Wyl nodded and bent to push his way into the Thicket. Before he entered fully he called over his shoulder to his companion, ‘Can you whistle?’
‘I guess that’s a fairly important question that needs answering right now?’ Aremys said, all but bent double to follow directly after Wyl.
‘It’s just that Ylena can’t. One thing I couldn’t teach her.’
‘Well, I really appreciate that critical information,’ his friend grunted behind him.
‘Aremys, whistle, damn you! I can’t, so you’ll have to do it for both of us!’ Wyl snapped.
‘Happy to indulge you, my lady. Just not sure why?’ came the response.
‘Because we don’t know what might happen in here. I don’t want us to be separated.’
‘Oh,’ Aremys said, understanding now. ‘All right. Any requests? I do a fine “Under the Gooseberry Bush”.’
‘Just get on with it, you fool!’ Wyl said, daring a laugh through his fear. The Thicket’s presence was ominous and he could not shake the feeling that danger was ahead.
‘Can I just mention, as we’re on the topic of Ylena’s strengths and weaknesses, that she’s got the best arse I’ve had the pleasure of being close to.’ Aremys’s muffled voice came from very close behind.
‘Whistle!’ Wyl ordered in his girlish voice. He knew what Aremys was doing. He was forcing the lightheartedness to combat their fear but it was not working; they were both frightened enough to feel their own hearts pumping hard in their chests. It felt as if the Thicket was drawing them in… but to what?
He marvelled at how Fynch had found the courage to take this path and then remembered that Knave almost certainly would have been with him to lead the charge.
Entering the gloom of the Thicket Wyl was immediately struck by its eerie silence which was sufficiently heavy to cause a sense of suffocation. He could not stand upright, for the branches were so low and tangled. He breathed hard and loosened a button at his throat. He knew it was afternoon outside yet it was dark enough beneath the yews that he could swear night was coming on. Nothing moved but them.
At that moment he felt a terrible pressure on his chest, as if all his breath was being sucked away. He could hear Aremys crashing into the Thicket behind and momentarily heard his bright whistling before the sound was suddenly cut off. And then he could breathe again.
Wyl swung around, presuming his friend’s quiet was due to shock at the silence and dark but he could not see his companion.
‘Aremys?’ He listened. Nothing.
‘Aremys!’ he yelled.
Only dread silence responded.
Valentyna finished dictating her response to King Celimus, the couched threat in his letter burning in her mind. It had taken much soul-searching on her part to reach the decision, but now it was finally made she knew it was the only one she could have taken under the circumstances. The nobles were not going to support her without Ylena Thirsk, and even then she could not imagine what the young noblewoman could say or do which might change their minds. Yes, she may argue convincingly that Celimus was every bit the snake Wyl Thirsk had once described him as, but Valentyna had seen the truth in their faces this afternoon, read it in their pained expressions, heard it in their voices made awkward by the tension: the Briavellian nobles wanted peace with Morgravia above everything. Even above her.
She was a pawn; the valuable key that might unlock the barrier between Morgravia and Briavel and enable them to live side by side as friendly neighbours, as allies.
Valentyna clearly understood that whatever lip service they had paid her this afternoon with regard to finding more proof, the fact of the matter was that they did not care. They did not want further proof. Whatever Celimus was and whatever his intentions, it apparently mattered not. If she were married to him then no more of their proud sons need die. Even if — Shar forbid — Celimus somehow contrived to make himself Emperor of both realms, he would no longer wage war on Briavel which meant their children were safe. And, after decades of warring, peace was what the Briavellians wanted more than anything.
It finally occurred to her that despite all the adoration she was expendable. The realisation was a deep pain in her heart and she felt breathless as its truth sank into her very soul. She was a figurehead Queen. Her own people might well accept Celimus as their sovereign once the marriage was realised. All the talk of finding Ylena, considering new strategies, even stalling the marriage any further, seemed so very futile all of a sudden. She must marry Celimus on behalf of Briavel and sacrifice her peace for its peace.
