The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  And then we must go to the Thicket, Knave said, equally sombre. It awaits you.

  ONE

  THE VINEYARD SPRAWLED before them, the land suddenly sloping away in the distance down to a small shingle beach and the channel of sea. The tang of salt in the air was invigorating and the bright day with its cloudless sky and sharp light reminded Aremys of his love of the north and how much he had secretly missed it all these years. He inhaled the air now and smiled. It felt good to be alive despite the new and sudden complexities in his life.

  With his memory now blessedly returned Aremys felt much better equipped to accept the King’s invitation to ‘walk the rows’ of vines at Racklaryon. The mercenary learned that it was one of Cailech’s great pleasures to see his vineyard bursting with new life in spring, showing the spectacular results of the savage pruning his vignerons insisted upon each year.

  They looked out now across the neat rows and Aremys could almost taste the wine this field would produce at summer’s end. Bright green leaves, like the protective wings of a mother hen, shaded their yet-to-mature babies: bunches of fruit that hung like tiny green jewels, fattening and ripening daily as the plants sent out fresh tendrils to weave and curl their way along the special lines that supported the vines. The Mountain People had pioneered this method of support. In the south, the vines were left to themselves, to grow tall at first before stooping over. It made for a ragged, untidy vineyard but, in truth, did not affect the quality of the fruit. In the north, however, the vine support lines had been developed to air the fruit, as some months were humid and damp. It also looked spectacular.

  Cailech’s people took pride in the ordered appearance of their vineyards. Not only were the rows straight but each vine was sung to as it was planted — a small prayer to Haldor for each new beginning that it might yield life of its own. At each row’s end, the Mountain People planted a flower called a trineal. It was beautiful but fragile, very susceptible to lack of water or other natural attacks. Cailech’s vignerons maintained that if the trineal foundered, then they would have a few weeks to find the solution to prevent the vines following suit. It was an ancient tradition but one still faithfully adhered to. The bright rainbow colours of the trineal bushes were an attractive feature in this, Cailech’s favourite vineyard, and they stood proud, colourful and healthy at the heads of the rows. It would be a bountiful harvest, the men muttered.

  The King was rarely alone; today he was flanked by Myrt and Byl. Aremys had come to know these particular fellows well since his curious arrival in the Razors. He felt comfortable in their presence and over the past days he had started to view them as companions as much as his captors. Nevertheless, he had chosen not to reveal that his memory was fully restored. It suited him that these Mountain Dwellers knew only as much as he was prepared to share, until he could learn more of their intentions for him.

  The small company had ridden to the vineyard beyond the lake and Aremys was sorry to see that the King had not chosen to bring the intriguing black horse which had caused him such fright on their previous ride. He mentioned his disappointment to Cailech.

  ‘Ah yes, Galapek,’ the King replied softly, and Aremys felt the weight of that green gaze upon him. ‘I had the impression that he disturbed you somehow the last time we rode together.’

  It was said without accusation but still Aremys felt the scrutiny couched within. Wyl Thirsk’s warning burned in his mind: that only a fool took any comment by Cailech at face value. Everything he says has a purpose, Wyl had impressed upon Aremys during their journey together from Felrawthy. He misses nothing.

  The mercenary thought back to the moment of disturbance the King spoke of. It had occurred only a few days ago. Aremys had admired the King’s mount but, on casually touching the horse, had felt a blast of magic rippling through his hands where they rested on its strong neck. It had been an intense shock for Aremys — not only that the creature was alive with magic, but that he could sense it. Far worse, it was a dark, tainted magic and its touch had caused him to stumble in distress. He had been unable to regain his composure and was forced to excuse himself from the party of riders. That action had been embarrassing, but no doubt had also appeared suspicious at a time when he was striving to convince his keepers that he was not a Morgravian spy or any other kind of threat to the Mountain Dwellers.

