The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘How is it that we can communicate?’ Wyl persisted. ‘Is it because of Myrren’s gift?’

  The owl made a disgusted sound in his head. It is because I allow it, and because you are here.

  ‘In the Thicket, you mean?’

  Where else could I mean?

  Wyl felt an apology springing to his lips but resisted it. This creature was either baiting him or simply did not like him. He decided to take charge of the conversation. ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked, his tone direct now.

  Again the owl blinked. Wyl felt a temptation to laugh. How would he ever explain this to anyone else? We want you to leave, it said firmly.

  ‘Well, can’t you just rid yourself of me?’ he replied, determined not to be cowed by this strange creature.

  If we choose to.

  Wyl sighed. ‘Then choose it, owl, for leaving here is what I want too. Trust me.’ He was irritated by the owl’s superior manner. ‘Who is “we” anyway?’

  If you want to be gone from here, why do you linger? Rasmus asked, his tone suggesting he too was losing patience.

  ‘I am not lingering,’ Wyl snapped. ‘I was guided to this spot and, if you’re as magical as I suspect, then you can probably sense the sorcery that has touched me.’

  I can.

  ‘Then you know that this is not the body I was born with.’

  And so?

  ‘And so this particular body does not care for the density or fearsome atmosphere of your Thicket.’

  It is not mine, the bird countered.

  It was Wyl’s turn to blink — with exasperation. He took a steadying breath; showing his fury would not help here. ‘The person whose body I walk in is scared of this place and was having breathing difficulties.’

  We gathered.

  ‘Was this clearing deliberately created for my benefit?’ Wyl was determined to find out whether the Thicket was able to think for itself.

  Yes. Are you ready to leave?

  ‘Not until you answer a question.’

  I am not beholden to you.

  Wyl took a gamble. ‘If you trust Knave, then you should trust me, for he and I are friends. I mean you and the creatures of the Thicket — or indeed the Thicket itself — no harm. The secret of your magic is safe with me.’

  There was a pause. Wyl wondered if the owl would communicate with him again. He stood up, frustrated by its stare and its silence. ‘You have let me pass through previously. I know you have no intention of killing me.’

  Ask your question, the owl finally said, irritably.

  Wyl curbed his enthusiasm and took a moment to consider how best to phrase his question. He sensed the owl would, at worst, answer cryptically, or at best literally, so his question must be very clear in order to gain him a precise answer.

  ‘Where is Aremys living?’ he asked carefully.

  There was no hesitation from the owl. He lives in the Razors.

  Wyl’s relief spilled over. ‘Is he safe?’

  I have answered your question, the owl replied, fractious now.

  ‘Please,’ Wyl beseeched.

  Rasmus made a peevish clicking noise. Aremys is safe.

  Wyl decided there was nothing more to lose other than the owl’s patience, and that was already fast depleting. ‘Rasmus,’ Wyl began reasonably, ‘you have shared your name. Mine is Wyl. But then I’m sure you know that. Can we not be friends?’

  Yet another tiresome question?

  Wyl defied the owl and sat. ‘Yes, I have questions. I will not betray the Thicket. I owe it for keeping my friend Aremys safe and for helping me so far. I am your friend also.’

  The Thicket has no friends of your kind, save one. You are not he.

  Wyl had no idea what the owl was talking about. Perhaps the bird referred to Elysius. ‘Then let me ask what I need to so I can help the others you do trust — Knave and… Fynch.’

  He had intended to say Elysius but Fynch came to his mind and slipped out first. He saw the bird react as he spoke his young friend’s name, and the shrubs around him seemed to shudder. Was it the boy who interested the Thicket?

  ‘I will protect Fynch always,’ he risked.

  And was rewarded with a testy reply. He does not require your protection. He has the protection of the Thicket.

  ‘I see,’ Wyl said, not really seeing anything but harking back to his earlier suspicion that Fynch had some special purpose in this dangerous game they seemed to be playing. It was, no doubt, why Fynch was reluctant to leave the Wild, Wyl reasoned. Then a notion came to him suddenly, like a wasp sting and causing similar pain. ‘He’s not coming to Werryl, is he?’