As these thoughts raged in her mind, Krell finished his scratchings on the paper and blew on it to dry the ink.
‘I shall add the royal seal, your highness, once you have signed it.’
He handed her the quill. She did not take it.
‘I am doing the right thing, aren’t I, Krell?’
He searched the anguished face that so echoed the beautiful woman who had birthed her, and he thought of her father and how proud Valor would be of his daughter right now. She was putting her realm before her own inclination and thereby ensuring its prosperity in the future. ‘Your majesty,’ he said gravely, ‘Briavel will flourish because of this important decision you have made today.’
Her smile was thin and wavered beneath the force of her will as she pushed away tears or sentiment. ‘I don’t want to marry him, Krell, but I know I must.’
‘If you will permit me, your highness…?’
Valentyna nodded. She trusted Krell implicitly and needed his assurances now more than ever before, because he had been so close to her father and because she knew how much he cared.
The Chancellor’s rheumy gaze fixed upon her. ‘If you are strong from the outset, child, Celimus will never make Briavel bow to Morgravia. You are a Queen in your own right; you must not lose sight of this. We need his peace, yes, but oh, your highness, he needs your sons! The bluest of royal bloods mingling. It is a royal fantasy, your highness, which both our dear King Valor and the great King Magnus probably dared only conjure in their wildest daydreams. Imagine your own blood reigning over two realms in years to come.’
She nodded again, tears rising now. ‘I agree. If my reign is remembered for nothing else, I will secure peace for Briavel and birth the heirs it needs to sustain peace in the region.’
‘That’s the spirit, your highness. Very few royal marriages are made by Shar — most are pragmatic and highly strategic. This is no different. Your father, may his soul rest quietly, would advise the same.’
The Queen smiled sadly. Krell knew what she was thinking. She had hoped to marry for love. What woman did not?
She could not help herself; it needed to be said. ‘And I must forget that Celimus designed the death of my father, the death of Wyl Thirsk, the murder of Romen Koreldy, the slaughter of those monks at Rittylworth and the noble family of Felrawthy… and no doubt countless others?’ Her chest rose and fell with the anger she was holding at bay.
‘My Queen, we have no proof that his hand was behind the weapons in any of those deaths.’
‘But we know it, Krell!’
‘Yes, your majesty,’ he admitted truthfully. ‘But as diplomats we must pursue this peace he offers or more of our young men are going to die. We stand to lose a whole generation if we go against him. Celimus, I fear, does not possess the qualities of Magnus; he will fight us until the last man of Briavel falls and then he will likely dissolve the realm as we know it, wipe out its name and make it an annexe of Morgravia.’
Valentyna did not want to say that she felt in her heart that he would annex Briavel anyway. ‘And still you would urge this marriage, knowing that I sacrifice myself to a man I could never love?’
‘Love is not the issue here, my Queen,’ Krell said firmly. ‘This is politics and your emotions must be set aside. Your decision is purely a diplomatic one… a sound one. You will be Queen of Morgravia as well as Briavel and you must use that status to great effect. This is not Celimus, King of Morgrav
ia and Briavel with his Queen consort. You are both equal sovereigns with equal say in the running of both realms. You alone can carve a path for this marriage to work. Put aside what you feel you are losing and consider only what you are gaining, your highness.’ He surprised Valentyna by suddenly kneeling before her. ‘You must leave behind whatever has gone before. Cut yourself free of those bonds and those sentiments. Start a new life with Celimus and see if you cannot be the one who makes the difference.’
‘To him, you mean?’
‘To him, to Morgravia and Briavel. Both realms crave this union and the harmony it will bring. Work hard for peace in the marriage, your highness, and you may well bring about surprising changes.’
Valentyna felt entirely trapped. There was nothing more she could do. All of the warnings she had heard from Wyl, from Romen, from Fynch and even more lately from Elspyth, haunted her, yet Celimus’s messenger had been ordered to wait for her response. Time was the enemy. The King was both impatient and impetuous — who knew what he might do if she did not answer in the positive. How long could she wait for Ylena and why would she? What difference would Ylena Thirsk make anyway, she asked herself, filled with frustration.
