The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Maegryn brought the stallion to the King. ‘My lord, please let me saddle him,’ he beseeched, fearful at what the proud beast might do if it sensed how dangerous this situation was for Cailech.

  ‘Take off the halter. I ride alone and bareback.’

  Maegryn blinked. He could not contradict the King even though he knew his leader was wrong. This huge horse was more than capable of killing. But the handler wisely understood that so was his King, and it would be his own neck being snapped at the end of a noose if he risked angering Cailech.

  ‘I will mount him first, then you are to remove all restraints,’ Cailech instructed.

  Maegryn gave the King a leg-up and was relieved that the horse protested only slightly by moving its back end around. He held his breath and looked towards his sovereign, who nodded. The handler removed the halter and the stallion shook its head at the sense of freedom.

  ‘Leave us,’ the King said and Maegryn departed reluctantly, still fearful that anything that might go wrong would come back to haunt him.

  Once he was alone, Cailech laid his head against the stallion’s strong neck and, as he stroked it, he whispered. ‘Now you are mine for good. Come, my friend, let us ride together once again.’

  And the man once known as Lothryn, now called Galapek the traitor, took his first unhappy steps as King Cailech’s four-legged servant.

  Watching from a distance Rashlyn smiled thinly, admiring his work.

  Gueryn lay on the pallet in the dungeon, to where he had been returned once his wound had healed. He had spoken to no one since then. The dungeon-keeper was a nice enough fellow who regularly changed the straw and brought fresh food and water. He had tried talking with the prisoner but Gueryn had pointedly refused to respond. Nowadays that same man entered and left the cell in silence.

  Today was different though. When the man arrived he walked straight over to Gueryn and prodded him. ‘Come on, we’ve got orders to exercise you.’

  Gueryn stirred. No amount of pride would permit him to refuse the opportunity to walk in daylight and breathe fresh air. Cailech had promised neither, so this was quite a development. Obviously the King had paid attention to Gueryn’s threat and was as determined to preserve his life as he himself was to end it.

  It was more logical then to try a different tactic, for it was obvious that Cailech wanted him kept alive for a reason. So his protest now was silence. They would get nothing from him. More recently Gueryn had realised that deep down he wanted to live too… if just to hear news of Wyl — if he still lived — and Ylena. He would stay alive and alert until he could somehow contribute towards bringing this Mountain Kingdom down.

  After so long without exercise, walking sounded easier than it was and it took two men to support him. When they emerged from the dungeon it was not into broad daylight as Gueryn had expected but into the inkiness of night. An unbelievably beautiful starry sky greeted Gueryn back to real life. He inhaled the piercingly cold but most welcome night air and immediately began to cough.

  ‘Take it easy, old man,’ one of his aides murmured.

  Gueryn growled something unintelligible through the cough.

  ‘What was that?’ the Mountain man enquired, amused.

  ‘I think he’s telling you your fortune, Myrt,’ the man on the other side of Gueryn said and laughed.

  Gueryn cleared his throat now that his initial attack had settled. ‘I said I’ll knock you senseless next time you call me old.’

  Both men laughed and Gueryn chuckled too. It felt suddenly permissible and even rather empowering to share a jest with others, even if they were the enemy.

  ‘How old are you?’ Myrt asked.

  ‘Two score and five,’ he replied, shuffling awkwardly between them.

  ‘Then you’d better start acting like it,’ Myrt said. ‘The King wants you fit and healthy, not dying in his dungeon.’

  ‘I gathered. How thoughtful of him.’

  ‘Well, now that your wound has fully healed, it’s time you got your body well.’

  ‘I’ll do it, just so I can enjoy fighting some of you when my chance comes again.’

  Myrt chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit. Can you manage on your own now?’

  ‘Let me try,’ Gueryn replied gruffly.

  He doubled up to cough again but soon enough was able to totter more freely, if laboriously.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,’ he said to his captors who smiled back.

  ‘Dyx up there will see to it you have another nasty wound if you try,’ Myrt warned, nodding up to where an archer watched from a higher vantage point.