  The bird said nothing at first, then sighed. At that soft sound in his head, Wyl felt hollow. He had lost Fynch.

  Fynch has his own path to follow now, Rasmus confirmed.

  It shocked Wyl to hear his fear spoken aloud. It was one thing to suspect something and quite another to have it proven. Fynch was clearly on a new path, and a dangerous one, or the owl would not have mentioned protection or sound so sorrowful. Wyl also realised there was precious little he could do about it, as he imagined the Thicket would not permit him to return to find Fynch. It obviously had its own reasons for helping the boy to follow this new road.

  ‘Knave will be at his side, of course?’ he ventured.

  Always, Rasmus said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wyl, and meant it. ‘I shall leave now. I am grateful to you, Rasmus, and the “we” you speak of for allowing me this time and for answering my questions.’

  He stood and bowed to the huge bird with marked respect, then walked away, presuming the Thicket would now guide him quickly to its fringe and towards Timpkenny. He was surprised to hear Rasmus call after him.

  He turned. ‘Pardon?’

  I said, where are you going? the owl repeated.

  ‘I must make my way south to Werryl as quickly as I can.’

  We will send you there.

  Wyl looked at the large bird quizzically. ‘Send me?’

  Come back to the clearing, it said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Wyl was feeling a little fearful.

  You will. Stand before me and close your eyes. Do not open them.

  ‘I won’t.’

  If you disobey us, we shall never allow you to leave, the owl warned.

  Too much depended on his safe departure from this place. Wyl did as asked, wondering if this ‘sending’ business which Rasmus spoke of was a small show of friendship after all. He was glad now that he had bowed to the owl.

  Be still, the owl cautioned. It will feel strange but you must trust us. Do not resist. Just let your body float. Remember, do not open your eyes.

  Wyl understood none of it but obeyed as a man used to taking orders.

  Farewell, Rasmus said and Wyl felt a vast, chest-crushing pressure against his body. He wanted to open his eyes but fought it, having given his word. Breathing was all but impossible but he refused to panic. He had to trust the owl.

  If he had disobeyed the owl’s strict instructions he would have seen Fynch shimmering before him. Wyl could not see the tears on Fynch’s face nor how he mouthed a goodbye to his friend, but he felt the touch of the Gate Wielder as Ylena’s trembling body was pushed through a thickened disc of air and disappeared.

  It is done, Rasmus said. Be at rest, Faith Fynch.

  ‘Why do they refer to me as Faith?’ Fynch whispered to Knave, who sat tall and imposing beside him in a special sunlit divide. Unless he had seen it with his own eyes, Fynch would never have believed such a clearing existed in the Thicket. Curiously, the small light-drenched space added no particular cheer to the dense, dark and brooding atmosphere, but Fynch was nonetheless glad for the brief respite from the chill.

  It is how we think of you.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  We have faith in you.

  Fynch wanted to ask more but the words were stilled in his mouth as creatures — many known to him only from folklore — began to gather at the fringe of
the clearing.

  ‘These are your friends?’ he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

  They are the creatures of the Thicket.

  Fynch’s attention was caught by a magnificent lion that watched him from the shadows. The animal shook itself and Fynch gasped to see wings extending from the proud cat’s shoulders.

  ‘Knave, that’s the winged lion of legend.’

  No legend, as you can see, son. He exists.

  ‘I only know of him from the old tales and the carvings at Stoneheart. He… he is Wyl’s mythical animal, who protects him.’

  And yours?

  ‘Mine?’ the boy said, awed as he caught sight of the equally legendary great bear. ‘My animal is…’ Fynch hesitated as another creature invaded his mind, demanding to be named. He felt treacherous and pushed the thought away. ‘My animal is the unicorn.’

  He comes to you now, Knave said.

  The other creatures fell silent as the beautiful animal emerged into the light. Its coat had a hue of the palest of blues but the overall impression was of a pure, dazzling white; even its famed horn was a silvery white. It walked slowly and with such grace that Fynch held his breath, utterly captivated.

