The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Elysius! Curse him! Rashlyn felt sure he must be dead. He felt no remorse for causing his brother’s death. Emil had met Rashlyn first and had flirted recklessly with the plain young man, picking her target perfectly for it was obvious he was starved of female attention. As much as Rashlyn desperately wanted to touch, to kiss, to lie with a woman, none would have him willingly so Emil was a revelation for him. Even the whores of Pearlis thought twice about taking Rashlyn’s money. There was something about his wild eyes and disturbing manner that frightened them. And they were right to be scared. Rashlyn’s insecurity had caused the death of two prostitutes on separate occasions when he was unable to see their brief paid coupling through to the normal close. Embarrassed to the point of anguish, he had lashed out with his powers and murdered both cruelly and painfully.

  Since tasting the power of killing he had wanted more, needed more. He wished he had killed his brother sooner, then Elysius would never have met Emil. As soon as she clapped eyes on his handsome brother, the humiliation for Rashlyn was complete — her passing interest in him was done. So be it, he had decided, I will find my pleasures in other, darker ways. And he had.

  More recently, he had come to the startling realisation that death was easy to inflict; it was the crafting of a spell to prolong an agonising life that was the challenge. It gave him even greater power to control someone through his magic and manipulate them in unthinkable ways.

  The transformation of Lothryn from man to horse was the culmination of years of practice in his wing of the mountain fortress where no one could hear the screams of the rabbits and squirrels he selected for his experiments.

  He had hated his brother for his looks and his easy manner with others, but mostly he had hated him for his ability to work magic with animals. For as helpless as they seemed to Rashlyn when he had them pinned down or trapped, he had no control over them in any other way, no relationship with the natural world at all.

  He hoped Elysius had fought death hard before the sea consumed him. And if by chance he had cheated the waters, then he hoped his brother had died a pitiful death as a freak in some far corner of the realm. Perhaps he had been set upon by a gang of frightened people — he hoped so, for Rashlyn had certainly seen to it that Elysius could not risk appearing in public.

  Rashlyn had not felt his brother’s magic since that dark day of death, but then he could not be confident that his waning power could detect a magic as subtle as Elysius’s at work. It was an artful and delicate power, and so potent it took his breath away. He had feared that as Elysius matured he would have learned the key to cloaking his magics — and perhaps he had… perhaps he was alive and practising his art right now?

  Since his brother’s presumed demise and his own defection to the Mountain Kingdom, Rashlyn had devoted his energies towards unlocking the secret of power over the animals and birds, the mountains and the trees. One could rule the world with that sort of power at your call. His own skills simply made him a sorcerer, which was why he had attached himself to the far-thinking, highly intelligent King of the Mountains. Using him as his cover and, indeed, his tool, Rashlyn envisaged himself manipulating great power… and not just in the Razors. But right now Cailech was being rash. He was howling for Morgravian blood — too soon in Rashlyn’s opinion. The King had this notion that Rashlyn’s magic would serve to keep him utterly secure and prevent casualties amongst the Mountain Dwellers.

  Rashlyn needed more time to shore up his defences, to work new spells. He could hardly explain to the King that his magic was failing him. He remembered how he had only just managed to maintain that glamour of the woman from Yentro. A few moments more and the vision would have crumpled, revealing its deceit to the Morgravian soldier. And the breathtaking spell on Lothryn which so impressed his King — that had been achieved brutally. There was nothing subtle or beautiful about that enchantment, even though the result seemed so miraculous. It was an abomination. Elysius would never have created something so tainted, but he was not Elysius, he was Rashlyn, the unloved, unwanted madman of the family.

  He considered Lothryn now, wondering at the pain he was probably suffering. If Elysius had constructed the shapechanging spell, Rashlyn knew in his heart he would have done so effortlessly, without the smashing and distortion of limbs, breaking of the mind or any of the torturous pain Rashlyn had forced upon the courageous man. It was not that Rashlyn regretted Lothryn’s pain. No, his despair was all selfish: he wanted his magic to be subtle, like the magic of Elysius. Instead, it was messy and clumsy.

