The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  The meal out in the open and the cold, huddled around a campfire, was the best Aremys felt he had eaten ever. Although these were hardly friends, the men were convivial enough. Even Firl had relaxed and was treating him with a new cordiality, remarking on some of Cullyn’s moves and how he might like to learn them. It was the closest the younger man got to admitting he was no match for Aremys, but even that was not needed. The songs they sang he knew somehow, reinforcing to him that he was from Grenadyne stock and not Morgravian. That was reassuring; yet why did he feel the pull towards Morgravia and, more keenly, towards Briavel where he was now sure he must have been relatively recently? He had no explanation for why he had been in the Razors alone and without a horse.

  The men explained it away by saying the horse had probably bolted; all were sure they would come across it dead soon enough. But Aremys had felt over all of his head and there was no bruising and no lump. Still, it hurt bad enough at times to make him feel nauseous. This was no fall from a horse. This was internal pain, but he could not explain it.

  Another worrying fact was the tingling sensation in his fingertips. That was odd. He had felt it immediately on regaining his wits but had paid no attention initially. It was not painful, not even that uncomfortable, but it was not in his imagination — it was definitely there yet he had no idea what it was, why it occurred or even if it had been there before the unconscious spell.

  The night closed in around them and they sang more mournful ballads now, suiting his mood. Serah haunted his thoughts. Serah and the name Koreldy, prompted by the blue glint of his blade. Was this the key to who he was? For now, though, he was Cullyn. It would have to do, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

  THIRTY-THREE

  WYL HESITATED IN HIS path towards the cheerful hut. He felt empty and angry, suddenly lost without Aremys who had disappeared without a trace. And now Knave had gone too. Late afternoon was reaching across the small clearing and Wyl shivered. There seemed to be no others around; just this cottage on the outskirts of a place of fear. He cast a glance behind at the black smudge which was the Thicket. It did not look so menacing from this side but he knew it held secrets. He had felt the thrum of its magic in that moment when his breathing had become so difficult and he had wondered if he might die.

  Where could Aremys be? It was no good, he would have to satisfy his anxiety by at least trying to find his friend. He could not just leave him. He turned back the way he had come.

  ‘No, don’t do that, my lady,’ called a voice.

  Wyl swung around to see a large man coming towards him across the bridge.

  ‘I’m Samm, the boatkeeper. I saw you hesitating just now and thought I should come out and provide a welcome. It must be hard for a lady travelling alone,’ he said looking about him. ‘You are alone, aren’t you?’

  ‘I…’ Wyl wavered between the truth and a lie. He opted for the latter. The fewer people who knew the better. ‘Yes, yes I am. My apologies, I am Lady Rachyl Farrow.’

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ Samm said kindly, gesturing towards his cottage.

  ‘Um, well, I think what I need is a boat to tell the truth,’ Wyl said, feeling his way now, unsure of the usual practice here.

  ‘I understand. Come in. Let me at least fix a pot of tea and then we can discuss your requirements.’

  After a last searching glance at the Thicket and another roving look for Knave, Wyl accepted that he was alone on this journey now. He nodded to Samm to lead the way.

  ‘Why did you say that I shouldn’t go back into the Thicket, Samm?’

  ‘I felt something a few moments ago. Just thought it best to let it be. The Thicket can be contrary I’ve realised over my time and I’ve got used to its strange sighs and movements. There are occasions when it feels quite alive.’

  ‘And this was one of them?’ Wyl queried, crossing the bridge behind Samm.

  ‘Yes,’ the man replied simply.

  Inside, Samm went about the business of making tea. ‘Why are you here, my lady?’ he asked gently.

  Wyl opted for honesty. ‘I’m following someone. A boy.’

  ‘Ah, the lad Fynch.’

  ‘That’s right!’

  ‘And his strange black beast.’

  ‘Knave. He’s my dog actually.’ Wyl felt a surge of relief that Fynch had passed through safely.

  ‘Is the lad in trouble?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ He thought quickly. ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘So you’re from Briavel too?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he answered, desperately wondering how much deeper the lying would get. Already he was no longer from Grenadyn which was the original plan.