  Tall and broad, the unicorn towered over the boy and his companion. Child, it said in a deep, musical voice. It is my privilege to welcome you amongst us.

  Fynch was so overwhelmed by the fabled creature’s magnificence and the notion that this animal was his protector that he began to weep. The unicorn bent its great head, careful not to touch the boy with its lethal horn, and nuzzled Fynch, who put his small arms around the creature’s neck in worship. My name is Roark, it added, for his hearing alone.

  ‘The privilege is mine, great Roark,’ Fynch whispered.

  Be bright, Faith Fynch, you are our hope, it returned into his mind.

  Fynch gathered his composure and dried his eyes. He looked about him uncertainly, registering the expectancy which hung in the air, and tried not to gape at the amazing troupe of creatures gathered around him.

  As one they bowed, including Knave and the graceful Roark.

  You must acknowledge them, Knave whispered into Fynch’s startled mind. Put aside your awe, son. You are the one to whom we give our loyalty. Assume your birthright.

  Fynch understood none of this. He was a gong boy. A child of low birth and even lower rank. How could he acknowledge homage from these majestic creatures of legend? Who was he to assume such a role?

  It was as if Roark could hear his thoughts. Fynch, will you accept our obeisance and loyalty?

  Elysius’s words echoed in Fynch’s memory. Perhaps the Thicket needs you for more than simply watching over a Gate. He could not escape his destiny, he knew this. His life was no longer his own, to direct or to decide. Choices had already been made and promises given.

  Fynch steadied himself and found his voice. ‘Creatures of the Thicket,’ he called, ‘I will make myself worthy of your faith.’

  He bowed, low and long. When he stood upright again, he felt as if a new strength was pulsing through him, from his toes through to the tips of his fingers. He realised that it must be the Thicket communicating with him; sending him nourishing power. He felt charged with it and could not help the radiant smile that broke out across his face.

  ‘Tell me what it is I must do,’ he asked the creatures. ‘I am your servant.’

  It was Rasmus who spoke on behalf of the creatures and of the Thicket itself.

  Be seated, Fynch, he offered from his perch.

  Knave and Roark remained standing, flanking Fynch on either side.

  Child, you already know what it is we ask of you, the owl said.

  ‘I do?’

  Elysius shared the same desire.

  ‘Rashlyn,’ Fynch murmured.

  The creatures and trees all shuddered their shared hate for the man.

  Yes, Rasmus concurred. You must destroy him.

  ‘What is it that frightens you so about this man?’

  He is tainted, and he wants to use his power to corrupt all that is natural about the world. His evil is born of his jealousy at being unable to manipulate Nature. More than anything he passionately desires the power to control all creatures. With this at his disposal he would rule all realms. Imagine him being able to call upon eagle or ekon alike? Imagine commanding them to do evil and the animals powerless to refuse him? You must destroy him!

  ‘Am I capable?’ Fynch wondered aloud.

  The Thicket and its creatures will help you.

  Strengthened by the thrum of power that bristled through him from the ground of the Thicket and emboldened by the love and loyalty that surrounded him, Fynch gave them his answer. ‘Then I ask for nothing more than your faith in me.’

  It was the right thing to say. Knave confirmed as much with a gently uttered Bravo, child into his mind, whilst the creatures showed their trust and delight, some leaping into the air, others rearing to stand on two legs, still others squawking or braying.

  Fynch laughed. He was filled with a joy he had never known before. He suddenly felt he belonged to all of them. He reached for Knave and touched the great dog’s head.

  I don’t believe it, Knave said, his tone humble. Fynch thought he even heard a tremor in it. The King comes.

  ‘The King?’ Fynch repeated, puzzled. Since they had begun communicating via this special mindlink Fynch had found Knave’s manner to be mostly serious, like himself. The dog was not one for jests or shallow thoughts. He spoke only when there was something to say and during most of their conversations it had been his role to counsel Fynch. The boy knew of Knave’s graveness, and the dignity that emanated from his solid, dependable presence, but never had he seen the dog show humility. And this was no small humility: Knave sounded filled with reverence for whatever it was that was arriving. ‘Knave —’

  Hush, said the dog and a powerful beating sound made Fynch raise his head and squint into the light above. Something plunged towards them — a suggestion of a shadow at first, that darkened until it cut out the light entirely and Fynch no longer squinted but was wide-eyed with both fear and awe.