  Would Lothryn die? Rashlyn had no idea if the man’s spirit would survive the trauma and keep the beast alive, or whether it would wither and kill Cailech’s beautiful new stallion.

  Rashlyn comforted himself that this time of anxiety and soul-searching would be brief. The madness would descend any moment now and his mind would once again swirl back into its dark and twisting pathways where there was no remorse, no sympathy, no love for anything but power and corruption.

  Next to shapechanging Lothryn, tapping into Cailech’s mind was Rashlyn’s most recent diabolical act. He had learned how to manipulate the King’s thoughts and influence his decisions to suit his own base ends. But he could not wield this magic unless the King stood near him and was receptive to that manipulation. There were times when Cailech was utterly closed to him. That was his weakness.

  The door opened and Cailech entered as if at a silent signal. No one else but the King ever came to his rooms and he was the only person anyway who would never feel the obligation to announce himself with a knock. The sorcerer felt the familiar drag downwards from rationality into his other, deranged self.

  ‘My King,’ he said, not turning yet, using the moments to compose himself. ‘I was just admiring the day.’

  ‘We must speak,’ Cailech said, clearly agitated. ‘I want you to do a reading for me.’

  ‘I just have, my lord King.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Stones predict change.’

  ‘Oh? What sort of change?’ Cailech’s body language was suddenly intent and eager.

  Rashlyn noticed the flush at his King’s cheeks. Something had created high excitement in him, he realised. ‘This they do not tell me. I have cast the Stones several times, your highness, and each time they simply prophesy change.’

  Cailech surprised his barshi by clapping his hands and laughing. It was a cheerful response to something which would normally disturb him. Rashlyn frowned, unsettled by this reaction.

  ‘Perfect!’ the King muttered. ‘Do you have any wine here?’

  ‘Er… why yes, of course. Let me pour you some,’ Rashlyn offered, intrigued. He poured for both of them and waited for the inevitable toast.

  ‘To change,’ Cailech obliged, holding up his cup before swallowing the contents.

  Rashlyn copied his King and put his cup down. ‘So you are happy with my prediction, your highness?’

  ‘Yes. It confirms what I must do.’

  ‘And what must you do, my lord?’

  ‘Go to Morgravia,’ the King said, as if the barshi should have known something so obvious ‘for a parley with King Celimus.’

  ‘This is a jest, surely? The Stones suggest no such thing,’ Rashlyn spluttered, all politeness deserting him.

  Cailech hardly noticed. He put a gleeful finger in the air. ‘Ah, wait, hear me out,’ and he told him of the capture of and his subsequent meeting with the man known as Cullyn.

  ‘And you trust this man? This stranger!’

  ‘Oddly, yes,’ Cailech replied, unpredictable as always.

  ‘Wait,’ Rashlyn cautioned. ‘Say no more until I have consulted the Stones about him.’

  Cailech nodded and settled back with a second cup of wine whilst his barshi set about casting the smoothed rocks with their odd engravings. He remained silent as Rashlyn threw the eleven stones across the floor and squatted to read them. He stood up again after a long time.

  ‘Well?’

  Rashlyn shook his head
slowly. ‘The Stones are confused. They tell me that he speaks the truth but —’

  ‘Ha!’ Cailech interrupted, delighted.

  ‘But… he holds back on things. I cannot tell what these are.’

  ‘He has lost his memory, man, that would explain it. And anyway, we all have secrets — even you, Rashlyn,’ Cailech said, sounding even happier if such a thing were possible.

  Not you, sire. I can read your mind as if it were an open page, the man of magic thought sourly, knowing this was not wholly true. ‘I would recommend caution, my lord.’

  ‘The Stones themselves predict change. Change of scenery, change of heart, change of ideals, change of plan. Not war with Celimus, Rashlyn, but trade as equals, prosperity together. I am ashamed I wasn’t the one to think of it first. It is inspired — I can’t wait to tell Lothryn about it. Do you think he hears me, understands me?’

  Rashlyn sighed inwardly. The King’s mind was made up. He would go right into the dragon’s den. So be it. ‘I think there is enough of his spirit still left in the horse, though I cannot promise it will remain so.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Cailech replied, ‘for he would approve of this plan.’

