The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Fynch had never felt more frightened in his life. He took the cup from his friend and drained it. ‘So Aremys went through this gate?’

  Elysius nodded, surprised by the sudden switch in topic. ‘I pushed him. It was the first time I have ever used that unknown magic.’

  Fynch’s eyes widened. ‘Why did you push him?’

  ‘He was a complication. You and Wyl were the only ones I wanted to come through and perhaps the Thicket sensed this. It has the ability to make up its own mind but it is linked to the Gate Wielder. Normally it can repel people with the greatest of ease but Aremys was strong — his friendship with Wyl very real — and I realise now that he was somehow protected by Wyl and the magic Wyl possesses within himself. The Thicket summoned me to open the Gate.’

  ‘Where did you send him?’

  ‘I was careful not to push too far. I hope he is in Briavel or Morgravia.’

  Fynch switched his thoughts to another question niggling in his mind. ‘So I must stay here after… after you leave?’

  Elysius finished his drink and sighed. ‘For a short while anyway. This is why I have asked you not to follow Wyl, although I am sure he told you to go to Werryl.’ Fynch nodded. ‘Stay here until you have learned more about the Thicket and its intentions.’

  ‘How will I do that?’

  The little man looked at Fynch sorrowfully. ‘I am hoping it will tell you.’

  Fynch bit his lip in thought.

  Elysius sighed. ‘There is more connected with the magic of nature. I could keep this from you and allow you to learn it slowly as I did, but that would be cruel. I am sorry, but each time you unleash your magic, for whatever reason, you will sicken.’

  ‘Is that what has happened to you?’ Fynch asked and once again Elysius was struck by the boy’s ability to see straight to the core of a topic.

  He nodded. ‘It will take my life shortly. In fact, son, when I pass the burden to you, I suspect that will herald my end.’ He saw the misty look in the child’s eyes. ‘No, do not be sad for me. I wish I could spare you the same burden.’

  ‘Will I die too?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Elysius answered honestly. ‘This is why I must counsel you to use your magic sparingly and keep your life long,’ he added, not quite so truthfully, as he could already imagine what lay ahead for courageous Fynch.

  Fynch nodded, looking suddenly older for this terrifying knowledge. ‘Is there anything else?’

  Again Elysius resisted the urge to soften the blow; he would not offer empty words of comfort. He pressed on, finally vocalising his suspicions. ‘I think the Thicket wants you to track down and destroy my brother, Rashlyn.’

  The boy visibly shook. ‘Elysius! I could never kill anyone.’

  ‘I know what might be asked of you is difficult.’

  Fynch shook his head rapidly as if trying to shut out the placating words. ‘No. No!’ he said, forcing Elysius into silence. ‘I will not kill anyone, for your personal revenge or anyone else’s.’

  ‘Not even Celimus, after all that he’s done?’

  At this Fynch’s mouth hung open. He wanted to respond but could not. Then he dropped his head in his hands. ‘I don’t believe I’m capable of it… not even Celimus.’

  ‘Fynch,’ the mellow voice said softly. ‘I don’t ask this of you. This is for the sake and safety of all that you love — Wyl, Valentyna, your family; Morgravia, Briavel. I dare to think that this is why the Thicket is becoming involved.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now that I have discovered where he is, I realise that Rashlyn has the ability to plunge all three realms into war. If, as Wyl says, Rashlyn can manipulate King Cailech, then there is only bloodshed ahead.’

  ‘Why should the Thicket care if we all kill each other?’

  ‘I do not know. You must seek those answers for yourself. I think it does care, though.’

  ‘Why me? Why not Wyl, who is a soldier and knows how to wield a sword and kill a man?’

  Elysius shook his head. ‘Dear Fynch, I wish I could spare you this. Wyl is a wandering soul trapped in helpless flesh and bone.’

  ‘You have never seen Wyl fight. He might walk as Ylena now but he is still Wyl Thirsk inside.’