  Gueryn nodded. He hardly had the strength to hold himself upright but in that moment he decided he would work his body hard from now on and regain its former strength. He had to make himself useful to Morgravia… if just as a rather pathetic and captive spy.

  As he began on another pitifully slow circle around the two men who hardly seemed to notice the cold that bit so cruelly into his bones, he heard the name of Lothryn and his attention was immediately caught. He moved more slowly still, veering slightly closer so he could eavesdrop on the conversation without appearing to be listening. He turned his head away, maintained a blank expression and relied entirely on his good hearing.

  ‘…so have you seen him?’

  ‘No,’ Myrt replied. ‘And he’s not in the dungeon, I’ve checked.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  Gueryn, facing away from the men, assumed Myrt must have shrugged.

  ‘Not dead, surely?’ the other man queried, bewilderment in his tone.

  ‘Loth always warned us the King is unpredictable. No one, not even Loth himself, can gauge his moods but he was the only one who seemed able to talk with Cailech when he was dark of spirit.’

  ‘But they were so close, as good as brothers,’ the man said, aghast.

  ‘Loth betrayed us, Byl. Don’t you understand? That’s about the worst sin that he could have perpetrated on the King, next to murdering one of our own. Cailech demands loyalty above all else.’

  His younger, less experienced companion grunted. ‘Seems odd then that he’s permitted to summarily execute one of our best.’

  ‘They’re the rules. Loth would have known the penalty when he broke them,’ Myrt said unhappily.

  Gueryn thanked Shar for his keen hearing and had to stop himself swivelling around when a third voice came out of nowhere.

  ‘He is not dead,’ the voice said. Gueryn continued his revolution of the space, working hard to keep his face devoid of all recognition as a figure melted out of the shadows. It was the hideous medicine man who had saved his life but watched with bright eyes as they took Elspyth’s.

  ‘He is amongst you,’ Rashlyn said with a trace of glee.

  Out of the corner of his eye Gueryn saw both Mountain men bristle at the approach of the wild-looking man. It seemed only Cailech suffered the fellow gladly.

  ‘I haven’t noticed him,’ Myrt replied carefully.

  ‘Oh, indeed you have, you just haven’t realised it,’ Rashlyn said. He glanced Gueryn’s way and changed the subject. ‘I see he can walk unaided now.’

  Gueryn turned his back; he imagined the two men nodding.

  ‘This is good. We need him healthy,’ Rashlyn said.

  ‘Why?’ Myrt asked, desperately wanting to know more about Lothryn.

  ‘Ah, that I cannot divulge. But your King has plans for him.’

  Gueryn felt his stomach clench. He despised the evil nature of this man.

  ‘Can you get a message to Loth for me?’ Myrt asked, ignoring the sorcerer’s evasiveness.

  Rashlyn laughed; a snigger filled with guile and knowing. ‘No, I can’t do that. Have you admired the King’s magnificent new stallion by the way?’

  ‘The best I’ve ever seen,’ Myrt agreed, frustrated by the barshi’s irritating leaps from topic to topic.

  ‘And do you know what Galapek means in the old language?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘
Well, you should try and learn more of your ancestors’ tongue,’ Rashlyn answered and walked away smiling.

  ‘Now what’s that all supposed to mean?’ Byl asked.

  ‘Search me,’ Myrt replied. ‘His mind is as frenzied and unreliable as his appearance. He gives me the creeps. Superstitious or not, I don’t know how Cailech can stand him near.’

  ‘Looks like our prisoner has had enough,’ Byl suggested, noticing that Gueryn had stopped his pacing.

  ‘Come on then,’ Myrt called to Gueryn. ‘Let’s get you back to your cosy guest room.’

  Gueryn said nothing more, other than to thank the men for the rare treat of being outside.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Myrt replied. ‘We’ll force you to do it each evening until you feel fit again.’

  After the men had left, Gueryn allowed his mind to embrace the disturbing nature of what he had overheard from Rashlyn. Myrt and his friend might not have understood the sly message underlying the medicine man’s words, but Gueryn was classically trained. His great-grandmother, originally from the Outer Isles of the north, had been married off (more like traded, his grandmother had told him) to a noble in Morgravia. She had accepted her new life but never fully relinquished her cultural background, particularly its language, which she had religiously taught to her daughter, who had in turn instructed her own grandson.

