The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I would appreciate it, Pil, if you would keep this to yourself.’

  ‘I think I’d be locked up as a halfwit if I told this tale,’ the novice admitted. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  Wyl changed the subject. ‘You are clear on the story we are all sticking to?’

  Pil looked unhappy but nodded. ‘The woman, Faryl, visited but left soon after when she found Ylena had not been here.’

  ‘Good.’ Wyl could see the youngster was not comfortable with the falsehood and may fail to keep to the story. ‘We lie for good reason, Pil. And now you go to seek the monk in Brynt?’

  ‘To return his donkey, yes. His name is Brother Lewk. If you ever have need of my help, it is yours, although I don’t know how we will find one another.’

  ‘Who knows, our paths may yet cross again,’ Wyl said. ‘Be safe, Pil. May Shar’s light shine upon you always.’

  The young novice paid his respects to the family and other guests, then climbed on to the patient beast and rode out of the gates.

  Elspyth also prepared to leave. ‘So we must part again, Wyl,’ she said, determined not to show her fear or grief at the separation.

  ‘Once again I ask another journey of you, another favour,’ he said, putting his arms around her. ‘Thank you for believing in me.’

  She pulled out of his embrace to regard him in his new, far prettier body. ‘I am trusting you. Do not let me down.’

  ‘I won’t. Oh, we have a code by the way. It was the duke’s idea.’

  Elspyth nodded. ‘I see, so we know it’s really you and don’t try to kill you should you approach us in the guise of our enemy.’

  ‘Precisely. The code is “carving knife”. I think the duke retains a sense of humour in spite of himself.’

  Elspyth gave him a thin smile. ‘Take care, Wyl. I shall look after your Queen for you.’ She liked that her comment made him look sharply at her. His Queen. Even as a woman his care and love for Valentyna was written all over his face.

  Aremys arrived. ‘We’d best be going,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you heading?’ Elspyth asked.

  ‘Where most do not dare to go, apparently,’ Aremys admitted, giving her a look which suggested he had no idea. He reached around her tiny frame and dared a hug. ‘Be safe, blabbermouth.’

  They had decided to travel as the Lady Rachyl Farrow from Grenadyn and hope to Shar that King Celimus did no thorough investigation should the name ever bubble to the surface of his memory.

  ‘Farrow is your family name, right?’ Wyl asked as Aremys sipped a decent ale and he had to make do with a watery version. They had stopped at an inn in Brynt, as befitting a noble lady.

  Aremys nodded. ‘At least I can give you all the background information you need.’

  ‘You’re sure Celimus would not remember?’

  ‘Our families go back, but he was young, as was I. You could simply be a baby sister.’

  ‘Born after your own true one, you mean?’

  The big man sipped. ‘Or another one. Stop worrying, the Crown has had little to do with Grenadyn really. It’s just that our fathers fought together, got to know one another. To Celimus, Grenadyn is a backwater where they breed good horses — that’s about all he’ll know of it.’

  ‘So, do I look all right then?’ Wyl asked, straightening the bodice of the gown he’d changed into at the inn.

  ‘Every bit the noblewoman,’ Aremys said, looking at Wyl’s new clothes. ‘I think you should be married actually.’

  ‘I can’t wait to get out of these skirts and into my riding trousers tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, suffer now for all our sakes.’

  ‘What happened to Faryl’s body by the way?’

  ‘The boys buried it somewhere remote.’

  ‘Good, so if the King’s men come looking…’

  ‘They’ll find no trace and suspect she’s on her way to Briavel or wherever. Who cares?’

  Wyl stared into his mug. ‘Pil might yet undo us.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘He is a man of Shar. The lie about Ylena and Faryl does not sit easily with him.’

  ‘I wonder how easily he’d sit in the King’s dungeon.’

  Wyl grimaced. ‘No point worrying, I suppose. It’s out of our control now. I wonder why the manwitch wouldn’t tell me where we have to go.’

  ‘Perhaps he couldn’t,’ Aremys said.

