The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I thought, your highness, that Chancellor Jessom might shed some light on the strange series of events. That he might explain whether there was some misunderstanding and prevent us leaping to wrong conclusions and making hasty decisions.’

  ‘Chancellor Krell,’ she snarled, ‘the only person making hasty decisions is you, sir. You have presumed too much. Your office and your familiarity with this family, and especially with me, does not permit you to send secret missives to our enemy.’

  ‘Enemy,’ he echoed softly. He looked completely baffled. ‘Me confer with an enemy?’ The accusation was too much for him to bear.

  Valentyna stepped forward. ‘Yes, enemy, Krell. Celimus wants Briavel, not me and not peace, and not for the good of Briavellians or even Morgravians for that matter. He simply covets the realm. He is empire-building. He is also a madman but then I didn’t think I would have to explain that to you. His latest actions speak a thousand words.’

  Krell tried to resurrect some measure of his former composure. He forced himself to stand straighter, to stop cringing before the angry monarch who towered above him. ‘My Queen, if you do not marry him, he will make war upon us.’

  She closed her eyes momentarily, as if to gather her patience. ‘And you don’t think that is precisely what he will be ordering right now, as we speak?’

  ‘But, your highness, what other option were you planning?’

  ‘I was stalling, you reckless, interfering old man. I am trying to find a peaceful solution,’ she said, tears welling. She fought them back. ‘I wanted this whole business kept quiet so I could have time to think, to carry on diplomatic relations with Morgravia and keep the King at arm’s length until I knew how to go forward. I still do not know what the answer is. If you had not interfered, Celimus would be none the wiser. He would still think I intended to marry him and I would have had time to plan. Perhaps I cannot escape being wedded to him, sir, but I would prefer to do so on my own terms. Not yours! You have now committed us to war. How does it feel to have so much blood on your hands?’

  Krell began to weep.

  Valentyna despised herself for reducing this good man to such a state but her anger was burning white hot now. ‘Get out of my sight. Leave the palace.’

  ‘Your highness, please, let me help.’

  ‘Help?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I don’t need your sort of help, Krell,’ she said cruelly. ‘What I need are people who are faithful and true to Briavel and its ruler. You have betrayed us both and I will never forgive you. Now go.’

  Valentyna waited until her heartbroken Chancellor had left before she buried her face in her hands and cried like a child. Through her tears all she could think of was her beloved Romen Koreldy and how badly she needed his arms and his strength around her now. He would know what to do. Romen would think of something to ease them out of this mess, but she had nobody. Not even her friend, Fynch, and his strange dog were here to offer their usual solace. And then her father’s face swam before her and reminded her once again who she was and that she could never depend on anyone but herself.

  The Queen of Briavel’s resolve crystallised and by the time the startling news was delivered that Chancellor Krell had jumped to his death from the battlements, her heart was hardened. She shed no tear at the tragedy for it was because of him that Briavel would be going to war.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IT WOULD BE WONDERFUL to write a simple but huge Thank You In 72 pt and hope that everyone who is connected with my work somehow knows how grateful I am for their support. There are always those, however, whose contribution makes a real difference. That list, which grows with each new book, includes:

  Gary Havelberg and Sonya Caddy — draft readers every author would want if they knew how much above and beyond the call of duty these two go when they’re on task; Robin Hobb, my long-distance friend and mentor; Pip Klimentou, still doing the wake up call at 0600 in case I’ve been writing too late. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan — thank you.

  This page would not make sense without a mention for the magnificent HarperCollins team in Sydney, especially Stephanie Smith, Linda Funnell, Robyn Fritchley, Sean Cotcher, and their respective teams. My thanks to Nicola O’Shea for her partnership as editor in shaping this second book. Thanks of awesome size to the HC sales team — you’re amazing.

  Now book retailers. I mentioned you in Myrren’s Gift but you’ve just surpassed yourselves during 2003. I even worked in a crazily busy bookshop over Christmas to get a feel for what you do and apart from the aching feet I realise how much energy and enthusiasm you expend each day in consultation with buyers to help them find just the right book. Thank you for all you’ve done to help this series enjoy the success it has, and for catapulting The Quickening into the awareness of an international audience. It will be published in the USA in 2005 thanks to your work at the coalface. I’m eternally grateful.

  Finally my family. No author is an island and one simply cannot create these tales without the indulgence of an understanding and loving family around — thanks to my parents and brothers but especially my personal trilogy — Ian, Will and Jack — who give me every reason to emerge from my make-believe worlds into the real one.