  Gueryn knew all too well what the word ‘galapek’ meant in the old language of the north. Traitor. An odd name for a stallion.

  He shivered in the damp cell and pulled a blanket about him. What was the medicine man inferring — that Cailech had named his new stallion after his best friend? Or was it more convoluted than that?

  Rashlyn had said Lothryn was alive and amongst them. Yet neither of those men, presumably friends of Lothryn and close enough to the King to be familiar with him, had seen the courageous Mountain man. Further, Rashlyn had insinuated there were things none of them could understand. What was the link between the horse and Lothryn?

  Gueryn drifted off into unhappy sleep as he pondered this, promising himself he would make more effort to talk with his guards tomorrow night during the walk. Now he too wanted to know where Lothryn was.

  Meanwhile, in the stable, a man trapped by the powerful shapechanging magic of Rashlyn threw his magnificently sculpted new body angrily against the timber and screamed for deliverance.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  KNAVE COULD FEEL THE pull of Wyl’s thoughts. He already knew the Quickening had happened again and had startled his companion the previous night with a terrible howling.

  Fynch was far too sharp not to recognise this keening from the last time Knave had made this sound; then it was undoubtedly to signify that Romen had been killed and that Wyl had become Faryl. He had to assume now that Wyl had died once more and come back to life again — that he was now walking in a new body. The fear of not recognising Wyl in a different form gnawed at Fynch, but he was too distracted by his own fear to allow that notion to gain too much space in his mind right now.

  He and Knave were sitting at the edge of dense brush on the northern border of Briavel, known aptly as the Thicket. For those unfamiliar with its more mysterious purpose, it was simply a barrier to discourage any unsuspecting traveller from heading into the famed and sinister Wild. Beyond the Thicket line was a small tributary that eventually joined the major River Eyle which bisected Briavel and Morgravia. This body of water, ominously known as the Darkstream, was the only access into the Wild.

  ‘Are you sure, Knave?’ Fynch whispered once again.

  The dog nuzzled his face. It was answer enough. Knave would not let anything bad happen to him. As it was, the dog had somehow managed to get them from Baelup to the north of Briavel with dazzling speed. Fynch knew Knave used magic; had accepted it now.

  ‘How do you do it?’ he asked his friend, who stared back at him with dark liquid eyes. ‘I mean, I curl up with you in one spot and I wake up in another. Do you carry me?’ he wondered aloud, scratching gently at the dog’s ears, which was hugely appreciated by his companion. ‘Or do you just “send” us from one place to another, like I “sent” to Myrren’s father?’

  Knave groaned with pleasure. It was the only answer Fynch was going to get to his musings. ‘I guess I shouldn’t put it off any longer,’ Fynch said, hoping to find some comfort in the rallying words. Knave nudged him this time. He wanted Fynch to move. ‘I’m frightened,’ the boy admitted.

  He knew of the Wild from his mother’s stories around the fire at night. She had terrified him with dark tales of what must happen to the intrepid explorers who took fate in their hands and put their names down to enter the Wild. That’s right, he remembered — all travellers choosing to use this tributary had to register. It was how the authorities monitored who had gone missing over the years. Fynch felt his legs go watery at the thought. What if they were never seen or heard of again? How would Wyl know where to find his body? What would happen to Valentyna?

  Knave growled softly, urging him to move. Fynch unravelled the thong of Romen’s he had taken to wearing about his own tiny wrist. He tied it now to a branch, casting a prayer to Shar that someone might find it — that someone being Wyl, if Wyl should even know to come looking here!

  Fynch took a steadying breath, summoned his courage and stepped into the Thicket. It was dusk outside but beneath the tangle of yews it was all brooding shadows, making it look and feel as dark as the night. Was it his imagination that the branches bent as if to touch him? He tried to assure himself it was a fanciful thought. He decided to keep his eyes fixed on Knave, who now led the way through the foliage with seeming ease. There were no bird calls, no animal sounds. Not even an insect chirped. The heavy silence made Fynch curve his shoulders inward and wrap his thin arms about his body. Then he heard the rush of water nearby, close to their path, it felt like. He broke into a trot to keep up with Knave who was pushing more quickly now.