  ‘Your brother was seeking someone?’

  ‘Mmm, yes.’ He did not want to answer these questions. ‘Do you need any help with that?’

  ‘No, my lady. Here we go,’ Samm said, putting down a mug of tea. ‘Honey?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Family?’ Samm was not going to be put off, Wyl could tell.

  ‘That’s right,’ he answered, sipping the tea, desperately hoping to escape further interrogation. ‘How much for the boat?’

  ‘One crown. Is there anything I can do to dissuade you from going, my lady? Your brother will not return from the Wild. No one does.’

  ‘I must try though, Samm. He’s so young,’ Wyl said as plaintively as possible.

  ‘It is a one-way journey, my lady. People leave and empty boats return. His has already found its way back to its mooring. To lose two fine people such as yourselves so fast… well, it disturbs me. I always hope I can stop someone going.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘That’s what Fynch said.’

  ‘I must leave before I lose the light. Thank you for your tea.’ Wyl stood and held out his small and pretty hand.

  ‘Why not go in the morning? Sleep on it?’

  ‘No, Samm. I really must get going.’

  Samm sighed heavily and went foraging for his great black book. Following the same routine as with Fynch he intoned the terms and conditions of his visitor’s departure, his genial face heavy with regret that another young life was to be lost.

  ‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, having clearly spelled out his name to record in the book. ‘Just out of interest, Samm, who was the previous person to enter the Wild before Fynch?’

  ‘Funny, we had the same conversation, miss. It was a young lady like you. Her name was Emil Lightford, a scholar from Pearlis.’

  The name meant nothing to Wyl but he nodded and smiled.

  ‘That was so many years ago,’ Samm said. ‘And now two of you in such a short time.’

  ‘Here’s my money,’ Wyl said, holding out the coin. ‘Do I take any boat?’

  ‘Whichever you like, my lady. Let me escort you. And don’t worry about steering. It navigates itself.’

  Wyl smiled in nervous thanks and followed Samm down to the jetty. He selected the nearest boat.

  ‘That was your brother’s choice too,’ Samm said. ‘All I can offer you now is good luck.’

  Wyl waved once then turned to face two huge overhanging willows whose drooping branches looked like tentacles waiting to grab him and pull him into their darkness. The absence of Aremys played heavily on his mind — another person who trusted him, loved him even, now gone. Wyl could only hope he was not dead, but perhaps he was. Why would the Thicket be selective, he wondered, then forgot the thought as the thick canopy of overhanging trees enveloped him. His eyes slowly adjusted to the murky darkness and he even risked sitting down on the small plank across the boat. There were no oars.

  It was cold; Wyl hugged Ylena’s arms about himself. Just as he was starting to feel slightly less threatened by this journey a sheer rock face came into view around a slight curve in the Darkstream. It was huge — most likely part of the Razors, he thought, by the granite. A low arch was hewn out of it, very narrow, just sufficient to allow a single boat through. He held his breath, wished goodbye to all that he re
cognised as familiar and reflexively shut his eyes as the mountain closed its lips around the little boat and swallowed him up.

  Initially there was only depthless black when he opened his eyes. It was disorienting and he held the sides of the boat to give him a sense of up and down in this dread place. If he’d thought it was cold before, it was freezing beneath the weight of the granite and his teeth began to chatter. Ylena just did not have sufficient flesh on her body to keep warm in such conditions. Shivering uncontrollably now, Wyl wondered whether Samm had been right: this was a one-way journey; no one ever returned. The tunnel would go on forever and its travellers would die of the trauma of being alone in the dark or freeze to death.

  These macabre thoughts were his only companions as the journey through darkness lengthened until any sane person would have felt the first flutterings of panic. Wyl could not tell whether he was imagining it but the ceiling of the narrow tunnel seemed to lower. He felt too frightened to let go of his grip on the boat to confirm it. There was a curious battle going on inside him. Wyl was not one to be afraid of the dark or enclosed spaces, but through his increasing agitation he recalled that Ylena had liked neither. Even as an adult she had always kept a single candle burning through the night, and as a child her worst nightmare was of being locked in a cupboard. Was some residue of Ylena’s fear surfacing now? Whatever it was, it was getting worse. His pulse had quickened to panic point and his breathing was coming in shallow gasps. He did his best to quell the fear, to rationalise it, but the tunnel was surely closing in and the thick silence was working against him.