  Fx

  PRAISE FOR FIONA MCINTOSH

  BETRAYAL

  ‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’ Adelaide

  Advertiser

  ‘leaves the reader anxiously waiting to know more… Strong and interesting characters and a story which keeps the reader guessing, Betrayal is an enjoyable and fast-paced read, full of magic and destruction – who could ask for more?’

  Northern Argus

  REVENGE

  ‘as good as Sara Douglass’

  Good Reading

  ‘an exciting and inventive battle between the gods of good and evil’

  Adelaide Advertiser

  DESTINY

  ‘Slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best… Destiny ends the Trinity series… with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power.’

  Altair

  MYRREN’S GIFT

  ‘a wonderful new perspective for fantasy readers … excellent’

  Australian Bookseller & Publisher

  ‘Fiona McIntosh is a seductress. I have not moved from the sofa for three days…’

  Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘It’s a “just one more chapter” sort of book. Don’t start reading Myrren’s Gift in the evening if you have to get up early the next morning!’

  Robin Hobb

  Dedication

  GH …

  this one’s for you.

  Fx

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty
-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Fiona McIntosh

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  IT FELT LIKE AN ETERNITY to Fynch.

  There was brightness; unbearably sharp, and combined with a hammering pain. He squeezed his lids tightly shut but the dazzling gold light hurt his eyes all the same as he helplessly relinquished control of his small body to the vast agony exploding through it. He believed himself to be flopping around like a fish caught on a hook, but that was purely his imagination. In truth he was rigidly still; his teeth bared in a grimace as the force of magic gifted from Elysius radiated painfully into him.

  At one point he thought he glimpsed the sorcerer passing through him to his death, like a distant memory he could not quite bring into focus. Elysius appeared whole again and he was smiling. The sense of him offering thanks was vaguely present but Fynch was unable to lock onto it as the pain claimed all of his attention.

  The sickening throb of power began to pulse through his body in time with his escalating heartbeat; each push harder, each more breathless in its intensity until he lost all sense of himself. He no longer knew his name or where he lay. He was a flimsy craft being tossed about on a stormy sea of sensation, unable to navigate or steer. Fynch simply had to let go into the excruciating pain and ride the ocean of distress until, finally, he glimpsed its end. How long his journey had lasted he could not tell; could not even guess. The agony ebbed gradually but steadily, until he realised he was bearing it. He had survived. His pulse was fast but his heart no longer felt as though it might explode through his chest. The blinding light had dimmed to flashes of gold, as if he had been staring at the sun too long, and his breath was no longer panicked and shallow but came in deep, rhythmic draughts.

  His wits returned. Fynch remembered who he was and what he was doing here.

  Trembling from a chill which now gripped him, Fynch opened his eyes to slits. He registered a new layer of pain and closed them again; this time it was a headache which prompted instant nausea. He felt like crying. But where other youngsters might have the comfort of a mother’s voice nearby and her love to cling to, there was no such consolation for Fynch. He had no family — nor even friends any longer. Wyl had gone. He hated the way they had parted. He knew Wyl had wanted him to leave the Wild immediately and had watched his friend battle his inclination to say as much. Poor Wyl had been forced to inhabit his sister’s body, and Ylena’s face was too expressive to mask what her brother was thinking. And yet Wyl had said nothing; had permitted Fynch to make his own decision, which was to remain a little longer. Fynch felt a profound sadness for his friend who had suffered so much loss already and would suffer more yet, he sensed. He wished he knew of a way to spare Wyl more pain, or at least to share some of it with him.

  He sighed. The nausea had passed. His eyes were still closed and the pain had dimmed considerably he realised. But the loneliness remained. There would not even be Elysius to offer solace. No. The boy suspected he was alone in the Wild, save for the strange four-legged beast he considered his companion.

  Full consciousness sifted through his shattered nerves and Fynch became aware of a pressing warmth at his side. It moved, having sensed he was alert again. A low growl confirmed it was the dog.

  ‘Knave,’ Fynch croaked through a parched throat.

  Never far, a voice replied in his head. It made him flinch.

  The boy turned towards the great black dog. ‘Did you speak to me?’ he said, tears welling. ‘Can I finally hear you?’

  Depthless eyes regarded him and he heard Knave’s reply in his mind. I did. You can.

  So there was a friendly voice — one he had never thought to hear. Fynch managed to command his reluctant arms to obey him. Slowly, painfully, he wrapped them around the big animal’s neck and wept deeply and without shame.