  ‘Child, you miss my point. Rashlyn is far superior to Wyl. He could snap a sword from fifty paces, deflect an arrow, smell the poison — he cannot be killed by conventional means. Wyl is no threat to him. No one is, in fact.’

  ‘How can I do it then?’

  ‘I am giving you the means, son. Shortly you will be a sorcerer, but far more fearsome is the fact that you also possess whatever power the Thicket deems to lend you. Find out what it can do. Use it.’

  A dawning expression moved across the small boy’s face. Elysius pressed further. ‘Rashlyn is a madman. A destroyer. No one can stand up to the sort of power he wields, except you. You alone can stop him. You and Knave and the secret of the Thicket that calls to you.’

  Whether Fynch was filled with uncertainty and misgivings, or whether he just felt frightened and alone in spite of Knave’s heavy head resting on his legs and reminding him of friendship, Elysius did not know. A dread silence sat between them as the former gong boy considered all that he had just learned. Suddenly the memory of being a hardworking child and coming home to his parents’ tiny cottage with their meagre belongings felt as though it had been the best time of his life.

  But he could appreciate that there was nothing random about his relationship with Knave, which connected him to Myrren through Wyl and to Elysius and his mad brother. His part in saving Valentyna’s life was not a coincidence. His own life was being shaped, orchestrated. He had been chosen. He looked at the strange dog who sat beside him and acknowledged the curious tingling sensation between them which had grown after they had passed through the Thicket.

  He made his decision.

  ‘I wish I could stay here in this serene place and not take on this terrifying role,’ he said, ‘but then I think about Wyl’s suffering and how he too is on a strange path he didn’t ask to journey upon. It seems we are both being asked to do things neither of us want to do and yet must to help others. I know I have to be brave and accept the burden of becoming a manwitch even if it does mean an early death. I’ll help Wyl all that I can and I’ll face Rashlyn for you. I can’t promise I’ll overcome him, Elysius, but I will die trying.’

  The man felt ashamed of himself for asking so much of this brave child. He wished he could bite out his own tongue for what he knew he must still say.

  ‘Fynch, one more thing.’ Large, trusting eyes turned to look at him. ‘You must not, under any circumstances, allow Rashlyn to seize your powers — and he will try, believe me. You must never lose sight of the fact that you will be weakened each time you wield magic and this is why I urge you to make for the Razors first. Don’t follow Wyl. He must take his own path now… and you yours. You will need all of your strength to match Rashlyn; you cannot risk being compromised in any way. I beg you to heed this warning, for if he defeats you and takes your powers — as he can — then the world is doomed.’

  Fynch hugged Knave close, who licked him as if to say he understood the import of what was being discussed.

  ‘Wyl left very upset,’ Fynch commented, wanting to leave behind the talk of death and destruction.

  ‘I gave him no peace. He came seeking answers and I gave him the wrong ones,’ Elysius said, filled with regret.

  ‘It occurs to me that the Stones are open to interpretation — would that be fair?’

  ‘Of course. They never provide a clear answer.’

  ‘So perhaps Wyl’s fear of becoming Celimus is also open to interpretation,’ Fynch prompted.

  Elysius did not answer immediately. He had learned in the short time he had spent with Fynch that the boy was a serious, deep-thinking person. He might be young but he was sharply intelligent and perceptive. ‘How would you interpret the notion then?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I wouldn’t. I don’t trust
the Stones or what they predict in their misted way. I trust only what I see or hear and what I feel in my heart.’

  ‘Do you think they lie?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m simply saying that there are many scenarios we might not be considering. The Stones have put a notion into your mind and you are trusting it, but you yourself built into Myrren’s gift the aspect of free will, didn’t you?’ Elysius nodded. ‘We don’t know what might happen or who might influence the future. Celimus could die tomorrow in a riding accident or from disease. That’s the randomness of the world, isn’t it? And then Wyl may not have to answer to Myrren’s gift any longer.’

  Elysius felt a rush of love and admiration for the bright, brave boy. He hardly trusted his voice to speak without trembling and he fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. Reaching for Fynch he hugged him hard.