  ‘My lord King, may I ask how you intend to orchestrate such a delicate parley?’

  ‘Not me — Cullyn, or whoever he really is. He will make it happen.’

  Rashlyn nodded and changed the subject to something he could control. ‘About the prisoner, my lord, the Morgravian soldier…’

  ‘I’m not planning to give him back as a peace offering, if that’s what you’re leading up to.’

  ‘No, sire. But may I have him? For my experiments,’ the barshi said, reaching out with his probing spell and entering Cailech’s mind.

  Later that afternoon Aremys, with Myrt, Firl and a couple of other Mountain men, including Maegryn, in attendance, met with the King on horseback.

  ‘Isn’t he magnificent?’ Cailech said to his guest.

  Aremys had to admit that, intact memory or not, he did not believe he had ever set eyes on a finer horse. ‘Fit only for a king, my lord,’ he said and could see the comment pleased Cailech. ‘May I?’ he asked, wanting to touch the sleek black coat of the stallion.

  ‘Of course,’ the King replied and Aremys hopped down from his own chestnut mount. He walked around the black horse which tossed its head. Aremys whistled. ‘I have never seen a prouder stallion,’ he said, stepping gently towards the animal in order not to startle it.

  ‘Here, Cullyn, give him this,’ Maegryn said, tossing an apple towards Aremys, who deftly caught it. ‘He’s picky, he doesn’t like the green ones, they make him sicken.’ The men laughed.

  Aremys held the apple in his flat palm and raised it towards the horse’s mouth. He was captivated by the animal and enjoyed watching it snaffle the fruit greedily. But as its velvety lips brushed against his hand, Aremys felt a tremor of shock pass through him. It felt like a dam had burst in his mind and a river of information — his memories — flooded in. He staggered backwards, holding his head.

  It was Cailech who reached him first, leaping down from Galapek. Again Aremys was struck by the man’s lack of pretension. He could just imagine Celimus caring enough to even look his way!

  ‘Cullyn, man! Are you ill? What’s happening?’ the King said, reaching for Aremys whilst holding the reins of his horse.

  Aremys was not ready to reveal too much. His cautious nature forced him to take stock of his situation first and consider his position fully. ‘I… I’m sorry, sire, my head suddenly hurts.’ In this he was not lying; it throbbed.

  ‘Take him back,’ Cailech said to one of his men. ‘If he’s well enough, he can ride with us tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Aremys repeated, stunned with shock, not just by the return of his memory but something else, something frightening. He straightened, deciding to give the worried men something. ‘My name is Aremys Farrow,’ he said, hoping it was not an error to admit as much.

  Cailech scrutinised him, then nodded. ‘We know of your family then. You are from the northern isle of Grenadyn. Anything else?’

  Aremys shook his head miserably. ‘Only that. It came to me just as this pain did,’ he lied. ‘I’m sorry about the ride.’

  ‘No harm done,’ the King said affably. ‘I am pleased your memory returns. Are you able to ride back on your own horse?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Aremys reached again towards the King’s stallion, bracing himself this time. He needed to be sure of something. He touched the animal’s neck as if in farewell to the riders. The tremor that passed between him and the horse was genuine. Magic! How he knew this, he had no idea; he just knew it existed. The stallion was riddled with a huge and tainted spell — he could feel it passing into his hand and resonating throughout his body. It made him feel like retching. ‘I shall rest, my lord, thank you,’ he said as evenly as he could.

  ‘We shall see you later, Aremys Farrow,’ Cailech said, an unreadable expression on his face.

  Alone at last in his chamber Aremys remembered everything and it was terrifying. It was the Thicket which had risen up against him and, using its magic, had hurled him into the Razors. As it occurred, he had understood that the Thicket did not want him to pass through with Wyl. One moment he had been whistling and admiring Ylena’s rump, the next he found himself separated from Wyl. He remembered now how the air had become suddenly chill — freezing, in fact — and then he had felt it gathering about him. It was as if invisible hands had shoved him through that thickened air to blast him into a different place.