She made a small sound of despair before grabbing the quill and quickly signing her name to the acceptance of marriage to Celimus.
‘There,’ she said, unable to disguise the disgust in her voice. ‘Get it away with the messenger.’
‘Yes, your highness,’ Krell said, rising. He felt a sense of loss at his part in forcing this young woman to act against her instincts, but the alliance was necessary for the wellbeing of Briavel. He and King Valor had discussed on many occasions how insecure Briavel would be if faced with a battle on two fronts and Krell firmly believed that the threat from Cailech in the near future was real.
Wyl felt a cold tremor pass through him. Aremys had gone; disappeared. There was no sign that he had even followed Wyl fully into the Thicket except Wyl’s memory of his friend whistling the first few bars of ‘Under the Gooseberry Bush’. Somehow he knew it would be pointless to search. If the Thicket was as enchanted as he had been led to believe then it had made the decision to separate them.
He shivered. Magic.
And as that thought passed through him, a black dog melted out of the darkness and sat huge and still before him.
‘Knave.’
The dog leapt and Wyl felt a moment of exquisite fear that it was attacking. He should have known better; he found himself on his back and winded amongst the leaf mould with the dog towering above him, licking him.
‘Where’s Aremys?’ Wyl asked, pushing him away. He wondered how Knave felt seeing him as Ylena whom the dog had always favoured.
Knave growled low. It was an answer but not one Wyl could understand.
‘Is he all right?’
This time Knave barked once. Wyl convinced himself the animal had answered affirmatively. He had to believe that Aremys was somewhere safe and not wandering aimlessly through the Thicket.
Knave growled again and turned. Wyl knew the dog wanted to lead him somewhere. They set off, the black beast at a trot and Wyl behind, crouching, blindly following. There were moments when he felt convinced that the branches were reaching out to touch him but none actually did. The silence was oppressive with only Knave’s presence and his own pounding pulse to reassure him that life existed in this strangest of places. It felt to Wyl that they had been moving for a long time and he could hear the rushing of water nearby.
With that sound, images echoing his fears engulfed Wyl. Aremys lost in the Thicket, calling to him. Valentyna being raped by Celimus. Elspyth screaming for Lothryn whilst the man she loved begged Wyl for help. Romen, Faryl and Ylena walked towards him, arms outstretched like supplicants, their expressions as lifeless as he remembered from when he stole each of their bodies. He shied backwards from their touch. And then, worst of all, blood and gore surrounding Tenterdyn. He could almost smell the carnage. Just when he thought he would have to scream out for the dog to stop, that he had to go back, they burst through the other side, emerging into grey daylight and a soft drizzle of rain.
Wyl dragged in a lungful of the damp air, not caring that his cheeks were wet from his own tears rather than the misty rain. Knave was gone. Instead, through the murkiness he saw a small cottage on the other side of a short bridge. Its chimney smoked cheerfully through the gloomy afternoon and light glowed at the windows. Like a magnet the dwelling drew him to its warmth.
THIRTY-ONE
ALEDA WAS DYING. SHE knew it, but somehow it was all right, providing she could cling to life long enough to learn the whereabouts of her eldest son or at least that he was alive. That knowledge would allow her to pass over with grim happiness that the Donal name had not been completely stamped out. But right now each heavy step of the faithful donkey hurt her and her mind and body focused on simply remaining on its back. If she fell off now, she was sure she would have to lie there and wait in hope that the Briavellian Guard would find her before she took her last breath.
Shar was guiding her passage that day. A tinker, selling pots and sharpening knives from village to village, came across the blood-spattered, bedraggled woman with the torn fingernails. He could see she was just about ready for the Gatherers to take her to her god. He leapt from his small cart, calling to the horse to be still as he reached for a water skin.