  ‘You are the most extraordinary person I have met in my life, Fynch. You alone will give our world hope and I go to my death relieved that it is you who takes over this power from me. I am proud to know you. You are right: none of us knows anything for sure.’

  It was Fynch’s turn to feel choked. He did not feel brave and he did not want to be saviour of the world. He just wanted a quiet life. He hugged the little man back with affection and sorrow that both of them were suffering for his magic.

  ‘How much time do we have?’ he asked after a long silence.

  Elysius already felt as if he had passed over his burden to the boy. He regretted it but knew he had no choice. ‘Time is short. I must channel all of my magic into you.’

  ‘And then you will die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When shall we begin?’

  ‘Now, son,’ Elysius replied softly.

  EPILOGUE

  THE CORPSE OF THE former Duchess of Felrawthy had been laid out in the small chapel at Werryl, where those who had known her — just four of them in Briavel — could pay their last respects. Father Paryn intoned a final gentle prayer to commit her body to a peaceful rest. He was aided by Pil who lit small candles at given moments during the prayer: one for her head, one for each limb, one for her soul. They would burn until they snuffed themselves out, by which time Shar’s Gatherers would have collected her.

  Physic Geryld, Commander Liryk and Chancellor Krell sat behind the Queen. At Valentyna’s right was a composed Duke Crys of Felrawthy. On her left side was Elspyth, the only one weeping. Elspyth had liked Aleda immensely and could not contain the sorrow she felt at this fine woman’s shocking end and her courageous, desperate bid to see her son alive.

  Valentyna reached to put an arm around her petite companion. ‘I gave Romen an identical kerchief,’ she whispered, handing Elspyth a beautiful square of embroidered linen. ‘You keep this. Now both my friends own one.’

  Elspyth was touched by the sentiment but it made her lack of composure worse and she could only nod her thanks. Later, when the prayers were done and the candles glowed softly around Aleda’s body, Elspyth was sufficiently calm to whisper back to the Queen, ‘I shall stay on with Crys for a few moments.’

  Valentyna smiled and nodded. ‘Forgive me, I have business to attend to,’ she whispered.

  Everyone bowed for the Queen’s departure. Once outside the chapel, her counsellors had to run slightly to catch up with their monarch’s long stride.

  ‘I don’t need to remind any of you, I’m sure, that no one is to discuss these events outside those of us here who know. The death of Aleda Donal, plus the presence of the duke and Elspyth, are to remain a secret to the best of our ability.’

  She saw Krell baulk and surmised what he was about to say. ‘I understand that the folk of Brackstead are the weak link in this plan and that the nobility too have met Crys and Elspyth, but we can say they have departed Briavel. The gossip in Brackstead will die away soon enough.’

  Krell had paled. She frowned at him but he said nothing and so she continued. ‘The Morgravians will remain as our honoured guests for as long as they choose. No one is to discuss their presence outside of the palace. Is that clear?’

  Everyone nodded except Krell.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said, effectively dismissing them. ‘Chancellor Krell?’

  ‘Your majesty?’

  ‘A word, please, in my solar.’

  With the agreement of both sovereigns, Jessom had followed through on his idea to set up a system of couriers to make the journey between Werryl and Pearlis much faster. Special huts for overnighting had been established in recent weeks, with supplies of dried food and watered ale, which meant there was always a rested man and a fresh mount ready to go. By handing over messages at these courier points, the journeying time for written correspondence — and less sensitive verbal messages if need be — was more than halved.

  And so it was that Krell’s communication to his counterpart in Morgravia was received quickly at Stoneheart, and why now King and Chancellor were standing together in Celimus’s study, both seething.

  ‘Read it again!’ Celimus ordered.

  If it were anyone else Jessom would have suggested that reading it once more would not change the contents but he sensibly bit back the acid-tongued comment and did as his King demanded. ‘He was right to tell us, my lord King,’ Jessom said after he had finished.

  ‘Obviously Valentyna doesn’t know he has. She wouldn’t have sanctioned him writing to you like this. No, he’s taken this entirely upon himself because he’s frightened.’