  Wyl frowned. ‘I don’t see why not, but now I recall, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with much information, not even his name. I’ve been thinking it has to be the Wild.’

  ‘That’s certainly a place where no one goes.’

  ‘Do you know much about it?’

  Aremys sighed. ‘Not really. They say it’s haunted — alive in some way. You know how superstitious Morgravians and Briavellians have been in the past.’

  ‘Ah, the old stories. And you believe this?’

  ‘Enchanted is probably the better word.’

  ‘They say no one returns from it.’

  ‘I’ve heard that. I believe it could be true, don’t you?’

  Wyl shook his head sadly. ‘Until I became Koreldy I would have scoffed at the notion. But I have to believe in magic now. I always thought the Wild was just a fable built around an uninhabitable wilderness.’

  Aremys drained his cup and stretched. ‘If it was harmless, it would already be part of Briavel or similar. Whatever it is, it’s managed to keep all the hungry land ravagers at bay.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Wyl said, draining his own cup more delicately.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Knave.’

  ‘The dog you spoke of… so?’

  ‘Well, apparently he will find me, and guide us, I guess.’

  ‘Stranger and stranger,’ Aremys admitted, wiping his mouth dry of ale. ‘Do we just wait then?’

  ‘No, we keep moving. He’ll find us, I suspect.’

  ‘Can you trust Elspyth?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wyl said emphatically.

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way. I meant, will her love for this Lothryn get in the way?’

  Wyl shook his head. ‘The worst of this is having to rely on others, Aremys. I am relying on Elspyth to get word to the Queen; and for the duke, in all of his pain and anger, to stay firm and hold the north, and act loyal to the King when all he wants to do is gallop with his army towards Pearlis; and I am relying on Valentyna to keep her nerve and not capitulate to Celimus, whilst hoping Cailech does nothing rash.’ He made a sound of agony.

  ‘Then don’t,’ the mercenary said, his gaze firm. ‘Rely on no one, Wyl. That’s my creed. You cannot orchestrate the lives of others like some sort of omnipotent being. Do what you must do and deal with the problems as they unfold. I don’t trust that Elspyth will be able to wait if you take too long; I don’t trust your Queen will be able to stave off Celimus for very much longer or that Cailech won’t take matters into his own hands. And who could blame Felrawthy for taking vengeance? All you can do for now is concentrate on one priority — you can’t be everywhere at once. You want answers to this curse of yours, then let us find those answers. Let us seek out this manwitch.’

  ‘Why are you doing this for me, Aremys?’

  ‘Because frankly, I have nothing better to do.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  KING CAILECH TOOK THE baby in his arms. He felt a rush of such affection in his heart that his breath caught. He hushed the child’s soft whimpering, admiring his healthy long-limbed body. He had seen the child kick his legs furiously when happy or distressed and had laughed joyously at his son’s lusty cry. He would be a strong king one day, his father thought with pride.

  Cailech stroked the child’s downy golden hair and smiled indulgently at the dimple in his cheek that marked him so clearly as the son of a king, for Cailech’s own dimple had been cherished when he himself was an infant. His mother had told him it was a sign that Haldor had blessed him and he would lead a special life.

  ‘Aydrech,’ he c
ooed. Cailech had never felt such intense love. This sense of ownership, this bonding with a helpless infant created from his own seed was so powerful it threatened to overcome him. ‘My son,’ he whispered and kissed the baby softly, his heart smitten. He knew in that instant of tenderness that he would never love anyone as much as Aydrech. His heir.

  Voices pulled him from his adoration and he reluctantly handed the baby back to its wetnurse as the wild-looking Rashlyn approached.

  ‘Ready?’ the King asked.

  The barshi simply nodded.

  ‘Bring the boy,’ Cailech ordered the woman and she fell in behind the two men.

  They reached a dusty area surrounded by wooden palings known as the breaking ring. Cailech climbed the stairs to a raised platform. His son was carried up behind and promptly set to suckling contentedly at the woman’s concealed breast.