‘Drink,’ he said, offering it.
Aleda did so. She had not taken water in hours. Perhaps she had forgotten to — she could no longer remember. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked.
The tinker looked around anxiously. There would be no help here; they were in the middle of nowhere it seemed. He himself had crossed the border at around midday yesterday. Mind you, Brackstead was not far away, he was sure.
There seemed little point in taxing the woman with questions. She looked too ill to speak anyway. ‘Come on,’ he encouraged. ‘We have to get you to Brackstead.’
Aleda did not complain; she too wanted to keep moving. Who this kind stranger was mattered not — if he was going to help her to get another step closer to Crys, she would take it. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered again.
‘Don’t talk. Save your strength.’
They set off, Aleda feeling stronger just for the presence of another person. They had travelled less than a mile before they rounded a bend in the road to see the cheering scene of a large village laid out before them.
The sight of Aleda brought several people running to help.
‘I don’t know her,’ the tinker replied to their queries. ‘I found her just a mile back. Can we get her to a doctor?’
Someone sent a young boy running for the travelling physic. ‘You’re lucky he’s in our village today,’ the woman said.
‘Is there an inn?’ the tinker asked.
A man nodded. ‘Yes, The Lucky Bowman. Shall we go there?’
‘Please. She says she has money.’
It was a woman who ran the place. ‘Shar’s mercy,’ she cried as three burly men carried in what looked like a corpse.
‘The physic’s coming,’ one said and nodded to the others to head upstairs.
‘Room four,’ she called to their backs, before turning to the tinker, who looked thoroughly uncomfortable, and the older woman who had stayed with him.
‘They’ve just arrived, Nan, in terrible shape,’ the woman said, clearly excited by all the activity. ‘I’ve sent Rory after that travelling physic who was here today. There’s coin to pay for the room.’
‘I don’t even know her name. I… I just stumbled across her on my way here,’ the tinker admitted.
Nan nodded towards the door. ‘Here’s the physic — we can sort out her food and board later,’ she said kindly. ‘Take them up, Bel, I have to keep a watch on things down here.’
Bel was only too glad to remain involved in the day’s intrigue and she called to the physic, a middle-aged man with grey at his temples and a soft-spoken voice, to follow her. He stopped to confer briefly
with the tinker who then took his leave, glad to be gone from all the attention and bustle.
Alone with his patient, the physic learned the full horror of what this severely injured woman had gone through and, even more distressing, who she was.
He gave Aleda a draught of a crimson fluid. ‘Rest now, Lady Donal,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘We will get word to Werryl for you.’
At those reassuring words, Aleda gave in to the drug’s sedative quality.
The physic went downstairs to speak with Nan who in turn called for Bel.
‘She needs a carer,’ he explained. ‘You will be paid.’
Bel nodded. ‘You want me to stay with her until you return, right?’
‘She will not recover from her internal injuries,’ he said. ‘But yes, I need someone by her side. I have staunched the bleeding for now and she will sleep for several hours. When she wakes, I want you to brew up these leaves,’ he said, handing her a pouch. ‘They will give her strength.’
‘Food?’
He shook his head. ‘Furthest thing from her mind. Keep her water up, though. She will die of her injuries before she dies of starvation.’
‘How long can she hang on?’ Nan asked, not at all happy at the thought of a potential corpse cooling in one of her beds.
‘She’s got courage. That alone will keep her going twice as long as someone with a weaker disposition. A day or so perhaps.’
‘And where are you going for help, Physic Geryld?’ asked Bel, ever curious.
‘I will ride back to Werryl and bring help swiftly,’ he answered, determined to keep the patient’s identity a secret. He knew they had guessed her status as a noblewoman but he did not wish to give away private details to these village folk. ‘Your job is to keep her alive until then with the tea and your voice.’
Bel frowned. ‘My voice?’
‘Talk to her. Keep her alert when she’s awake. She will need her wits about her. I shall leave immediately.’
‘How long will you need?’
The Quickening Page 89