  ‘The warrior dragon,’ he breathed.

  Our King, Roark said softly, veneration in his voice as the mighty creature alighted in the clearing.

  The creatures bent low to exalt the hallowed creature that stood before them, its famed, darkly shimmering colours gloriously filling the silence.

  Fynch needed no prompting. He fell to his knees immediately, then prostrated himself. He closed his eyes and cast a prayer to Shar in thanks for the blessing of this day and what it had brought him.

  Fynch, said a voice as rich and mellow as treacle.

  ‘Your majesty,’ Fynch replied, not daring to raise his head.

  Come stand before me, the voice commanded.

  Fynch summoned his courage. With Knave and Roark’s whispered firm encouragement, he opened his eyes and looked upon the King of all the beasts. There was no doubting that royalty stood before him; no wondering if this glorious creature was worthy of such exaltation. Fynch held his breath as every fibre of his being suddenly felt newly alive, restored somehow in the presence of such grandeur.

  Fynch, like everyone else who looked upon the dragon pillar in Pearlis Cathedral with awe, had believed it was just legend. Associated with the Morgravian sovereign, it was the most impressive of all the mythical creatures but no more real than the winged lion. But now the King of Kings stood in all his glory before him, as real as Fynch himself.

  Faith Fynch, the King said. Be welcome.

  ‘Thank you, your majesty,’ he stammered, bowing. ‘I am proud to serve you.’

  And we are indebted for that service, child, which is given so bravely by one so young.

  Fynch said nothing. What could one say to such generous praise?

  The warrior dragon continued: And still we ask more of you.

  ‘I will give my life if it is so required.’

  The King regarded him through dark, wise eyes
. We shall do everything in our power to prevent you relinquishing something so precious.

  ‘Please tell me, my King,’ — my true King, Fynch thought to himself — ‘what it is that you ask of me.’

  The beast wasted no further time. The King of Morgravia brings shame to his kind. He is of the warrior clan — of my blood, you could say — but he disgusts me.

  ‘Celimus is indeed shameful,’ Fynch agreed quietly.

  That said, there have been Kings before who have disappointed and we have ignored them. The Thicket and its creatures do not meddle in the affairs of men, child. We have watched you kill each other for centuries and we have not involved ourselves. But on this occasion we have been drawn into the struggles of Morgravia and Briavel because of the misuse of magic.

  ‘You speak of Myrren’s gift, your majesty?’

  The King hesitated briefly. That included, yes. It was wrong of Elysius to channel his power through his daughter to such a vengeful end. His power, once we granted him access to the Wild, was to be used only for the good of the natural world.

  Fynch felt compelled to defend Elysius. ‘I don’t think he fully realised what the repercussions could be, your majesty.’

  Magic is always dangerous, Fynch, even when used with the best of intentions. There are always repercussions; sometimes we are unable to see what they are until it is too late. This is why the Thicket and its magic has been deliberately shielded from men. Myrren’s gift has already claimed four lives. Wyl Thirsk should have died; instead he is abroad and carrying a deadly enchantment. None of us knows where it could end.

  ‘Wyl didn’t ask for it, your majesty,’ Fynch mumbled, not meaning to sound petulant.

  I know, my son, the King replied gently. I feel great sorrow for Wyl, who is one of the best amongst men — as was his father. It is the magic itself that troubles me and how it will continue to reverberate through the world of men. I mean to end it here.

  ‘Destroy Wyl?’ Fynch exclaimed.

  In a way he is already dead, the creature answered.

  Fynch did not like the resignation in the Dragon King’s voice. He grasped for placation, desperate to prevent this powerful being from hurting Wyl. ‘The Thicket and its creatures have asked me to kill Rashlyn, your majesty, and with their help I will endeavour to rid the land of the destroyer. Both brothers will be no more. The magic will end.’