  Ylena’s fear took full flight and Wyl began to scream. He stupidly tried to stand and instantly lost his balance. His hysterical shrieks were cut short by a new darkness, wet and drowning. He gulped for air as the Darkstream drew him into its fathomless depths, down towards death where perhaps he would come to rest next to Fynch and Emil… or whatever her name was… he could no longer remember. All he could focus on now was the ebbing of his life.

  Perhaps it was for the best. His life — if he could call it that — was too dangerous, a weapon in itself. Who needed a sword or a bow when the mere act of succumbing to your opponent’s weapon was enough to kill? Wyl hated the curse that lay upon his life. He would welcome death now, a death that claimed no life but his own.

  He let go of the last bit of breath in his lungs and his hold on life, and allowed himself sink into oblivion.

  A savage yank bit through his shoulder and reawakened him to his struggle. His lungs were bursting for air, he had no idea which way was up and was too dizzy to think straight. Death was indeed close. Just moments ago he had anticipated seeing the friendly, welcoming faces of Shar’s Gatherers, assuring him that all would be well once their outstretched hands fell upon him.

  But now there were no faces, no welcome. Just a fight for air and a monster, big with teeth, and strength that dragged at him. Survive, damn you! a voice cried in his head. They burst through the Darkstream’s surface.

  ‘Here, Knave!’ a voice called. It was Fynch and next to him another figure. ‘Quickly,’ Fynch urged. ‘Drag him over here.’

  Wyl was pulled, near unconscious, from the black icy water.

  ‘Let me see him,’ the other person said.

  ‘Her,’ Fynch corrected, shocked. It was Ylena’s body which lay inert and pale before them. He helped Knave from the water and gritted his teeth as the huge dog shook his shining black fur free of the Darkstream. ‘This is Ylena Thirsk,’ Fynch admitted sadly.

  His companion shook his head. ‘Let me help him.’

  Moments later Ylena’s body shuddered and spluttered with a heaving cough, brought up the water swallowed and sucked in lungfuls of lifegiving air. Her eyes flew open. ‘Fynch?’ The coughing began again.

  The boy nodded. ‘Hello, Wyl. We thought we’d lost you.’

  Ylena’s expression was confused. She was shivering uncontrollably amidst the coughing. ‘Who…?’

  ‘It was Knave — he dived so low for you and was gone so long I worried for his safety too.’

  Knave took this moment to loom into view and lick Ylena’s face. Fynch took Ylena’s slim, delicate hand. ‘Wyl, this is Elysius… Myrren’s father.’

  Wyl, glad to have finally rid himself of the dregs of the Darkstream, regarded the strangest-looking person he had ever seen.

  ‘Don’t talk yet,’ Elysius said softly. ‘You’re shivering. We need to get you warm and dry very quickly.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Wyl asked. He must have been sleeping, he realised.

  ‘We’re with Elysius, where he lives… in the Wild,’ Fynch said. Wyl could see he was struggling with his emotions.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly good to see you again, Fynch,’ he said warmly. Sitting up, he opened his arms for the boy to fall into them.

  ‘What happened?’ Fynch wept. ‘How come you’re Ylena?’

  ‘Oh, a long and horrid story. I can scarcely believe it myself and hate even thinking about it. It only happened a few days back so I’m not very used to being her.’ He smiled awkwardly with her beautiful face and held Fynch away so he could look at him. ‘You’re amazing, do you know that, to get yourself all the way here?’

  Fynch risked one of his rare smiles. ‘I got a fair bit of help from my four-legged friend over there.’

  Wyl looked over to see Knave settled by the side of the bed and regarding him with those dark knowing eyes. Knave barked once and Wyl grinned. ‘Thank you for coming after me, Knave, I was all but finished down there,’ he said, flinching at the memory of the Darkstream. He turned back to Fynch. ‘I’m glad he keeps you safe. Where is Elysius?’