  The only positive outcome was that the shock seemed to have caused his amnesia to dissipate and he was able to piece together what he was doing in the Razors. He remembered following Wyl Thirsk, who now walked in the guise of his sister, Ylena, courtesy of the powerful gift, the Quickening. Together they had entered the mysterious region in the far north-east known as the Thicket. Aremys recalled Wyl asking him to whistle so they would not lose one another amongst the tangle of this dense landmark. He had obliged, could even remember the tune he had chosen, but then all had gone black and he had woken, disoriented, on the frozen rocks of the northern mountain range and lacking a memory. Cailech’s men had discovered him there and somehow he had managed to muddle his way through those early and dangerous stages, not helped by his own confusion. Living by his wits, he felt convinced now that he had carefully won not only their trust but that of their King too. Wyl had warned Aremys that the Mountain King was changeable, capricious even, and had recounted the terrible night of the feast when Cailech had threatened to roast alive the Morgravian prisoners his men had captured and feed them to his people. This was definitely not a man to second-guess and so Aremys had been as honest as he could with the Mountain King, even disclosing his identity when it finally returned to him.

  His only major secret from Cailech right now was the fact that he was linked to Wyl Thirsk, the former General of Morgravia, and that Wyl was possessed by a magic which had already taken the life of three people — one of them Romen Koreldy, in whom Cailech had shown a keen interest. And if the Mountain Kingdom held its own secrets, then he would learn them and at least be useful in some small way to Wyl, who had promised to return to the Razors some day in search of his friends Gueryn and Lothryn, both of whom had offered their lives to save his.

  It had taken Aremys hours of musing to accept that the Thicket must have somehow repelled him. It was a difficult notion for him to get his mind around. Until recently he had neither particularly believed nor disbelieved in magic, but growing up in the far north, on the Isles of Grenadyn, meant he held a loose acceptance that such a power might exist, and was not necessarily something to fear.

  The discovery that magic certainly did exist, however — having met Wyl and shared the sorrow of his plight — was a whole new matter. Suddenly the legend of the Thicket was a real phenomenon and took on a sinister character. To acknowledge that this enchanted place had purposely separated him from the person he had sworn to protect was disturbing enough; but accepting that the Thicket had also affected him in such a way that he now possessed the ability to sense magic was terrifying.

  The horse itself couched a darker mystery. Just touching the animal had made him feel ill. This was not a whole beast. It reeked of evil — and yet also of despair. He needed to see the horse again, reach towards it once more. Perhaps his captors had no idea of the darkness in Galapek? But how could Cailech know the horse had been the cause of Aremys’s disturbance… unless, of course, he knew the creature was tainted.

  Aremys realised that Cailech was still watching him carefully. The mercenary, practised at subterfuge, stretched a lazy smile across his generous mouth. ‘It was nothing to do with the beast, my lord. I felt very off-colour that morning and I slept for many hours after that event.’

  ‘Probably out of discomfort at almost spewing on the King’s boots!’ Myrt added, safe in the knowledge that Cailech encouraged a more casual atmosphere when he was away from the fortress and the formalities of being their ruler.

  Myrt’s jest gave Aremys the opportunity he needed to remove himself from the King’s scrutiny. It suddenly occurred to him that Cailech knew more than he was giving away. His instincts h
ad rarely yet let him down, so he listened to them now.

  ‘It reminded me of the time,’ he said, seizing the opening, ‘when a very aged and strict aunt came to visit the family.’ His companions, sensing a tale in the making, came closer. ‘She was a cantankerous woman who despised social gatherings, yet insisted on everyone celebrating her nameday each spring. Oh, how we hated that day and her arrival with all of its pomp and ceremony. But our family was obliged to her, for this rich crone had gifted much money to the town and I would be lying if I said we too had not benefited from her gold.’

  Aremys saw with relief the loose, expectant grin on the King’s face as he bent to inspect the juvenile grapes on a vine. He continued with his tale: a dare by his brothers that went horribly wrong and culminated in him tossing the contents of a chamber pot over the head of the town’s special guest.

  The men roared with laughter. Aremys noted that Cailech was less responsive but he was nonetheless amused; a wry smile crinkled the weathered face and sparkled in his eyes. ‘I would never repeat such a tale if that had been me,’ he said.