  It was the Thicket’s magic which had knocked out his memories for a while. No blow to his head, he realised, it had all happened internally. He felt his insides twist with fear for Wyl, travelling alone as a helpless young woman, although in truth he knew Wyl could easily hold his own against others. Perhaps not against magic though. What if the Thicket had done the same to Wyl? Perhaps it had not wanted either of them there and now Wyl was lying in some corner of the realm also trying to piece his strange life back together.

  Aremys’s thoughts began to travel rapidly now. He needed to get out of the Razors and back south to Wyl. He must find him, help him. If, by some stroke of luck, Wyl had found Elysius then no matter what occurred between them Wyl would still head towards Briavel and Valentyna, of this Aremys was sure. However, if Wyl had not made it to Elysius and the Thicket had treated him with similar disdain, then he might be in Morgravia. It was unlikely he was in the mountains, for Cailech’s scouts would have surely spotted him by now.

  Thoughts and plans raged around his mind but once the initial panic had settled Aremys began to think more clearly. Perhaps he could be of some use to Wyl whilst he was kept here. His friend had spoken of the soldier, Gueryn. In his heart, Aremys believed Wyl’s mentor was dead — there was just no reason to keep the man alive and, going by what Wyl had told him, Gueryn had been a thorough nuisance to the Mountain King. However, Wyl believed the man was alive and would be kept alive as bait to lure Romen Koreldy back into the Mountain King’s fortress. Aremys grimaced. He wondered what Cailech would make of it if he told him that Koreldy was long dead and that Ylena of Argorn was now host to Wyl Thirsk. What would he think of Ylena arriving to rescue Gueryn, if he lived? Plus there was the other man — Cailech’s man — who had turned traitor to help Wyl and Elspyth escape the Mountain fortress. Wyl had told Aremys often enough that he would return, come what may, to discover the fate of brave Lothryn.

  ‘I must find them for Wyl,’ Aremys muttered, swinging his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘As long as I’m captive here, I might as well make myself useful,’ he whispered to himself.

  Then he turned his mind to the strangest of all experiences: the fact that he could suddenly detect magic. It pulsed through the stallion, Galapek, and his own head still pounded from the ferocity with which that magic had spoken to him. He could only assume that the huge jolt of magic from the Thicket had somehow made him sensitive to sentient matter around him. H
e had not imagined it either; he had touched the horse a second time to check.

  Aremys shook his head. He understood none of it, but one thing was for sure: he had to get into the dungeons. If Wyl’s friends were alive, that was as good a place as any to start searching for information about them.

  A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts. Aremys looked out of the window and noticed the sun lowering. He must have been wrestling for a long time with his confused thoughts.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Messenger. The King wishes to see you.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  WYL WAS ADMIRING ELYSIUS’S handiwork. ‘You made all this?’ he said, his gaze sweeping across the breathtaking landscape. They were standing on a rise amidst a copse of tall trees whose leaves shone a fantastical bright green as the sun slanted through their translucent canopy to the gently moving stream below. Beyond the copse was a rugged cliff face over which water plunged direct from the Razors, Wyl presumed. They had walked here through sweet-smelling meadows from the modest dwelling Elysius had built for himself on a hill overlooking an equally panoramic view. Wyl could hardly believe how incredibly beautiful the Wild was.

  The little man took a few moments to reply. ‘In Parrgamyn we believe in Mor. In Morgravia and Briavel it is Shar who holds the spiritual power. In the kingdom of the Razors, the Mountain Dwellers pray to Haldor. My belief, Wyl, is that we are all praying to the same god. And I think that god is Nature. More powerful than we can imagine. Anything which can create such beauty as this,’ he said, sweeping an elongated arm across the vista, ‘or craft such sophistication as you and I, or such grace as a deer or such majesty as an eagle, then this is the god of all for me. This god created what you see before you… I have simply embellished some of it,’ Elysius said. ‘I may not have my own sight but I see perfectly well through the creatures to appreciate the beauty of this place. My skills relate to all things natural. The waterfall’s theatrics is my work but in truth the framework had been in place for centuries. Shar had seen to it.’