  ‘Of the consequences, do you mean, sire?’

  The King ran a hand through his dark, lustrous hair. ‘I think it’s more simple than that. Krell and that Commander of theirs seemed determined to turn the marriage into a reality. They said as much during our visit. Their people want the peace as much as our own, but those two and Krell in particular understand that Briavel is in no position to fight a war with us. Diplomacy is their one weapon.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Jessom said, even though he had grasped all that he needed to on the first reading. He knew he had to get the King to calm down because then his thoughts would flow smoothly and in a more cunning fashion. He had learned this the hard way. When the King was angry, people got hurt and this was not Jessom’s style.

  ‘And that snivelling bastard son who should have died,’ Celimus spat, ‘but somehow escaped our sword is now walking tall as the new Duke of Felrawthy. Not to mention some stupid woman from Morgravia poisoning the Queen’s thoughts. They know everything.’

  ‘Not everything, sire. They are piecing together various stories,’ Jessom soothed, though he knew the King’s words had a horrible ring of truth.

  Valentyna might be young and inexperienced but she was the daughter of a canny sovereign and, if his own first impressions were right, she possessed an intelligent head on her shoulders. Which, no doubt, was why his counterpart in Briavel had reacted so swiftly and done what some might consider unthinkable, sending a private communication into Morgravia. It was obvious that the Queen would be appalled by what the Morgravians were telling her.

  Jessom poured his King a goblet of wine. ‘We do not know the full measure of the young duke yet, your highness. He might be useful to us in ways we cannot anticipate,’ he said, thinking aloud.

  ‘True,’ Celimus replied, taking the proffered cup. ‘But my inclination is to believe that at this point Valentyna must have no intention of marrying me. You agree?’

  Jessom nodded gravely; the King was right. ‘I do, your highness.’

  ‘Then if she won’t come willingly, we shall take Briavel the hard way.’

  Chancellor Jessom was not ready for such a leap forward. ‘War, sire?’

  ‘Threat of it anyway, Jessom. She has understood all our couched words of intimidation — Valentyna is far from dull. She knows precisely what is at stake here. I freely admit that marriage would be easier and certainly a more economical means of bringing Briavel under our rule, but if she won’t see the sense of this marriage then I shall teach her that she never was an
equal — no matter what she has been raised to believe.’

  Jessom, unhappily, had to agree with the King. ‘Your orders, sire?’

  ‘Summon my General and his captains. War with Briavel is now on the agenda,’ Celimus said, before swallowing the contents of his wine cup and slamming it down on the table. ‘And whilst we’re at it, I might as well deal with the barbarian of the north,’ he added, glee lacing his tone.

  Valentyna’s hand was at her throat, alarm spreading through her every fibre at hearing Krell’s admission. ‘You did what?’ she said, her tone icy as she hoped somehow she had misunderstood her faithful advisor.

  Krell had never before felt so unsure. ‘Someone had to do it, your majesty,’ he said, his voice small and filled with dismay. Suddenly the letter to Chancellor Jessom seemed like a rash move.

  ‘Someone had to do what, Chancellor Krell? Betray me? Don’t you think I’m coping with enough here without my own people working against me? Wouldn’t it have been easier to take out a knife and just plunge it straight into my heart?’

  ‘Your highness,’ Krell beseeched. ‘It was for the good of Briavel… for your reign. Your father —’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Krell!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you dare bring the name of my fine father into this. Yes, he craved peace, but for me, sir, for no other reason. He did not want his daughter fighting endless, pointless wars with Morgravia just to keep a tradition alive,’ she said as sarcastically as she could.

  Valentyna could see Krell moving to explain that there was more to the wars than that but she held her hand up. ‘What possessed you, Chancellor? What was going through your mind when you sent that letter?’

  He swallowed hard. He had never seen her like this before. Suddenly the young Queen was possessed by wrath; her dark blue eyes blazed bright with her anger and it was all directed at him. Surely he did not deserve this?