  ‘Nor will I again,’ Aremys admitted, rather impressed by his storytelling which was wholly fabricated. His dear, sweet old Aunt Jassamy was much loved and her nameday celebrations had been the town’s idea, not hers, and well deserved for the money she had invested in its livelihood. ‘But I am trying to impress upon you, my lord, the level of my dismay,’ Aremys went on, grinning. ‘This sorry tale has now been relegated to the second most embarrassing moment of my life. I hope you can guess the first.’

  ‘You are forgiven, Farrow, and it’s forgotten,’ the King said, as the other two men moved off through the rows.

  Aremys did not believe him. ‘Thank you, sire.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to ride Galapek?’

  Aremys had not expected this and his hesitation was telling, he felt. The King was testing him and both of them knew it. What did Cailech know? The mercenary quickly gathered his wits. ‘It would be a privilege, my lord.’

  ‘Good,’ the King replied, his steady gaze unfathomable. ‘I will arrange it.’

  He looked beyond the mercenary. ‘Ah, here comes Baryn. He is head of the vineyard.’ The previous topic seemingly forgotten, he strode towards his man, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Don’t you love the Thaw, Aremys? Spring unfurling her fronds, pushing through her shoots, warming the ground and melting the ice?’ Cailech pointed as Aremys caught up. ‘Just look at these vines, fairly bursting with joy as tiny green buds and tendrils begin their life journey.’

  ‘You should write poetry, sire.’

  The King smiled at the compliment. ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Farrow.’

  Cailech’s sudden twist took Aremys by surprise. He would have to be careful; Wyl had warned him of this. ‘Sire?’

  ‘I have been thinking on our conversation.’

  ‘Oh?’ Aremys was not sure which particular discussion the King referred to.

  Cailech must have sensed this. ‘Regarding Celimus.’

  Aremys nodded. ‘I recall suggesting a parley.’

  ‘There is wisdom in what you advise and I have decided to act upon it.’

  Aremys wished he was able to keep the surprise from his face and his voice. ‘Really?’

  Cailech nodded. ‘Yes. I am going to Morgravia, and not under cover of disguise or stealth. Actually, let me correct that. We are going to Morgravia.’

  ‘You and your chosen men, sire?’

  ‘Me and you, Farrow.’

  Aremys searched the King’s face for any sign of guile, then realised he would not be able to tell if Cailech was bluffing, for the man was a master at hiding behind a granite expression. Although on this occasion Aremys thought he detected the barest hint of amusement.

  ‘Then I am honoured, King Cailech.’ Aremys took the chance that this was the response the Mountain King expected.

  Cailech simply nodded. ‘You will set up the meeting, as you know Celimus. You will be my emissary.’

  The King strode away, leaving the newly appointed envoy for the Mountain Kingdom open-mouthed.

  ‘Close it, friend,’ Myrt said, returning to captor duty.

  ‘He can’t be serious,’ Aremys murmured, watching as the King’s broad figure joined the vineyard manager amongst an ocean of green leaves.

  ‘He never jests about such things. Take it as a compliment, Farrow. He must trust you.’

  ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘As soon as the streams run with the Thaw, he told me.’

  ‘But that’s now!’ Aremys said, turning to look at Myrt.

  The man grinned. ‘True. Come on, we’d better head back — apparently you are to ride his prize stallion this afternoon.’

  Aremys’s stomach clenched when he caught sight of the magnificent horse being led out of its stall by Maegryn, the stablemaster. The stallion flicked its tail constantly, as though angry. A weak sensation of nausea rippled through the mercenary. He forced himself to relax, for he had been holding his breath as well and was ashamed at himself for allowing this animal to have such a dramatic effect on him. Perhaps he would be able to bear it this time.

  It’s only a horse, damn it! But he berated himself to no avail; the sinister feeling intensified.

  ‘He’s a beauty, this one,’ Myrt commented by his side.

