange them neatly. Crys had left instructions with their men to make their way back to the duchy and then he and Ylena had made haste to follow the duke back to Tenterdyn. Jeryb had set off first, with just a couple of men as escort, riding at breakneck speed to bring news to Tenterdyn and Aleda Donal of what had befallen their son and his beautiful betrothed.

  ‘Welcome to our home, my lady,’ Crys said gently over his shoulder. ‘You will be safe here.’

  His voice was kind and so reminiscent of another’s. Ylena smiled. No one seeing her could have failed to be arrested by her beauty despite the grime of several days’ travel.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you?’ she replied.

  ‘Too shocked and distraught at your news to think properly,’ he admitted. She appreciated his candour. ‘The worst is yet to come, I fear. Telling my mother the full story will not be easy, although my father will have prepared her. Alyd was her favourite, you see.’ He looked around and chanced a thin smile. ‘Not because he liked it that way. He was the youngest… the baby. Everyone spoiled him and adored him. As you know, it was easy to do both.’

  She forced back the tears which had sprung to her eyes. ‘I am ready. I have not come here to hide, Crys. I have come to ask your father to help me fight the person who carried out this atrocity.’

  ‘You’ll find willing warriors here, my lady, for Alyd’s sake.’

  ‘Wait until you learn who our enemy is, sir,’ she said, more bitterly than she had intended.

  Crys kicked the horse into a trot down the hill, raising a hand to his father who had emerged from the house.

  Aleda met them alongside her husband. Her face was pale and lined with building grief but she found a brief smile of courtesy for their guest.

  ‘Welcome, child,’ she said bravely, reaching to hug Ylena, whom she had only known previously as an infant.

  Both women felt the gravity of the moment, the rush of emotion which cared not for circumstance or timing. It boiled over and they gave in to it, sobbing in each other’s arms, two strangers linked by the love of the young man they had lost. The men could not bear to watch the upsetting scene and disappeared into the house.

  Finally Aleda pulled away. ‘I am glad you came here, Ylena.’

  ‘I have nowhere else to go, my lady. Forgive me, but my story is more brutal and upsetting than you can possibly imagine.’

  ‘We shall hear it, child, in all its painful, unmasked truth. But come now, I want you to bathe and rest first.’

  Ylena looked at the handsome older woman with disbelief.

  ‘You will tell your tale more succinctly if you are refreshed and rested. I can certainly wait a little longer to hear your news.’

  Ylena liked Alyd’s mother immediately, admiring the strength she sensed the woman possessed. It had taken much courage to greet her son’s bride so graciously knowing what she had come to explain to them.

  They walked arm in arm, drying the tears from their cheeks as they entered the double doors of the mansion known as Tenterdyn.

  Aleda looked towards her eldest child — Jeryb was nowhere to be seen. He grinned crookedly and she saw not only her husband reflected back in the expression but also the youngest son she suddenly ached to hold again. She nodded, tight-lipped. ‘This girl needs a bath and a rest and then we will all talk.’ Her look brooked no argument. ‘Let your father know, please, and call the boys in,’ she added, referring to his brothers. ‘We shall sit down in an hour or so.’

  With Ylena settled privately in a chamber and left to her toilet, Crys followed his aristocratic mother down into her private reading room, as she liked to call it. It was actually more her escape from her brood of lively sons and their booming father. Here she indeed read, but also did her quiet thinking. It was a brightly washed room of yellows and greens, hung with tasteful tapestries of her own design. The furniture was soft and welcoming, the view from the windows was spectacular, and Crys loved to share time with her here, although on this occasion he was not looking forward to their conversation. A servant stepped in with a tray, poured them each a goblet of sweet wine and left.

  ‘You look tired, son,’ Aleda said, before sipping at her goblet.

  ‘Has she told you anything yet?’

  Aleda shook her head. ‘I don’t want to hear it anyway.’

  Crys saw the pain flicker across his mother’s face and then how it was checked and masked. He knew all too well that she did not like anyone to read her thoughts.

  ‘Here, my dear. Come and sit down,’ Aleda said to Ylena when she joined the gathered family in their main chamber. The gown she wore was loose on her — it was one of Aleda’s — but she looked every bit the noblewoman she was.

  ‘Crys, call for some spiced ale.’

  Her son, entranced by the woman his brother had chosen to marry, moved swiftly. Aleda motioned her guest towards a comfortable armchair. The room felt suddenly crowded.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ylena said, mustering her courage. ‘Let me tell you everything.’

  ‘Let us wait for Crys,’ the older woman said gently, squeezing Ylena’s hand. ‘He must hear this too.’

  A hint of a smile flickered across Ylena’s hauntingly beautiful face. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘For I fear I will not want to tell it again.’

  Crys returned, his expression grim. He glanced towards his father, who caught the look and roused himself from his silent shock in the corner.

  ‘Tell us, my girl,’ the duke commanded in his deep voice. ‘Tell us everything.’

  Ylena spared them none of the horror of their son’s death or of her own traumas, including learning of the death of her brother and the sacking of Rittylworth and murder of its brethren. No one interrupted her and by the time she had finished speaking a frigid silence had gripped the room.

  ‘Alyd was executed, you say?’ Crys asked, his voice hollow with disbelief.

  His father looked suddenly every one of his three score years and ten. His mother, pale and rigid, bit her lip, the only indication that she was fighting her own demons. His brothers stood by, stunned into silence.

  Ylena swallowed, fighting the tears for their sake. ‘Alyd was killed before my eyes. They used an axe,’ she added bitterly. ‘Didn’t even give him a noble death.’

  Aleda felt sick to the marrow of her bones but she pushed aside her despair. She wanted to hear it all before she began to grieve. ‘And you were married
?’ she said.

  Their guest nodded. ‘As I explained, it was the only way we could outwit Celimus. He intended to bed me, claiming Virgin’s Blood. His intention was always to hurt Alyd and, in doing so, to draw Wyl into the confrontation so he could use that to start dismantling Wyl’s power over the Legion and his standing in the realm.’

  ‘Felrawthy will rise!’ boomed the duke. He turned to his eldest son in whose handsome face he saw a painful echo of his youngest, now headless and rotting in some unmarked grave in Pearlis. ‘We will avenge Alyd and Wyl Thirsk for this atrocity.’

  TWENTY

  AT AROUND THE TIME Ylena and Pil were first entering Dorchyster Green, Jessom was standing in a courtyard sharing with his King what little information he had been able to unearth on Leyen. Deep down he knew he was reaching with this but Celimus had clearly threatened him and it was easier to appease him with some pretence at intrigue than to admit he had no further information. This was all about survival now, and rather a busybody noblewoman’s back be flayed than his.

  ‘And you think the Lady Helyn could be a traitor?’ Celimus spun around, aghast at the intimation.

  ‘Not at all, sire,’ Jessom replied smoothly. ‘I think she may be an unwitting accomplice — if indeed there is a crime which Leyen should answer for. We still have no real idea of whether Leyen is guilty of working against the Crown. I have no fear that Lady Helyn does so.’

  The King made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘But still I am suspicious. Until we hear differently from Aremys, I am obliged to consider Leyen’s actions curious.’

  Jessom merely nodded.

  ‘Tell me again. Leave out nothing.’

  The Chancellor began over. It was no use protesting. ‘On your advice, your majesty,’ he said diplomatically, avoiding the fact that he had been threatened, ‘I began some enquiries into Jorn’s activities on the night in question. It turns out that after escorting Leyen to the gatehouse, he returned to her room and gathered up the garments she had been lent for that night.’

  Celimus stopped him with a finger in the air. ‘How do you know this?’