  The King’s attention was diverted now; his eyes hungrily sought his prized new beast whose brilliantly shiny black coat twitched in the harsh sunlight. The wild stallion snorted, nostrils flaring in warning, and stamped its feet angrily.

  ‘He is magnificent,’ Cailech breathed, inspired at the sight. ‘Truly magnificent.’ It was far more than he had dared imagine.

  A special horse-breaker, the best in the mountains, bowed. ‘Sire, would you like me to begin?’

  ‘No. He’s all mine,’ Cailech said, leaping down lightly from the platform and glancing towards Rashlyn who barely smiled.

  ‘As you wish,’ the horse-handler replied. ‘A word of warning, my lord,’ he risked, ‘this is a very aggressive beast. He will take some special handling.’

  Cailech nodded and took the proffered gloves and rope. ‘We won’t be using the hobbling method, Maegryn.’

  The man immediately looked worried. ‘Please, my lord King, it is all this one would understand.’ When he saw the immovable set of his leader’s jaw, he nodded. ‘At least allow me to take the first session.’

  Cailech put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He towered over him. ‘Be easy. This one will not hurt me. And I do not wish to win him through pain. We will break him the old way — by trust. He and I must trust one another. He must know what it is to fear me but without pain. That is the greatest conquering of all, don’t you think?’

  It made no sense to the man. ‘Sire, you —’

  ‘Hush, Maegryn. I know best,’ Cailech assured as he entered the breaking ring.

  Onlookers gathered as word spread that the King was personally breaking in a new stallion, a fiery one. Cailech slapped the rope against his thigh and the horse glanced towards him with a wild and angry look in its dark eyes. It had been kept isolated for days and now it was outside in the fresh mountain air it was brimming with unspent energy and fury. The King could see the whites of the beast’s eyes — a sure sign that the creature was just short of demented at being penned in.

  It snorted. Cailech knew this was a threat, knew he must answer it.

  ‘Hah!’ he yelled and slapped the rope again, making a loud crack against his soft leather riding trews.

  The horse began to paw the ground. Another sign. Dangerous this time.

  Maegryn tipped his head towards some helpers. They were ready to leap into the ring and distract the angry animal should it charge their King.

  They watched Cailech stand to his full height and raise his chin high. He had inherited the talents of his father who had been a skilled breaker of horses. Those who understood the process knew that with this simple movement Cailech was throwing down the gauntlet to the horse, inviting it to test its nerve and resilience against him. This would be a fight of stamina and mental strength — male against male — the different species hardly mattered. The horse knew exactly what was being offered and knew only one of them could win leadership.

  The King took a short aggressive step towards the stallion, holding the rope aloft. It held its ground but flinched momentarily, which to Maegryn’s experienced eye was an indication that it was unsure about this challenge. The beast would proceed with caution, he realised with relief.

  Cailech whipped the rope outwards this time, towards the horse’s rump. Incensed, it began blowing fiercely through its nostrils and pawed the ground. Cailech shouted, distracting it with his voice and diverting its attention with the rope which licked at its back now.

  The animal screamed, not from pain but anger. It moved towards the King — the last warning before it might decide to pummel him with its hooves. The other handlers tensed. One even raised a bow, its arrow tipped with the sap of the falava bush. A skilled shot in the rump would sedate the horse, although it would not act instantly. They would need to get the King out of that ring immediately if the scene turned ugly.

  Once more Cailech stood his ground and repeated the process.

  This time the horse reared. Although Cailech stepped back he yelled more loudly this time, whacking the animal hard with the rope. Stung, the beast backed off. Man and horse regarded each other. It was as if no one else was present. Cailech could hear nothing but the angry breathing of the beast. He slapped his thigh with the rope once more. The horse reluctantly began to move around the ring.

  Those watching let out their collectively held breath. It was a start.

  The breaking continued relentlessly over the next few days. Four suns later the stallion stood sweating and trembling from its exertions. The wildness was still in its eyes but now it respected the man who stood tall before it. He too was perspiring but his cold green gaze never left the horse’s majestic face.