  Aremys fought the swirling dizziness. Did no one else feel it? ‘Is Cailech not joining us?’ he asked through clenched teeth.

  ‘No. Rashlyn will be riding out though.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Aremys asked as innocently as he could. He recalled Wyl’s description of the man who seemed to have an unnatural influence over the Mountain King.

  ‘The King’s barshi — a detestable creature,’ Myrt told him. ‘But if you ever claim I said that, I’ll deny it first and kill you later.’

  Aremys grinned. ‘A man of magic then?’ he said, watching as Maegryn saddled Galapek.

  His companion nodded and Aremys felt his stomach twist again. ‘Can he sense other empowered people?’ He hoped Myrt could not hear the anxiety in his voice.

  ‘I have no idea. Why do you ask?’

  Aremys forced a shrug. ‘Oh, no reason. I’ve always been rather intrigued by those with the power, that’s all.’

  ‘To be honest I wish he’d leave the mountains. His influence upon our King is too strong. There are times …’ Myrt did not finish.

  Aremys glanced towards his captor. ‘Go on.’

  The Mountain man shook his head. ‘No, I speak out of turn.’

  Aremys could see it would not be wise to push Myrt further right now, although it pleased him that Myrt felt safe enough around him to be candid. It was a good sign.

  It looked as though Maegryn was satisfied with Galapek. He was barking orders now for the other horses to be led out.

  ‘Where did Cailech find this magnificent horse anyway?’ Aremys asked brightly. He seemed to be growing more accustomed to the magic nearby.

  ‘It’s the strangest thing,’ Myrt replied, clearly relieved to have been let off the hook on his previous comment. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the very best horses come from Grenadyn — as you would know — but this animal just seemed to turn up one day. He certainly isn’t from our stock.’

  ‘You mean it just appeared from nowhere?’ Aremys asked, astounded, wondering if the stallion might also have been cast here by the Thicket.

  Myrt laughed. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. But Maegryn knows all the foals born here. And if we bring horses over from Grenadyn then it’s quite a big event because they have to be shipped in. I don’t recall this animal being brought across the channel — it would have surely caused a stir if he had.’

  Aremys was intrigued. It was not his imagination then. There was something mysterious about the King’s horse. ‘What does his handler say?’

  ‘Maegryn’s very tight-lipped on the subject. I get the impression that Rashlyn might hav
e gifted the horse to Cailech, though I couldn’t guess at where he would find such a beast. Perhaps the King has asked both men to keep it quiet. Cailech can be quite unpredictable on occasion — in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Myrt grinned.

  ‘I have,’ Aremys said wryly.

  ‘As much as he likes or trusts you, be wary. He is a great man but he can be contrary at times,’ Myrt warned, before adding softly, ‘I know that worried Lothryn.’

  Aremys forced himself not to overreact at the name of Wyl’s friend. ‘Lothryn — who is he?’ he commented absently.

  ‘A friend. Formerly second in command to our King. A man I would follow without question into any situation. A man who broke our hearts with his betrayal.’

  Maegryn was leading the stallion towards them now and Aremys felt the sickening pull of the magic again.

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘Gone,’ Myrt said, ending the conversation. ‘Your mount is ready — and here comes Rashlyn. Be warned — he is a strange man.’

  The barshi was already mounted on a chestnut mare. He stopped just steps from the mercenary and gazed down upon the tall foreigner. ‘You must be Aremys,’ he said in his strangely hesitant manner. ‘Cailech suggested we meet. I hope you don’t mind if I join you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Aremys lied, instantly taking a dislike to the wild-looking man with the dead eyes and unwilling smile. He raised his hand in salutation, having decided he should avoid all physical contact with the barshi. If Aremys himself sensed the horse’s magic through touch, perhaps Rashlyn could do the same with him and then life would become even more dangerous. He was beginning to wonder whether Cailech had specifically asked Rashlyn to watch how he reacted to the horse today.

  Which means they are definitely up to something — and worse, suspicious of me, he thought. The stench of Galapek’s magic buffeted his senses as the handler halted the stallion alongside the mare.