  Fynch suddenly realised he was unconsciously casting a repetitive thought. I mean no harm, he was saying over and again in his mind. Perhaps it was his susceptibility to magic that convinced Fynch the Thicket answered him, although he could no more articulate what was said than he could sprout wings and fly.

  After some time casting his mantra, the Thicket no longer felt threatening. The whispers — which was the only way Fynch could describe them — became increasingly gentle and warm. What had initially struck him as sinister now felt oddly friendly and, he had not imagined it, leaves were softly trailing against his face no matter how agilely he ducked and weaved. And with each brush of a leaf or a twig, he felt a tingle pass through him. There was no time to stop and consider it though. He was all but running after Knave now.

  Finally they emerged on the other side. It had felt like an age had passed during their passage through the dark, gloomy Thicket, but as they reached open air once more and the weight of its presence had lifted somewhat Fynch realised the journey had taken barely minutes.

  The Darkstream had indeed kept them company through the trees and now they saw it properly. It did not flow as quickly as Fynch had expected nor was it nearly as wide as it sounded. It was sinister, though, its waters dark and intimidating. Across a small wooden bridge, surrounded by the first rocky mounds which would become the Razors, there stood a hut. A cheerful column of smoke drifted from its chimney. A path led from its door to a jetty nearby, where a trio of small rowboats bobbed in the water, neatly tied to wooden poles. It was an unexpected homely scene and yet the gurgle of the deep waters that passed by warned Fynch that this was not a safe place.

  Knave walked a few paces across the bridge then looked back at Fynch. The boy gathered he was supposed to follow. Again he felt he might be imagining the tingle that passed through his body as he stepped on to the timbers of the bridge. It passed as quickly as it arrived and Fynch was left wondering what his fears were doing to him. He found grim amusement in the thought that the bridge should yell out ‘Friend or foe?’ as it might have done in the old fairy ta
les. And then behind the door of the hut should be a troll.

  He knocked at that door now. No troll. It was the normal voice of a man, friendly enough, calling that he was coming as fast as he could.

  ‘Now then,’ the man said, pulling open the door at last. ‘Shar strike me down, look at the size of that thing!’ he said, his hand going to his chest.

  ‘He won’t hurt you, sir. He’s just big,’ Fynch reassured, relieved the person looked nothing like a troll.

  The man looked at him somewhat quizzically and his pudgy face puckered in a genial manner. His ruddy complexion added to Fynch’s notion that this was a good-natured soul, who might enjoy a tipple and perhaps some company on the rare occasion it presented itself.

  ‘Come in then, boy. My name is Samm. Your… beast, or whatever it is, can wait outside.’

  ‘He is a dog, sir.’

  ‘Whatever, don’t dawdle and let the cold air in, child.’

  Fynch glanced towards Knave, who had already settled on his haunches. The dog knew what to do, so Fynch followed the man’s large backside into the hut. The smell of soup reminded him he had not eaten in a long time, despite his canine companion bringing him freshly killed rabbits most evenings. He imagined it was about now that this seemingly friendly soul would throw him into a cage and fatten him up for cooking in the soup pot later — then shook his head free of the silly stories from childhood.

  ‘Well now, lad, what brings you through the Thicket?’

  Another deep breath. ‘I must travel into the Wild, sir. I need to hire one of your boats.’

  ‘I see. And why do you need to do this?’

  ‘No offence, sir, but is it required that I have to answer your questions, sir?’ Fynch asked earnestly.

  ‘That you do, son. Without my approval, you’ll be heading straight back through those trees.’

  ‘It was my impression, sir,’ Fynch began carefully and seriously, as was his way, ‘that the boatkeeper may not refuse anyone to journey on the Darkstream.’

  The man sighed and his grey eyes gleamed deep within his fat face. ‘This is true. You are well informed.’