  Now, sire! Maegryn thought, filled with admiration for his King’s performance. And as if Cailech could hear his private thoughts, he watched him suddenly round his shoulders and body in a manner which, in the language of horses, conveyed safety and companionship. The stallion whinnied softly in answer. Until now Cailech had forced his domination and the horse had faced away from its adversary, preferring little or no eye contact. Now it turned directly towards him and eyed him. Its magnificent glare was still defiant, but its body language told Maegryn that the King was no longer rejected. In fact, he was accepted.

  Another long day of this routine continued before finally the stallion, nicknamed Proud by the Mountain Dwellers who had watched the exciting drama unfold, lowered its defiant head in deference to its breaker, walked over to Cailech and nuzzled at his shoulder.

  As soon as this happened, Cailech straightened. ‘Tie him to the snubbing post,’ he said, not prepared to lose the moment.

  ‘Perhaps we should wait, my lord,’ Maegryn ventured.

  ‘Now!’ Cailech replied. He left no room for argument.

  Rashlyn approached the King as the men moved in cautiously to halter the horse. He handed Cailech a skin of water. ‘Well?’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now we make him fully trusting,’ Cailech said, taking a long swig and handing back the skin. ‘I shall be riding him by this afternoon,’ he said fiercely.

  Rashlyn nodded, his sly grin evident beneath the flurry of hair.

  ‘Ready, my lord,’ Maegryn called.

  Cailech stepped back to the black horse. It was blowing and trembling, angry and confused again, this time at being tied to the fence.

  ‘Put on the saddle,’ Cailech said.

  This was easier said than achieved but the men working the horse were swift and experienced. After this was done, Cailech carefully approached the stallion which was still hitched to the post. He kept a continuous murmur of soothing words flowing towards the beast so it would feel comfortable about the person coming close. And then, in one smooth movement, Cailech leapt nimbly onto the horse’s back. Alarmed, it instantly tried to buck and jump, squealing with rage and as determined to unseat its rider as Cailech was to remain in place.

  The stallion finally calmed, but only through exhaustion, too spent for even one more effort. The King could feel its entire body shaking with despair as well as fatigue. It had done its utmost. It had failed.

 
; As Cailech slid from the saddle, the horse turned its head. He was ready for the bite — a last-ditch effort to inflict pain on the victor. The King back-handed the horse in the face with all the strength he had left and the beast squealed in obvious shock and agony.

  ‘Unsaddle him!’ Cailech commanded, rubbing the pain from his hand. He had not wanted to do that, but it was necessary. Only he and Rashlyn knew how much emotion had driven that blow.

  Maegryn was shocked at his sovereign’s aggressiveness towards an animal he had claimed he did not want to hurt, but he was also relieved. King and horse had been trying to outdo each other for too many days. The horse had lost that battle, which was as it should be, but the handler was keen for the beast to have some rest from its exertions. In truth, he believed this strange horse would prefer death to subservience.

  ‘I will ride him this afternoon,’ Cailech said. ‘Have him readied.’

  ‘Sire?’ Maegryn asked, shocked for the second time in as many minutes.

  ‘His name is Galapek. I will ride him without a saddle.’

  Maegryn dared not contradict the madness that had the King in its grip. ‘As you command,’ was all he permitted himself to say.

  Cailech strode away, Rashlyn at his side. ‘I will be taking my son out alone this afternoon,’ the King said.

  ‘On the stallion?’ Rashlyn asked, surprised.

  ‘Have Aydrech brought to me at the edge of the lake directly after the midday meal. I want him to know this horse.’

  ‘Is this wise, my lord?’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Cailech replied, his stride lengthening, forcing the barshi to all but skip alongside.

  Rashlyn was not sure whether the King referred to son or horse. ‘I do not recognise the name you have given the beast.’ The sorcerer was not of the mountains.

  ‘It is in the old language of our forefathers.’

  ‘Oh? What does it mean?’

  ‘Traitor,’ the King snarled and left the practitioner of magic in his wake.