  ‘Preparing food.’ Fynch chuckled. ‘He’s a terrible cook.’

  Wyl shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I really caught sight of him properly back there.’

  Fynch grew serious again. ‘You did. He’s… well, he’s strange to look at.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘See for yourself,’ a voice said. Elysius had returned.

  Wyl thought the man looked like one of Shar’s jests, the sort of creature one might see in Master Jensyn’s Freak Spectacular which roamed the realms, terrifying and amusing people with the tallest man, the ugliest woman, the boy with no face and suchlike. Elysius, however, struck him as being one of those freaks who would normally not be permitted to take a second breath beyond birth.

  ‘Which explains why I live in the Wild,’ Elysius continued, breaking the awkward silence.

  ‘Wyl!’ Fynch admonished under his breath.

  ‘You are not what I was expecting,’ Wyl finally said, lost for the right words.

  ‘Neither are you,’ Elysius admitted, a crooked smile splitting his strange face. ‘I had heard from your friend here that you were a hired assassin called Faryl of Coombe.’

  Wyl was fascinated. Elysius’s head was too large for his dwarflike body which was big through the abdomen and sat atop ridiculously short legs. It struck Wyl that his arms were not the right length either; in fact everything about Elysius was out of proportion. Wyl recalled how he had once worried about being deeply unattractive with his red hair and freckles — here was someone to make him feel ashamed of such sentiment. Elysius was ugly beyond imagining. A massive forehead swept down towards a heavy jutting brow and a wide flat nose. When he smiled, as he did now, his mouth seemed to stretch forever, revealing huge horselike teeth. If this was not enough, his face was covered in unsightly lumps and both his eyes were milky white — to all intents, blind. Lank dark hair was carelessly tied back behind his enormous troll-like head. The only attractive feature of this person was his voice. It was all warmth and mellowness — that same voice which had soothed Wyl when he needed an anchor to stop his fears taking full flight.

  ‘It is not polite to stare, you know,’ Elysius said in his lovely voice.

  ‘I… I’m so sorry,’ Wyl said, wondering how the blind man had known.

  Elysius felt for and took Ylena’s tiny fingers in his own ove
rsized hand. ‘No, I think I am the one who should be sorry, Wyl. You have suffered greatly at my whim.’

  There was another awkward silence as the gravity of what had just been said sat between them. It was Elysius’s fault that Wyl now lived in his own sister’s body, and before that had walked as Faryl and Romen.

  Wyl took a slow breath. It was all in the past. They were dead. Even he knew that the magic of Elysius could not bring those people back. Keeping Valentyna safe and securing her realm was the only thing that mattered to Wyl now — that, and keeping his promise to Elspyth to track down Lothryn. His own life was inconsequential. He cared nothing for it.

  ‘Tell me about yourself… please,’ Wyl finally said.

  ‘Over some food. Come, join me at my table. Do you feel better?’

  Wyl nodded. ‘Did you make me sleep?’

  ‘I did. Your body needed a rest after its shock. I’m afraid you have been out for many hours. It is night outside — too dark to see anything.’

  Fynch led the way.

  ‘I’m not much of a cook,’ Elysius admitted, waddling after Fynch on his short legs. He really was something out of a horror tale.

  ‘So I have heard,’ Wyl said and then gave Ylena’s warm, reassuring smile when Elysius feigned hurt at the comment.

  ‘Fynch is plain ungrateful,’ he grumbled. ‘Starling-and-fish pie is delicious.’

  Wyl threw a troubled glance towards Fynch who could only shrug.

  The so-called starling pie was not nearly as bad as Wyl had imagined. He munched hungrily on the breads and delicious cheeses Elysius had also laid out.

  ‘Drowning must give you an appetite,’ Elysius remarked, enjoying seeing his guest eat so heartily.

  Wyl grinned, feeling immeasurably better for the rest, food and convivial atmosphere. ‘I shall have to stop soon. Ylena will never forgive me if I ruin her figure.’

  His jest was mild but it struck a blow at Elysius once again at the havoc his actions had wrought on Wyl’s life. ‘I owe you an explanation,’ Elysius admitted as he reached to refill the mugs.