  Elysius? Fynch asked after a long time, testing his newly acquired power. It was a startling sensation.

  The dog’s response was instant. Dead. It was quick. And he was glad to go.

  Where is his body?

  Everywhere. He became dust. The massive transfer of power disintegrated his physical being and then dispersed him.

  Did he say anything before… before he passed on?

  That you are the bravest of souls. He agonised that he might be wrong to force this burden upon you, the dog admitted. He regretted the pain you would experience and the journey ahead, but he believes there is no one else who can walk this path but you. The dog leaned closer and spoke very gently. In this I know he is right.

  Fynch pulled away from his friend, eyes still wet. There was so much yet to learn. Knave, I don’t know how to use this power. I have no —

  Hush, the dog soothed. That is why I am here.

  The boy took the beast’s huge head between his tiny hands. Who are you?

  I am your Guide. You must trust me.

  I do.

  The dog said no more but Fynch sensed that it was glad. Perhaps there was even relief there, he thought.

  But there is something I must know, he went on, his tone almost begging.

  Ask it. Knave’s voice was so deep that Fynch suspected that if the dog could speak aloud he would feel the sound rumble through his own tiny chest.

  Who is your true master? Where do you belong?

  If a dog could smile, Fynch felt convinced Knave was doing so now. I have no master as such. But I do belong.

  Where? Please tell me.

  I am of the Thicket.

  Ah. Fynch’s tensed muscles relaxed as understanding flooded through him. The neatness of the dog’s answer pleased him. Are there others like you?

  I am unique. But there are other enchantments within the Thicket, Knave answered somewhat cryptically.

  So Elysius didn’t send you to Myrren?

  Elysius did not know me until we both came here, although he knew of me. And Myrren was not the person I sought.

  This was a revelation. Fynch pressed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to ease their soreness and to clear his swirling thoughts. Then why didn’t you just search out Wyl?

  Because Wyl is not the one I sought either.

  Fynch looked up sharply. Who then? Who must we now search for?

  The search is over. It was always you, Fynch.

  What? The dog’s unerring gaze told Fynch it would never lie. But why?

  You are the Progeny and I am the Guide.

  I thought I was the Wielder, Fynch wondered, confused.

  That, and so much more, Knave said reverently. You are many things and it is you we seek.

  The Thicket sent you to find me?

  Yes, but it did not know who would be the next Gate Wielder.

  But it must have known Elysius was dying in order to send you in search of his replacement?

  Yes.

  So your role has never been about Wyl or Myrren… or protecting Valentyna? Fynch sent wonderingly.

  Knave’s response was measured. My task is to protect you. When the magic of the Quickening entered Wyl, the Thicket believed he was the next Wielder. Elysius wondered the same.

  Are you saying that it was pure coincidence you came into Myrren’s life? Fynch asked, desperately trying to piece the puzzle together.

  Not exactly. She was Elysius’s daughter. Magic was part of her even though it was not strong in her. It was she whom the Thicket decided to keep watch over, and it chose correctly. When Myrren made such a strong connection with Wyl, we thought he might be the one. It was only when I met you that I realised it was you we searched for.

  But how can you tell?

  There is an aura about you, Fynch. Unmistakable, and invisible to all but those of
the Thicket.

  Fynch sighed as if he had suspected as much. So I was born with this aura?

  Yes. Your destiny was set.

  Elysius never mentioned it.

  Elysius didn’t know. The Thicket told him who you are.

  It talks!

  Communicates, the dog corrected.

  Fynch held his head and groaned. These revelations were causing fresh gusts of pain through his already aching mind. It hurts, Knave. Will it always be so?

  You must control the pain. Don’t allow yourself to become its slave. Master it, Fynch.

  Is this how it will kill me?

  The dog held a difficult silence between them.

  I would know the truth, Fynch insisted. If you are my friend — my Guide, as you say — then tell me honestly.

  He sensed the dog’s discomfort as it began to explain. This is the beginning. You must use your powers sparingly. Talk to me aloud whenever you can. Hearing my response in your mind will cause you no distress or repercussions. The pain and other weakenings will only occur if you send the magic yourself.

  How long have I got, Knave?

  The dog raised its head to look Fynch directly in the eye. I don’t know. It depends how strong you are; how sparingly you use this power.

  If Knave expected despair it did not come. Fynch wiped his eyes and, using his companion as support, raised himself wearily on unsteady legs. I must rest, the little boy said gravely.